All quiet on the mountaintop. No signs of tourists or locals. I reveled in the solitude that can only be had at the peak. As darkness descended, a donut of light from Osh encircled Suleiman Too with a silver halo. I was but a small atom in a universe whose limits reached beyond anything my imagination could conjure. Time dissolved into nothing more than an illusion of the recent past. After awhile, I had no idea how long I stood there, I began to hear a distant sound, a subtle echo that gently played off my heartbeat. Slowly, I recognized that home was calling; I had to return.

I had chosen to travel to Osh not only because of Suleiman Too, but also because of its position on the ancient Silk Road. Back in the day when all things led to silk, to obtain it one had to go to China. That is, until the seventh century when as legend would have it a Byzantine monk stole the secrets of silk production as well as the worms from the Chinese. By then the ancient land Road having grown as complex as the routes through an ant hill looped from the East China Sea, up to the Gobi Desert to India, paraded across Central Asia into the current Stan’s, onto the Middle East, eventually as far as Rome, back to Shanghai and visa versa. The complexities of the routes with all the comings and goings of tribes, armies, mercenaries and merchants aroused my curiosity. I had to visit the Silk Road. If only I could touch my feet to its surface, I would have direct contact with the collective energy oozing from the historical layers of what had gone before. Holding that thought, I closed my eyes and drew my intention inward. Momentarily, I felt what had become a familiar lurch.

In Osh, the 2000-year-old Silk Road Bazaar stretches along the banks of the Ak Buura River for about a mile. Historically, it is one of the most important markets because of the confluence of routes that crossed through Osh; in 2010, ethnic violence between the Kyrzks and Uzbeks (Osh on the border, has a sizeable population of Uzbeks) destroyed much of the bazaar. Efforts to rebuild have restored much of the market: a farmer’s market, a department and appliance store (with goods from China and Russia) so to speak, a place to buy crafts, clothing, everything from toothpaste to cell phones, and perhaps most important a place to gather with friends, share tales and eat. I wanted to get a bite and buy a kalpak for my partner before I returned to the US.

I landed near the meat department. No, I was not interested in eating jimmy, the famous lambs head delicacy, but I noted several European tourists as they scooped out and ate the eyes and brains from a head, or the olovo (sheep’s lungs). Nor was I interested in beshbarmark with the memory of Mierum’s noodles still lingering on my palate. I walked on through the spices. Nearly knocked over by aromas coming off mountains of bright red paprika, stacks of colored peppercorns, cinnamon sticks and cumin, I hurried on to what looked like a bakery-deli a few stalls over. As a vegetarian, I knew I was in luck when I found oromo being prepared with potatoes and onions. I watch a short elderly woman roll out a small pastry, spread the veggies, roll it up and place it in a kagan for steaming. I ordered two along with a plate of ashlam foo. I figured the spicy noodles in jelly and vinegar topped with eggs would be offset with the oromo. I was not disappointed.

After eating, I picked up a kalpak and tucked it in my purse. Then I withdrew to a quiet place along the river and prepared to return to normal. Return to Normal? A drop of the tongue, tongue in cheek, but the very thought of return to normal posed an interesting question. Am I out of normal or am I within the bounds of normal? I looked about the world for an answer. When Elon Musk is putting the plans together for the first hyper-loop in California, when members of the former Baathist army are trying to redefine borders in the Middle East, when Trump says he is really running for the presidency, when Goldman Sachs says it is setting up a small loan department for ordinary Americans, when a top athlete shows up on the front cover of Vanity Fair in a new guise, when His Holiness the Pope puts out an encyclical on climate change, when His Holiness the Dai Lai Lama speaks at the Honda Center where the Mighty Ducks play, when waves of kayaks try to thwart a major oil schooner, perhaps the fact of my astral hyper-looping is not too far-fetched.

Unfortunately, in my haste to get to the Bazaar, I left my camera back on the Suleiman Too, but not to worry. The internet has reams of pictures of the old and new bazaar in Osh. Simply Google. Is that not where we find the source of all information

After a return from the trip to Azerbaijan (See Land of Fire) last month it took but moments for the body to readjust and land on solid ground, the mind a bit longer. As images of fez headed Azeris and natural fires gradually receded, the smell of oil haunted my olfactory sense, while resident flecks of dust twirled in by winds from the desert continue to tickle my throat. Memories of the trip lingered like a long finish on a good orange wine, but even a good finish dissipates, and as impressions fell into oblivion the inner traveler began to grow restless. A trip to Poland had been under consideration, but surprisingly, “she” wanted to return to Central Asia.

