(untitled)

Nothing is more important than peace, and f*** you if you don't agree.

On the turntable: The Cure, "Join the Dots"

Nakasendo Waypoints #102

Under wind-scoured skies, 

Summer masquerades 

As autumn.

On the turntable:  The Clash, "Tokyo, Japan, 1982-02-01"

Sunday Papers: Jonathan Raban

"Travelling always entails infidelity. You do your best to mask the feeling of sly triumph that comes with turning your back on home and all it stands for; but disappearing into the crowd in the departure lounge, or stowing your bags in the car at dawn, you know you're a rat." 

On the turntable: Dead Can Dance, "Toward the Within"

Imbibing Bibliophile #24

The Book of Yokai by Micheal Dylan Foster

Kujiranami Junmai Ginjo

 

 

 

On the turntable:  Eric Clapton,  "Slowhand"

(untitled)

Island time
Gradually denuded,
As the hands move ever forward.

On the turntable:  The Cure, "Disintegration"

Knowing Tranquility X (Bōzejima, Ieshima)

The ferry's upper deck is out of an old film, with a wide-open space bare but for a few benches for the smokers.  In those films, passengers would stand at the rails, holding a long streamer whose other end is held by someone standing on shore.  Environmental consciousness has caught on with the Japanese, so those streamers are long gone.  But the sentiment remains, and as the boat pulls away, a group of middle-schoolers bound for a three-day school excursion wave farewell to their mothers whose own frantically waving hands look as if they are shoving us off.   I too stand at the rail, waving to no one, watching the boat free itself from the concrete breakwater that looks like the legs of a massive grey crab.  Himeji Port is pretty typical as far as Japanese harbor's go, overbuilt and industrial. But it is an interesting study in verticality, with the smokestacks and cranes, and even the lean grace of an egret standing on the jetty.

I have a bad memory of this place, of an encounter with a junior yakuza in the throes of road rage. He had thought I'd cut him off, and to make things worse, hadn't apologized.  After tailing me for at least 30 minutes, he'd suddenly passed me and screeched to a halt in front of my car when the road finally opened up to four lanes.  I simply sat there, rolled down the window and took off my glasses in case he tried to cold-cock me.  He chose instead to strike out with his words, puffed up and angrily demanding an apology. These pint-sized thugs find their power in intimidation, which was his actual goal here, so I thought I'd give him that satisfaction and get on with my day.  Besides, I was driving a borrowed car, and I didn't want him kicking in any door panels.  I told him I was sorry that he thought I'd cut him off, but if he looked at my plates he'd see I was from out of town, and didn't know the roads. I probably hadn't noticed him as I was trying to find my way.  Plus, I had a six-month old in the backseat, and just wanted to go about my business. My wife sat beside my daughter, offering up apologies using the politest Japanese, accompanied by the appropriate head bowing. The thug gave one last scowl then returned to his car and sped off.  My wife and I burst into laughter, amused by the theater in the whole thing.  She told me that I'd done the right thing, but part of her wished that I had gotten out of the car.  I would have towered over the guy and she'd have loved to see him deflate.  We laughed some more.

The Iejima Islands loom up gradually, forty-four of them, though only four are inhabited, and two of those just barely.  In his Inland Sea, Donald Richie does a bit of sleight of hand in claiming that Bōzejima is uninhabited.  Poetic license perhaps, in order to better frame his story of Benten, who drowns herself in an act of filial piety.  In fact the island has close to 3000 people residents, the most famous being the first, a Buddhist priest from Hiei-zan who washed up here in a storm and gave the island its name, bozu being a common term for monks.     

I presume it will take me about an hour to walk a loop around the island.  Leaving the harbor behind, I pass through the narrow labyrinthian lanes of the village until the buildings peter away.  I am surprised at the sight of an old fishing junk floating past, before a backdrop of small scrub-covered islands rising like the curved backs of swimming bison.  

Perhaps in keeping with the morals of its Buddhist roots, the residents are friendly and quick to offer a warm greeting.  Even from the saddle.  A trio passes on motor scooters, offering three bows.  As usual, there are very few cars here, people preferring to navigate the compact confines on two motorized wheels. In a few cases, toddlers stand between the clenched thighs of their mothers, tiny hands on the dashboard, faces in the wind.  

Come to think about it, there is a surprising amount of traffic, but I did choose to follow the island's main ring-road.  Another loop sprawls up and around the thicker mountainous body to the south, but I will keep things simple today as the map shows that there is little up there worth seeing.  An overlook at the top promises one of the best sunsets in the region, but the sun is still high in the sky, and at the height of its thermodynamics.  

