The Silk Road

The next evening we made it to Khiva, and in the morning met Stu, an English cyclist on an impressive peregrination from London to Singapore. In two days we banged out another 750km to Bukhara and Samarkand, our bikes choking on bad gas the whole way.

In these ancient cities once tied together by a gossamer thread, imposing madrasas loom over the public squares, seeming to glare down in stern judgment, commanding one to enter. But the merciful, slender minarets serve to reassure one that their bark is louder than their bite and indeed, when you do cross the threshold you are welcomed by tranquil, breezy courtyards glistening with exquisite cerulean tilework. Back outside in the bazaars, craftspeople forge knives of damascus steel, carve boxes of supple apricot wood, engrave copper platters and carafes, and paint with arcane finesse - all to the susurration of ATMs. Modern intrusions notwithstanding, these places are enchanting, and they will not fail to teleport even the most intransigent visitor back to the heyday of the Silk Road, evoking a rich nostalgia they didn’t even know they possessed.

But in the bazaar I did not find what I sought - swimming goggles - which I would need for the impending TUNNEL OF DEATH.