As I pored over a map of Central Asia, for the first time I wondered why “stan” suffixed the name of seven countries. With Google’s help I found its meaning. “…The suffix “stan” is an ancient Persian and/or Farsi word meaning country, nation, land, or place of…”

Turkmen means “I am a Turk,” but interestingly, in the land of Turks many are from other countries. Uzbek: a “genuine man.” Uzbekistan, the nation of genuine men is a mix of nomadic tribes, Russians and ancient Iranians. Tajik: a person wearing a crown on his head also a mix of ethnic groups. In old Turkic Kyrg means forty. Later the language referred to “Land of Mountaineers. I found a fascinating history of its etymology on Wiki.

I would have continued into the histories, piecing the meanings together, but when I checked out Kyrgyzstan, a plan began to take hold. The thought of a country dominated by mountains and lakes had a faire appel. After the natural gas burning outlets in Azerbaijan I could welcome the energy of the Tian Shan and Pamir ranges of Kyrgyzstan. The thought of Tian Shan with Victory Peak towering over 24,000 feet, referred to as celestial, heavenly, god’s mountains made my heart soar.

After four plus decades of world travel I may read a novelist, but rarely do more than a Google or two on my intended destinations. I have learned that I will get what I’m supposed to know, meet with whom I am supposed to meet when I arrive. In the case of Kyrgyzstan however, my knowledge bank so meager, I decided to visit a bookstore. The store was stocked with a plethora of guides, but aside from a thick Lonely Planet devoted to cities around the world each with a couple photos, “stans” included, no guidebooks available. Amazon not much better, it was becoming obvious that Central Asia is relatively unexplored. Back to Google.

The history of the Kyrgyz people held many surprises: Old Tang dynasty texts described them as having “red hair and green eyes, (from Siberia) while those with dark eyes were said to be descendants of a Chinese general.” Other sources claimed that the “Kyrgyz tribes were described as fair-skinned, green- or blue-eyed and red-haired people with a mixture of European and Mongol features. At the beginning of a foray into a complex history, I wondered what the contemporary Kyrgyz would look like.

One evening after a session of deep academic study I turned off the computer, laid my head on the pillow of my Relax the Back Chair and closed my eyes. Long past midnight a hushed quiet had settled over the trees and field outside my study window. Astral hyper-looping unlike other modes of travel does not depend on ticketing or plane schedules, but rather on the intention of the traveler. As I unwound from my day the travel engines began to churn. I turned inward toward the vacuous space in front of my mind’s eye, which yogis refer to it as the door to the infinite. Mystical sounds like that of evening song birds began to emanate from the void. I felt a slight lurch.

Opening my eyes I was standing on the edge of a vast endorheic lake. A light balmy breeze teased my hair, soothed my body. My feet were comfortable in spite of the pebble-filled grainy sand under my soles. I edged forward a few feet and gingerly touched the water with my big toe. I knew that hot springs fed into this lake, but with endless layers of the snow covered high peaks of the Tian Shan Mountains framing the distant skyline I expected icy. I cupped my hand, gathered a bit of water and lifted it to my lips. Warm and slightly salty like the Caspian Sea, I thanked the guardians of the lake for their offering. I knew that pollution is a concern, but the lake is well known for its minerals and healing ability.

I marveled as I stood on the shores of the second largest alpine lake in the world (Lake Titicaca, the largest), Lake Issy-Kul.. Were it not for the snow-capped mountains, a border of tiered ridges, the blue sky and sky blue lake would have merged. Soft waves barely more than ripples, caressed my feet. I felt a oneness, a union of soul tied by a magical umbilical cord to essence.

I do not know how long I stood there soaking up the healing waters, but eventually I came to a sense of presence with the present. Curious, I turned my back to the water. A hundred or so feet away red tulips carpeted the borders of a narrow pot-holed road.

The road led through guesthouses and yurts the felt colored dwellings used for centuries by nomads, along the  shore. I had read that the village of Kyzyl-Tuu just south of where I stood, is primarily made up of yurt makers.

A sound of a motor plowed the waters of the lake. I turned around to see a lone fisherman pulling in. He docked nearby and disembarked carrying a large black rubber bag filled with his catch. He smiled and surprised me with a hello in English. I expected Russian as I had read it might be the main language spoken around some parts of the lake. After introducing himself, Rustam told me that as a young man he had lived in England. He shared that his son Hamid owned the nearby yurt resort; he pointed to a camp of yurts, and invited me to come by for some lunch. I had read that the people were friendly, but this was far more than I anticipated.

As we walked I told him that my time was limited, that I wanted to go to Osh the oldest city in the country. I wanted to see the silk bazaar leftover from the days of the Silk Road trade. He told me that after lunch he would be taking a few horses to a nearby village to a tour guide. He would give me a ride and from the village I could hop a minibus to Osh.