The grounds of a middle-school wraps itself around the harbor, with sounds of basketball practice coming from the gym.  Over the years, students have incrementally painted  the low seawall out front, each grade adding a different set of images.  It appears to have begun back in the mid-80s with a representation of the Peanuts gang. The most recent incarnation is already 15 years old, an odd choice in copying ukiyo-e prints of famous kabuki actors from the Edo period.  The port is just over the wall, and one section has been covered to create a sort of community center, with chairs for the old timers to chat and smoke, as well as a space for kids to play.  

I pass a nice section of swimming beach, enclosed and snug at one end of the harbor.  Not far off is a small restaurant atop a rise.  Over some fried octopus and beer I attempt to chat with the proprietress, who is reserved at first, but soon takes comfort in my Japanese.  She asks if I think that island people are shy with strangers, and I tell her I have always thought the opposite.  It is mountain folk who are nervous about the outsiders who penetrate their narrow valleys, historically being brigands or advancing armies.  Neither of these promised a positive outcome and naturally they'd be wary.  Islanders however came to rely on news and trade goods from without, and would greatly welcome these visits.  They appear to enjoy each others company as well, for Bōzejima is the only island in the Inland Sea with a growing population.  

I am only one of three passengers on my next ship, neither of whom seems to notice me, despite our being on what is little bigger that a speedboat.  We whisk across to Iejima in ten minutes.  The port is small and free of houses, with a massive freighter pulled on shore and undergoing repairs.  A number of high schoolers have walked over the hill from town, and in front of a small Jizo hut, a pair of aunties sits gossiping in the shade. Noticing me pass by, they offer me a bag of sweets, wrapped up nicely for Jizo-bon. 

Thus laden, I sweat up and over the hill to the island's leeside, where most of the islanders live.  Along the way, I come across a trio of workmen doing something suspect to the road. Nearby, an old man sits in the shade of a large tree.  He's found his entertainment for the day.  Just beyond are the neighboring high school and middle schools, large concrete monsters sitting atop bare open grounds.  I've written before that schools are usually the most interesting building on these islands, but not in this case.  Their looks are simultaneously modern and "just-past-their-sale-date," a comment that applies equally to the houses.  We're not far from the mainland here.  A couple of them do have a unique flourish, namely one that has an unusual three story spire.  Seeing it set among the crowd of houses on the cramped hillside, for a brief moment, I am in Sicily.  

The town too proves modern and uninspiring.  That is to say, two towns, as the paired ports would be unified but for a steep curve of land between.  Missing completely is any sense of wabi-sabi that accompanies most old things in Japan. We've gone beyond that now, toward total decay, sabi taken to the extreme. Richie had some appreciation for this, liking the island's lived-in look.  I wonder if what I am looking at is exactly what he saw, though aged a half century.  There is a lived-in look sure, but one more formerly lived in, like the dried husk of a long-dead cicada. 

I walk through the cramped village, having repeatedly to step aside as vehicles, cars in this case, pass by.  I could be in any similarly sized town in Japan, and am quite pleased that I chose not to stay here overnight.  

The name Iejima was given by an ancient emperor who had found the harbor as safe as one's own home.  The current built up look is more homely than homey, but I quickly learn that the hospitality town residents more than make up for it.  Two fishmongers greet me as I pass, both cooling themselves on shaved ice.  Now into the heat of afternoon, the second woman looks to be suffering a bit, nearly as melted as the ice is the styrofoam boxes that had kept her fish fresh a few hours before.  A conger eel still has traces of life, but not so the two fugu, one floating on its side, the other belly-up, the flesh as nearly as white as the styrofoam itself. 

Here, as on Bōzejima, Ritchie leaves us with a mystery.  He offers up a good number of pages in his book to a local shrine, which I presume is the Ieshima shrine across the bay.  His description is pretty apt, yet he discusses climbing up a set of steps, which aren't actually there.  I guess that this too is a poetic attempt to introduce Shinto to the reader, coming as this visit does so early in the book.  At that point in the narrative, the islands are still metaphoric to him, still lofty in his imagination.  He won't get pulled down until he begins to engage with the earthiness of the Inland Sea's residents themselves.

I wonder if his description was of the island's castle mound, so I wander the narrow lanes between houses which also climb in that direction.  Along the way, is another Jizo hut and a group of attendant aunties.  I join them in the shade, and accept their offer of cold tea and more snacks.  They must not get many foreigners here, and are probably more intrigued why a foreign resident of Japan would chose this particular island for a day-trip.  We chat awhile, and when I again thank them for the snacks, telling them that I'll give them to my daughter, they in turn thank me for having a child in the first place.  Japan's falling population seems to worry the older generation far more than it does the politicians. 

