Silence, Stillness-- beyond this there is nothing. I am facing a great, expansive emptiness; gentle hills unfold, infinitely, to beyond the horizon. The setting sun hangs low in the sky, its diffuse amber light casting penumbra purple shadow & soft illumination. Amidst this strange landscape I could not feel further from home-- Delhi, as if a dream, fast disappearing. With the soft wind at my back I could abandon home forever, walk off into the unfurling steppe and never return. Like Alexander before me, whose armies built the walls on which I currently stand, I could continue my campaign to the ends of the earth. Along this vast steppe crossed millennia of traders, invaders, nomads, and saints. I, like the ghosts before me, stand amidst the silence of centuries, along the delicate edge of the world. I am at the last frontier, the wild wastes of Uzbekistan.

September had reached Delhi and with it mosquitos, humidity and a feeling of malaise. Itching to travel I needed to get out, see somewhere new. I needed a discovery, some place to shake my soul and nurture a new sense of purpose to a life that was going nowhere fast. Uzbekistan seemed just about the furthest place from my current situation and a destination I had always dreamed of. Arriving was like being transported to fifty years in the past, and on reaching the country’s hinterlands as if stepping into a world beyond time, not ancient so much as timeless. A place where the rhythm of nature, the rising & setting of the sun, the contrast between seasons, the simplicity of living, the absolute silence all worked their magic.

In the early hours of the morning we left Bukhara, a gorgeous heritage city a once fabled caravanserai along the ancient Silk Road. Our escape into the countryside could not have been more poorly planned; armed with only an address and unable even to pronounce the name of the distant village we were heading we hailed a shared taxi embarking on the open road. Continually we would exchange nervous glances, each reading the other’s mind --“Where are we heading? Is there even a guest house in this town?”-- unsure if our desperate gamble to avoid the Tourist Trail would be a success.

Reaching the dusty settlement our suitcases trundling behind us we made our way to our unsuspecting host’s door. Knocking with bated breathe we were greeted by the smiling faces.

“Come in! Sit. You must eat.”

“...But do you have a place for us to sleep.”

“You worry about this after, now it is time to eat!”

Bliss! How could we be so blessed. Complete strangers without any prior warning opening their home, and more importantly their kitchens, to weary travellers. And what marvels we were served: freshly baked naan, kebabs, sharbat, sliced melons, almonds, an array of salads, cheese, and yoghurt. With our stomachs full to bursting, we made plans with our host to explore the rugged terrain and hidden villages doting the region the next morning.

Before the dawn we set out into the barren mountains, Rustom-- our host-- leading the way, whistling. Occasionally he would stop, pointing out particularities of the region and allowing us time to catch our breath. As the sun rose we watched on as the mountains around us began to change their hues-- from inky blue, to violet, to a stony peach, a sandy grey, and finally a blindly white. As the sun rose in the sky, this mysterious lunar landscape grew whiter and whiter. Sun faded in the heat of the sun. We trudged up the narrow stony path of the hill, our figures silhouetted in the bright glare of the noon time sun. The pitch of the hill, the low range of the hills, it all seemed endless, infinite.

And suddenly amidst the burning white, we could see an oasis of green! Where we could least expect it, nestled into the folds of the unforgiving hills, was life. As we drew closer we could hear a babbling stream, a lifeline in the desert. And such beauty there was. Small houses sitting amidst lush orchards: pomegranates, plums, apricots, almonds, walnuts, pistachios. Stone houses, generations old, carved from the land, an ancient weather-worn mosque, sombre smiling faces, and high above the bright blue, burnished blue of the sky.

Our guide led us to a shaded patio, the home of the village’s schoolteacher and local musician. And as we sat in quiet anticipation for the lunch that was to come, our host’s wife began to lay out an exceptional feast: flaky pumpkin filled samosa, tender grilled lamb, an array of exceptional salad, a fragrant pulao studded with raisins & shredded carrots, tangy yoghurt, cold watermelon, biscuits, walnuts, sugar coated almonds, and endless cups of tea. And as we sat in wide wonderment of our inmenant feasting, to the aching sound of the long-necked lute cradled between his hands our host opened his mouth in song. What sweetness! His voice echoing out over the green pastures of his home, through the shady trees, and rebounding off those distant, ancient hills. In the arch of his song we understood full well that life is liv ed fullest in wild places and along distant frontiers. And that life is good and the food even better!