I woke this morning having spent a tiring night staying up. Two nights here claimed the ultimate spot in an endurance test surpassing any dorm you will find. Big mommas snoring, teeth chatters, and sudden movements from really big unidentified ladies in the dark towards the window every time some car's head lights beamed through, a pack of dogs barked or the thunder flashed wildly from the hills beyond. Last night one of them even had a nightmare and woke up moaning and crying (twice) while another I had to listen helplessly thinking she was going to have a heart attack. I was rubbing her back since two days ago. In between hand signals I figured she suffered from high blood pressure and had been having chest pains. It was scary to think this big lady who seemed so indefatigable could be struck down by a stroke.
This was as in Central Asia as I could ever ask to begin. Fleetingly I dreamed about the Middle East but that seemed so far away at the moment. We were escorted by Mr. Usman's son, Mukail to seek some cooling off in the river nearby. Here we walked past fields of wheat and dried corn patches, lines of birches and a blue sky. Moments at times I felt like I was in Europe where some cold cream cheese and fresh loaves of bread were just a few miles away. I guessed I was still bewildered with the feeling of having gone past the gates into an older (being a relative term) part of the ancient trading routes, yet not quite finding a firm grasp of my holding. My mind blew away at the notion of Normandy and the organised chaotic beauty of the Somme as I walked past red poppies dotting the fields and golden rolls of wheat sleeping unmoving on the farm plots. The air was a gentle cooling hand wiping the sweat off my head. I momentarily thought about Australia and my home state, Sabah. Then there was a fat worm of dark smoke snaking up the otherwise clear sky. Osh, more burning. I was back in the middle of where I was. Then hubby turned to say, as a matter-of-factly, that no matter where we were, there we should be... or so in a few variation of words. I sought solace in that comforting thought. I felt for the pain suffered by the Uzbeks and Kyrgyzs but it felt really alive to still see the passion and power of a place that had seen so much rise and fall that predated Christ to now. In a morbid way, it was an honour.
The river was such a blessing. In a few short moments, I dipped myself unabashedly and washed my hair. This was like being reborn. That night, we sat down to a dinner of freshly slaughtered lamb. Our friends from Uzbekistan were eerily silent. Something bad must be going on because they were discussing something obviously that I was not privy into and being shushed away from the room meant only one thing - something not of the smiling kind had happened back home. The girls from next door who were of Uzbek descent went back quickly after dark. We couldn't even had them join us for dinner. I just hope things will sort out soon for everyone.