My boat pulls away, drifting slowly to the opposite end of the paired harbor towns.  Rusty hulks line both sides, matching the darkened metal of the structures on shore.  Most of these ships have open decks with attendant cranes, and it dawns on me that it is from this point that they sail to the neighboring islands of Nishijima and Tangajima, both of which are nearly uninhabited and serve mainly as quarries, sacrificed to the nation's concrete addiction.  They have been carved up in a way almost glacial, and from the shifting point of perspective of the boat, resemble either the Seven Sisters of Sussex, or Yosemite Valley.  

But the beauty is accompanied by a certain sorrow.  The abused, forlorn look to these islands is enhanced by the sky darkening to the west.  I'd gotten lucky with the weather despite the humidity, and I had nearly cancelled this trip after looking at the forecast.  But the weather had held, and now, as it began to turn, I strained to look into it, at the hidden islands to come.  

On the turntable:  The Album leaf, "One Day I'll be on Time"

(untitled)

Among the crush of tourists

The pressed palms and bowed head of the old uncle

Reminds me what it's all about. 

(Photo courtesy of Paul Crouse)


On the turntable:  The Bolshoi, "Friends"
On the nighttable:  Ajahn Sucitto, "Rude Awakenings"

Sunday Papers: Colette

"The future is what doesn't happen."

On the turntable:  Duran Duran, "Thank You"
 

'49

  Sketches for an Alaska travel piece that probably won't be written. 

...sitting on deck, scanning the water for wildlife.  Anticipation becomes the dominant emotion of the day.  Every whitecap is the flank of an orca, every shadow a humpback ready to launch itself into orbit...

...not surprising for a center of government, the state capital Juneau attracts a fair share of lovably eccentric wierdos like our guide Micheal who sings us the safety features of his bus on his ukelele, or the young Tlingit who plays his drum and sings us down the cable-car.  His enthusiasm is attractive, but not nearly as much as the quiet wisdom of the grandfather elder whose stories accompanied us on the way up...

 ...looking up at the glacial-scarred hills.  I begin to see certain patterns that resemble the totem art of the local natives.  And in such looking I may have some insight into their origin...

...amazing emerald green of their rivers, laden with the minerals of glacial melt off...      
  
...the impossible blue of the Sitka spruce needles, enhanced perhaps by my colorblind eyes;  Eagle flying past below me to perch in a tree, its white head ever watchful amongst the green branches of the hemlock;  Canadian maples, red all summer long...

..Prince Rupert, where the highway ends. From here the choice is by boat, plane, or (suicidally) foot...

...new discoveries:  Dolly Varden salmon;  the subtle blue-greys of Sitka Spruce;  the awe in watching floatplanes landing and taking off; the landscape that dwarfs everything;  the glacial u-cuts of the valleys, the weight of their ice depressing the earth; the cruise ships overwhelming all: 6000 passengers in a town of 900;  the wonder that is spruce beer...

...staring at the shoreline as it passes, in awe of the mountains as they rise above. The density of vegetation, the wildlife within.  The waters too equally dense, an unfathomable 1500 fathoms below me, in a body of water as narrow as a modest river... 

...stepping on deck to see a whale sound; a mere curvature of slick grey back, like a great serpent sinking beneath the deep...

...Alaska is a place where the many "me's" collided.  That is to say, the various persons I was at different times in my life:  

An unfinished anthropology Masters degree, where the lecture hall resounded with the hard consonants that form the names of Tlingit and Kwakiutl, as well as with the more melodic Salish and Haida; 

Being offered a job on a fishing boat the summer before Japan, one that turned I down when the captain wouldn't offer return airfare and I was pinching pennies for my move to Asia. (Fair enough, as he only knew me through a couple of friends who had crewed for him previously.) But this month, reading McCloskey's Highliners, is a reminder of the perils of romantic ideals.  Then again, I read it with the apprehensive eyes of middle age, having long ago forgotten the indestructibility of 27;

I suppose the apprehension began nearly two decades ago, upon reading Krakauer's Into the Wild, a book that served as reminder of who I'd once been.   McCandless' spirit was mine, and I just as easily could have shared his early demise...        

 
On the turntable:  The Doors, "Waiting for the Sun"
On the nighttable:  John McPhee, "Coming into the Country" 

(untitled)

Beautiful BC
Shrouded in the smoke of
A thousand fires.

On the turntable:  The Clash, "On Broadway"
 

(untitled)

Along the outer reaches
Where the salmon commute...

