It's been a few days since we arrived on a scorching arvo that left no wise-cracking birds hanging about the sizzling train platform. Our journey from Samarkand pulled out of the platform three hours ago and during the course of that we have learned:
(1) Finding out there is no allocated seats for tourists in second-class;
(2) You have to fight off rude Russians trying to intimidate female backpackers into giving up their seat:
(3) No windows are allowed to be opened in case we screw up the "air-conditioned system" that is non-existent; and
(4) You only ever get up (even when the rude Russians get the train officers to coerce you) when you have confirmed another seat (even if it's next to a guy with really bad breath).
And here I am, seeking respite from the heat of the day in an Internet cafe that bore the signboard outside akin to the television programme "Discovery" with the painted "Internet" word you see all too common on any Windows-run computers. Of course they had a bit of originality in it - their motto: "Amazingly fast!" and I have to admit that it's pretty fast for a town that is besieged by a summer that would shame any self-respecting working furnace. Other than that, Bukhara is a truly ancient town living in the modern ages. Coming here felt like wandering along a living, breathing museum that teemed with life around the main hauz that still sprouted fountains of water while the terrified white geese paddled noisily amongst the diners around the main square. At night when it gets breezy, we even have our own "singing DJ" christened by us for his unique brand of entrepreneurship.
Yes, there is the mushrooming of bazaars, old caravanserai, mausoleums from the 15th-16th centuries yet again. You may even accused me of visiting the same ol', same ol' after surviving that boiler of a train ride. But come here to see the people - how they live, how they welcome outsiders into their city that held many secrets amidst the shadows and shade under one many Mulberry tree that had seen the years in hundreds. See how the kids played in the alleys with the same gusto but so different still their language and body language than any of their kin in the country. Be amazed by opened synagogues that mingled with live madrassah and mosques. Cool down at a beer garden that puppies and kittens alike run together. Smell the roses, listen to the walls, enjoy a hammam even if it means exploring your own bashfulness.
The mutton in the Uzbek shurpa is ever tender. Dining on a daybed under the drowsy shade amidst giant old Islamic and Sufic schools is indeed, a treat rare in my life. Hey, the chicken shashlyk isn't too bad either! Everywhere you turn, there is something to discover. A curious child here, two brothers fighting over a bicycle, another kid on his summer holiday running around without his shirt collecting sand to make his castle. More women sat under a corner exchanging gossip while men walked past putting their palms to heart to greet you.
You read about the old walls remaining. You heard about the amazing sunsets. You can read it all, but unless you come here, you better not believe what I say. Although the heat gets to me and I must admit that I am not handling it as well as a supermodel walking around with an invisible fan showering her with cool breeze (but my mirror says that I mimic the pout quite well), this is what travel is all about - to discover something about yourself and putting it in action. Here, patience is indeed a virtue put in action. I may brace myself for a summer in Iran but that is to come. Right now, perhaps with a cold fizzy drink in hand, I can pull through another hot day in the summer in Bukhara and wait like a patient lover for the gentle caress of the evening to come.
Or I can just join a random group of local Uzbek ladies and dance our worries away...
And we girls had fun... after all, isn't that how the song goes?