On the turntable:  The Doors, "When You're Strange"

Blogback

Thanks to Amy Chavez for linking one of the recent Inland Sea posts to her Mooo blog.

http://dailymoooo.blogspot.jp/2017/07/edward-j-taylors-journey-through-inland.html

On the turntable:  "The Last Waltz (Sdtk)" 

Filling in the Middle of the Map IX

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It was still dark when we arrived in Istanbul, and due to the early hour, we were whisked through immigration and customs before I even had time to think of Midnight Express.  Our hotel proved generous in allowing us an early check-in, so we were crawling into bed just as the muezzin began his morning call.  This hotel, the Four Seasons, was well situated, and advertised itself as being a restored palace.  It was only later that I found out that it also been Sağmalcılar Prison, the very place where Billy Hayes had done time.  I’m sure the rooms are a lot nicer now.

We awoke in time for lunch at a sidewalk café, then wandered over to Hagia Sophia.  Despite being the off-season, the place was bustling, and I wondered at how crowded it must have been before the semi-monthly terrorist strikes that plagued 2016.  The place was undergoing major restoration, and I began to grumble about paying full fare.  The nearby Roman Cistern had come highly recommended, but was infested with vermin – hundreds of school kids shrieking and filling the already cramped space with their incessant selfie posing. 

We retreated back up to the Topkapi Museum, number one on my list due to the great old film with Peter Ustimov.  But here too was crowded with older students, pressing themselves through the narrow doorways into rooms already jam-packed. And here too was the scaffolding, with more than half the rooms off limits, including, and most frustratingly, the displays for the Spoonmaker's Diamond and the Topkapi Dagger, which I had most hoped to see.   I cooled my anger with a coffee on the terrace out back, at the crossroads of Europe and Asia.  

But it was the massage at the Aya Sofia Hamam, that finally brought calm.  This beautifully restored Turkish bath was a masterpiece in tile, the ceiling above as designed by Spirograph.   The time, the day, the era, all blended together by the work of strong hands.

I found the freedom I had been seeking at dawn the following day.  Using the classic Strolling Through Istanbul as a guidebook, I hopped a taxi out to the far side of Galata Bridge to begin a morning’s stroll.  I crossed the Golden Horn once again, alone but for a handful of fishermen casting lines into the waters below, which twitched in the wake of ferries whose own crossings were proceeded by whistle-blast. 

I skirted the Spice Market and began to climb toward a quiet Sultanamet, having the broad open spaces to myself, my photos unencumbered by the shapes of strangers.  After a simple breakfast in the shadow of Aya Irini, I walked through the Outer Garden of the Saray, popping into color in the early springtime.  A failed attempt to cross back below the Topkapi brought me to a military post, so I reversed myself and continued to wander the district, popping into lesser museums covered by my three-day pass.  A number of them were similarly under renovation, and I cursed the tourist bureau once again.  (Later I heard from others that this seems to be Istanbul’s perpetual state, a ploy perhaps at getting return visitors.) 

This walk set the tone for the next few mornings, and I covered a great deal of the city this way, book in hand.  The quiet of the smaller mosques reminded me of the lesser temples of Southeast Asia, always an oasis of green calm in a chaotic cityscape.  Dogs lazed about, and worshippers nearly blended into the surroundings so quiet was their prayer.  I walked ever westward, toward Europe, climbing each of the seven hills, wandering the massive mosques that defined them, each with quaint neighborhoods of their own.  At some point during these ambulations, I fell in love with the city. 

The Fatih area was perhaps my favorite, so far off the tourist track, so run down the archeological sites, sitting amidst neighborhoods sliced into interesting geometric shapes by haphazard lanes, all running into the ganglia of intersections that seemed villages in their own right.  Schoolkids made their way toward classes, and older residents sat with their newspapers and strong coffee.  A pair of tourists too fuelled up in a café, where the owner reached over to the vendors next door, to break the usual oversized denomination.  Nearby, a rubbish collector slept inside his empty mobile rubbish bin. The open marble grounds of the Fatih Mosque were bright and beautiful on a sunny day.  Fountains splashed invitingly in front of a set of escalators leading downhill.  A somewhat sketchy guy dozed over his cigarette, but I worry he was going to steal my shoes.   Down a street adjoining the mosque I began to notice a different brand of Islam had taken root, with bushy beards and women in fuller burqas.  I watched one woman vacuum the street and wonder perhaps unkindly if she ever caught the drag of her hem in the suction.

In the afternoons I’d do similar walks with LYL and her friend Naile, who’d flown over from Ankara to join us.  The days stayed cool and encouraged longer distances, always punctuated by coffee and Turkish delight.  Meals were exquisite, on par with Italy in my opinion, taken at outdoor cafes where we’d admire the dogs, chat with fellow diners, and try to think about anything but terrorists.  (I was affected by them anyway, in the form of Trump’s travel ban.  Unknown to me, electronics had been banned from US flights originating in certain countries, Turkey among them.  The UK had followed suit, and thus I was deprived of reading material for my London flight.  I got of easy off course, compared to too many others, but was annoyed nevertheless.)  

And how not to love this city? With its Bosporus views from Suleymaniye Mosque; the bustling stroll down the trendy Istikal Caddesi; zigzagging through the former Silk Road caravanserai that dot the hill between the Grand and Spice Bazaars; the medieval charm of Galata?  Even the polished patter of the carpet sellers was amusing, offering a brief moment of laughter as you drifted past.  If any of their wares had been of the flying variety, I’d have bought one immediately, if only to return, homing pigeon-like back to the city of its birth. 

On the turntable:  David Byrne, "Rei Momo"

Filling in the Middle of the Map VIII

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The best description of Ashgabad can be found in Lonely Planet, which I’ll paraphrase as being Las Vegas as if designed by the North Koreans.  Each and every building looked like a casino, most of all the ministries that were of an impossible scale.  The roads that lined them were near empty, home only to angled street lamps that looked like the psychedelic bats that nest in ralph Steadman’s imagination.  We weren’t allowed off the bus, but I kept my camera clicking like a machine gun the entire way.  It truly was a bizarre experience, touring a city that we weren’t exactly welcome in.  As we drove around the word that kept rolling around and around in my brain like a Lotto ball was “ostentatious.”     

Besides lunch in a building completely devoid of signs, the only stop we made was a museum.  It was Wednesday, the usual day off, but the opened up just for us, which no doubt made an already dour looking staff even more unhappy.  The whole placed reeked of kerosene, in an abrupt attempt at fending off the gloomy day outside.  The staff seemed to do little but keep our groups in the sections we were designated to see.  One of them led us around, explaining things in a very bizarre English, filled with mispronunciations that hinted at a passive language development with only books as a resource.  He went into remarkable detail about absolutely everything, which hinted at a long morning ahead. LYL and I broke away to explore on our own, under the pretext of needing the bathroom.  (While the museum itself was a beautiful specimen, the toilets were like an archeological site, with sandpaper toilet paper.)  All the non-historical (read: non-tourist friendly) rooms were monuments to the glory of the empire, and got more and more bizarre as we went along.  The minders we passed didn't seem too happy with our being there, but simply kept their heads down and fiddled with their phones.  As is always the case with these kinds of museums, the payoff comes with the most recent exhibits where the central motif is the handsome, well-coifed leader, photo-shopped into action hero poses before an array of backgrounds.   

We got some reprieve from all of this by driving out to the Nissa, the Parthian capita until the 3^rd Century CE.  The land here was lush, the white marble falling away to be replaced by juniper and pine.  Hundreds of thousands had been planted, thickening the closer they came to the carved out hillsides beyond, yet of a smaller height. The easy comparison for me was with New Mexico, right down to the blocky adobe structures baking in the sun, beside the more curved walls of kiva.  

Nissa itself could have been an uninhabited Taos Pueblo, shadowed by monstrous peaks that shot rapidly toward the sky.  On their far side was Iran, a lone road curved and dipped dangerously up to the pass leading up and over.  Somewhere as I walked along my iPhone sent me a text telling me that I’d actually entered that country.  It was a tantalizing thought, but I was happy enough here, walking through the narrow passages that would open now and again into keyhole-shaped doorways that revealed the green oasis that surrounded us. 

Tukemenbashi had ordered some of Ashgabat’s biggest and most garish structures to be built outside the city, including our own rocket-ship shaped hotel.  Nearby was the world’s largest (and perhaps least-used) indoor ferris wheel that looked like a massive lozenge.  Another was an enormous TV tower that brought in very little, but did extend a middle finger toward neighboring Iran. 

Largest of all was the mausoleum to the great leader himself.  It was a beauty indeed, probably the most impressive in town, and certainly the most colorful building in Central Asia, with towering minarets and that ubiquitous 8-pointed star that could be seen everywhere and never failed to remind me of a sheriff’s badge.  How fitting then that we arrived just in time for the changing of the guard.  Their self-conscious showboating was like a Monty Python skit, especially when the highest-ranking officer twirled his rifle high in the air and nearly got a bayonet in the forehead.  Fear of detainment is all that kept us from bursting into laughter. 

The sun eventually fell, and the marble neon was once again lit by a million colored bulbs.  An oil-rich nation, Turkemenistan lacked nothing for natural energy.  But it was the absence of life here created a bigger impression.   How ironic the parallel that an alignment of marble such as this is more often found in cemeteries. 

Our dinner that night was equally dead, energy-wise.  What is the point of throwing a farewell dinner for people who already wished they were gone?  There was music, there was dancing, but the life had gone out of the group and dinner seemed more something to get through than to enjoy.  Like everywhere else in country, the service was inefficient, the people cold. (I’ve never seen such an unhappy looking populace, who only broke their scowling countenances when shouting at you if you tried to raise a camera, even if it wasn’t pointed at them.)  The highlights of the trip were already behind us, leaving Turkmenistan as an amusing afterthought to the glories of Uzbekistan, the beauties of Kazahkstan.  (And if I were to condense the entire journey to a single line, it is this: Kazahkstan has the landscape; Uzbekistan has the monuments; Turkmenistan has the oddball politics.)   But I couldn't imagine starting here. 

After a few hours sleep back at our space capsule, we went to catch our late night flight to Istanbul.  The airport was brand new, just in time for the Asian Games later in 2017, and it was a beauty, but it wasn’t long before the flaws began to reveal themselves.  Security checkpoints began just inside the sliding glass doors, which ensured that queues spilled out onto the sidewalks and roads.  The check-in process was a long and complicated one, the blind leading the blind.  Before reaching the gates, our bags were checked twice, our documents three times.  You never quite knew when you were through, and could sit and caffeinate toward the 4 am departure.   And it was with great relief to lift off, the bright lights of the city receding behind our wings.  I’d never been so happy to leave a country, and am certain I’ll never return.  That said I’d recommend a visit very highly, as you will never find a more bizarre place on earth.  Though I’m not sure that this qualifies as a compliment.  For which I feel slightly guilty.   As I left the Turkmenistan Consulate in Tokyo a few months before, visa in hand, the last thing the Consul said to me was “Write something good about my country.” 

I’m very sorry sir, but I’m not sure that I can. 

On the turntable:  Dead Kennedys, "Live at the Deaf Club"

Imbibing Bibliophile #23

Alaska Days with John Muir by Samuel Hall Young

Wheelhouse Brewing Company, Flagship Pale Ale 

On the turntable:  Eric Clapton, "Reptile" 

Fililng in the Middle of the Map VII

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There was a palpable feeling of anxiety about the border crossing.  A few months ago LYL had laughed about the bureaucratic complexities of getting our visa for Turkmenistan, a country which acted as if it were the latest hot-spot for illegal immigration and so needed to stem the refugee problem by creating ridiculously complicated procedures to get in.  But having done a bit more reading, I realized that the country was a dictator’s paradise, the cult of personality turned up to eleven.  (And now, back home, Trump was busy doing the same thing.)

Our Uzbek guides had left us earlier on, and now at the border, uniformed strongmen boarded our dining car, bringing to a quick end the convivial mood we'd enjoyed over dinner.  LYL and quickly escaped back to our compartment in an attempt to sleep through the proceedings.  But sleep was hard fought, due to the movement of people past our door.  Most unfortunately, the Turkmen guiding crew had decided to use the neighboring cabin as base camp, their voices rising and falling to accompany the clack of rail, and one of them seemed hostage to the computer game he played on his phone, the blips and beeps invading my aural passages through the thin walls.  Their boss was the worst of all, with a loud booming voice to match his swagger.  (The woman who had previously been in charge on the Uzbek side also was fairly unpleasant, but at least she kept to herself, ruling the domain behind her hard, cold countenance.)  He was on his mobile phone near constantly, choosing to have his most boisterous conversations just outside our door.  During an interrupted nap the following day I lost my temper and told him to move along, which he did, though he was at it again before long.  Truly a detestable person. 

So it was that I watched through bloodshot eyes our train rolling into Mary in the pre-dawn light.  Massive flags waved lethargically above huge blocks of white marble.  As the light came up, so did the passengers, waiting in the cold for a train that hadn’t yet arrived.  The women were all wearing what I’d seen associate with the national dress, sexily form-fitting like the aozai of Vietnam yet in an array of colors, above which the whole look was capped with towering head scarves.  Our guide chose a simple black suit, befitting perhaps her status as history professor.  She looked tired, a bit beaten down by life, the dry rambling of her information lacking the comedic charm of the professional guide.  She was far more pleasant to talk with one on one, and she was certainly helpful and attentive to our respective interests.  (Luckily we were spared the guide from the German group, who had been told to bathe before rejoining them, his stench filling an entire bus.)

A short drive from Mary was Merv, two ancient names that seemed more fitting for a 1950’s sitcom couple.   Merv is actually the site of five cities, built over an incredible span of twenty-six centuries.  Very little remains to catch the eye, aside from a heavily retrofitted 12^th century Sufi mausoleum (thanks UNESCO!), and the crumbling 7^th century pair of crumbling edifices of Kyz Kala, looking like a sand-encrusted radiator.  With its relatively few sights, Merv was less a delight for the eye, as for the mind’s eye.  The highlight for me was the climb up to the ringed walls of Erk Kala, and looking across what must have been a bustling city, in whatever way people bustled in the 6^th Century.  Marv’s prime location at the crossroads of Europe and Asia would also spell its doom, first at the hands of Alexander the Great, before rebuilding again and again until being completely obliterated before the armies of Genghis Khan’s most ruthless son, Tolui.  Very appropriate then to see a small cemetery out there amidst the sands

What followed was lunch in a spacious garden that served as peaceful oasis in a village that was not long from becoming a ruin itself.  In a yurt at the center of the compound, three generations of women demonstrated traditional labor with the loom and mortar and pestle.  (They also demonstrated traditional smiles, the only ones I would see while in country.)  Over a lunch of meat salad and strong wine, a man strummed a two string instrument through a small amp, noodling like I did when I tried and failed to play guitar at age 14.  Noodling, noodling…

Our convoy of large coaches bounced back along the pothole pocked ‘roads’ of the village, before reaching again the arrow straight pavement that led back toward Mary.  There was a chain of villages along the way,  partially built sidewalks extended only to their perimeters.   And the salt-crusted sands that linked them were hard evidence at the environmental chaos of the Aral Sea just to the north.   It was a landscape as abused as any I’ve ever seen; loads of rubbish everywhere, standing water nearly orange. Nothing seemed to live or exist out here, except for a group of dromedaries walking slowly past.  To add to an impression already apocalyptic, one house had a fence made of the bonnets of cars. 

We arrived into Ashgabad not long before midnight.  Our hotel stood high on a bluff outside the city, with rooms that were nearly the size of an entire train carriage.  The sudden psychological gift of space made for great sleep, above a neon-lit white cityscape blazing bright in the center of the desert.

On the turntable:  Derek & The Dominos, "In Concert"

Filling in the Middle of the Map VI

That night we crossed the Oxus, dim in the fading light, which helped to preserve the great river’s mystery, which had held spellbound dozens of writers and explorers. But in this parched part of the world, water is far more important than lore, and the river’s output was abundant to support a number of empires, most notably those of Alexander, and Genghis Khan (though centuries apart).  In modern times, overirrigation had greatly diminished its flow, dramatic proof being the Aral Sea, now one-tenth its previous size.    

The morning dawned to skies as magnificent and blue as the day before.  It was still early when we arrived in Bukhara, beginning the day with a visit to the Kalon Mosque and its adjacent minaret, now off limits, but the scene of a handful of legends involving the ingenuity of the few who survived being thrown from its 47-meter height. The courtyard of the mosque was simply immense, and could handle ten thousand visitors, but we had it to ourselves this day.  Between the sky and its dome and the tilework, it was like a multihued demonstration of the color blue.   

The next two days I spent wandering, exploring all the hidden corners and back roads.  A carpet seller explained heft and weave, all in a flawless London accent. Sellers huddled in the crumbling Abdul Aziz Khan Madressa, their business pitch much more solid than the edifice around them; Char Minar stood alone in a sunken courtyard, quiet and atmospheric and somehow reminiscent of a space shuttle.  Historically there had been snakes here, but I found that difficult to believe, considering it was now hemmed in by houses; I stroll through the labyrinth of covered bazaars, the sellers friendly, unaggressive.  I returned late to buy a drum the following day, but seemed to have chosen the only salesperson in town who took Sundays off;  (I’d eventually but one in a caravanserai, from a musician whose 10 years old son out tapped a few licks before handing it over.)  I also bought a hand puppet for my daughter, its creator considered a national treasure.  Nearby, a European couple sat on the sunken steps before the Ismail Samani Mausoleum, dazzled by its 1100 year beauty.      

   

A walk at dawn took me down the alleyways, away from the polish of  the UNESCO funded main sites.  I popped into a few madrasa and found that I had them to myself; making it far easier to find contemplation at a time before the symbiotic dance of tourist and merchant got underway.  My feet led me to the infamous Bug Pit, where a pair of poor, cocky Englishmen found ample time for contemplation, and hopefully reflected on their arrogance, which ultimately got them killed.  I sat out front after my visit, looking over at the hulking Ark across the sands, most of the once proud structure reverting back to desert.  In her spreading shadow, three boys played with a Spiderman doll.

I cut back through the carpet marker, locals mainly, as the sellers had no real interest in me.  I settled eventually with a coffee by the pond Lyabi Hauz. I attempted to get involved with my book about Ibn Battutah, but was often pulled away by people who wanted to take a photo with me.  The most persistent were a group of girls, in high school probably, who had dressed up for a Sunday on the town.  (I’d run into them twice more before the day was over.) 

The final evening , our group watched a concert in the Namozgohk Mosque, where on a massive carpet had been laid across the courtyard, and a series of local dances were performed.  It was difficult to assess which was more beautiful, the movements or the costumes.  Between dances, four models drifted through wearing a stunning array of clothing that ran across the centuries.  Swallows flitted above, alight on the bounce of the notes emitting from the percussion and strings.  It was a magical evening, culminating in a dinner in the sprawling home of an apparently successful merchant, who joined in on stirring a massive pot of plov bubbling away in a fire pit at the center of a courtyard.  The Uzbeks had proven to be wonderful hosts, as open and inviting as their spacious architecture.  But sadly we’d be crossing the border that night. 

On the turntable:  Dave Douglas, "The Infinite" 

Filling in the Middle of the Map V

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We were somewhere outside Samarkand when the desert began to take hold.  The infinite grasslands had disappeared, replaced by wasteland devoid of all life but for the scrub of small plants.  Where the odd village did appear, the old concrete buildings of the north had been replaced by less solid dwellings of baked brick.  Children ran along the dusty lanes between them.  The livestock too had mainly been replaced by high electrical lines, and when finally some sheep did appear, judging from the distance between shrubs, I imagine they’d be hard pressed to find food.  Yet despite the dry, parched look to things, there was far more water to be seen, in the form of broad rivers, narrow irrigation channels, and oasis-like collective pools. Most of the latter were surrounded by dense, multi-colored clusters of vegetation.  This abundance of water may help explain the profuse flowers sprouting acre after acre from the arid earth.   But between these, salt stains bleached the landscape like some weirdly abnormal pigmentation.  Coming from nowhere and heading toward the same, two men bounced across this desert on a motorcycle. 

 So it was some surprise to come to the train station in Urgench , just outside Khiva.   This tidy looking town was filled with squat, boxy buildings, and an elaborate canal system that demarcated the perimeters of the multitudinous rice fields here.   A tractor was busy tilling one field, pulling a plow atop which two men were squatting in order to force the blades deeper into the dry soil.  Not far off in another field, an old couple clad in traditional dress labored heavily with their hoes, under the watch of some fresh new homes.  A fleet of green Scoda trolleybuses, the last such buses in Uzbekistan, provided service for the few residents here.  Yet most of the homes looked unfinished, despite the odd car here and there. 

With all this cultivation, it was easy to see Khiva as an oasis, and the compact nature of the walled, fortress-like town confirmed it.  I found it the most splendid place so far, the absence of cars within adding to the ambience.  There were very few temporal markers within, making it easy to forget the century.  The only touristic elements were the sellers of hats made from various furs, but they stayed close to the main gate and once through this initial gauntlet, the place was mine.  Narrow lanes led between the usual mosques and madrases, but they too took on the uniform look here of plain brown, baked soil walls.  The most impressive building was the Kuhna Ark, and climbing up and around its multi-level, angular dimensions was a return to the games of childhood.  This spirit remained with me as I climbed on all fours up the steep, spiraling internal stairwell of the Juma Minaret, the only light coming from a few small windows, and the screen of my iPhone.  The views from the top were of a film set, Tatooine to my mind.  I could imagine the traders here in days past, elbowing their way through the masses, adorned in a fashion show with origins all across Asia.  It was the birth of the global economy.

            

These ancient roots can still be glimpsed in the bazaar just outside the East Gate, where sellers sit on blankets in the shade, under the gaze of camels bellowing obstinately in the corners. A box of onions has been left in the streaming sunlight, each orb gleaming like the top of a minaret.  I found myself caught up in the sprit of the place, coming away with a fur hat befitting a Mongol horseman, as well as with a tube of toothpaste. 

Under picture perfect blue skies, I wandered the lanes again and again, before winding the day up with a cup of tea in one of the squares, taking a hint from Katya, the town’s famous camel, who lazed about in the shade nearby. 

On the turntable:  Duke Ellington, "Ellington at Newport"