When we got to the yurt camp I followed Rustam who ushered me into his home where he introduced me to his wife. She greeted me in a language I had never heard. It turned out that Rustam is the only family member to speak English. He told me that he had been a dentish in Osh. When he retired he and his wife Mierim moved out to the yurt resort to help their son. Mierim cooked local food for the guests, but on that day they had gone on a daylong horse trek so the three of us shared the meal.

Mierim as warm and friendly as Rustam offered me a bowl-like cup of what I thought was milk. Mildly flavored it tasted somewhat sour with a bit of tang, I assumed from alcohol. Rustam noticed my quizzical look. He explained that kumis a fermented form of mare’s milk is the national drink like beer or wine in other countries. “It is very important,” he added. “Bishkek the capital of our country is named for the paddle that is used to churn the mare’s milk much like in making butter.” The drink went down all too quickly and I knew I could handle it if it were offered again.

Our lunch was sumptuous. Mierim placed a cast iron pot of plov (chicken, carrots and rice) on the table, a plate of horse sausages, flat noodles and a naan-like bread with which we scooped up our food. I had heard that vegetarians can have a hard go of it in Central Asia, but under the circumstances the meal was a gift and I figured it best not to offend my hosts. The horse sausage reminded me of a gourmet tempeh, but more meaty.

After the meal, as Rustam prepared the animals, his wife refilled my cup. We tried to talk a bit, I was picking up on a few of her words and she knew a little English, but as I have found with many women around the world, when we don’t know one another’s language, we fall into heart talk. Before I left she went into her bedroom and returned with a small Russian orthodox cross and put it in my hand. We hugged. I had tears in my eyes as we parted.

I walked away waving to Merium. Rustam stood near the door holding the reins to two camels, I had expected horses.

To be continued…

After I returned from Azerbaijan, I could not get Baku out of my mind. As scenes from a long significant dream can fill the morning after with story from the depths of the unconscious, so too, scenes from the trip filled the early days of my return. Streaming colors, sounds, aromas, especially those from the ubiquitous presence of oil, and images of nature-born fires haunted my thoughts. Over the return week I sat in my garden assimilating the experience while gradually getting my land legs back.

Again as in the recent retreat I turned to literature.

To prepare myself for travel to a new place, I have made a habit of reading its well-known authors. Ines of My Soul by Isabel Allende helped to prepare me for a trip to Chili in 2007. Set in the sixteenth century, the story takes place at the beginnings of the Spanish conquest of the Americas. Allende spent four years researching and documenting the history of the founders of Santiago. Against that backdrop the personal trials and tribulations of Ines are recounted along with her challenges with the indigenous Chileans. Bloodshed and violence not withheld. Although Ines’ story took place four centuries before my first trip to Santiago, her history remains embedded in the ancient stones of the city and by the time I arrived in the capitol I had the same imprinted in my bones.

Orphan Pamuk in Memories of the City and My Name is Red prepared me for my first trip to Turkey, Haruki Murakami in several novels for Tokyo, Rabindranath Tagore for India, Jorge Luis Borges for Argentina, Paulo Coelho for Brazil, Octavio Paz for Mexico, Homer and Herodotus for Greece and most of my high school and university literature classes for Ireland and England.

The trip to Baku was so sudden and unexpected that I had no time for such luxury. In hindsight, I turned to Amazon and ordered a copy of what is considered a literary masterpiece.

Ali and Nino recognized as the national novel of Azerbaijan is set in Baku. The author writing in 1918 describes an endearing romance between a Muslim Azerbaijani boy and a Christian Georgian girl. Now there’s a tale to recount. My first thought on hearing the theme of the tale was whether Ali and Nino had to run for their lives to escape a negative response to their relationship. Instead the author portrayed Baku’s tolerant culture. Ali’s father, a noble Muslim, accepts his son’s choice. As it turns out, the major issue with Ali and Nino’s long relationship come when Ali’s friend kidnaps Nino. Eventually, long story short, the two are reunited. When the Bolsheviks recapture Baku, the couple flee to Tehran only to return later. Finally, when the Red Army pulls into Azerbaijan, Ali joins the defense forces and Nino flees to Georgia with their child. Sadly, Ali dies in battle.

I’ve hardly given a nutshell of the complex story, but at least the quick summary will serve to jog my memory in the future. I’ve discovered that astral hyper-looping causes me to become a bit spacy and until I retrieve my land-legs, it can impede my memories ability to recall historical facts.

I also returned to Paul Theroux’ journey as recounted in Ghost Train to the Eastern Star. From Baku, he flew across the Caspian Sea to Turkmenistan, site of the fourth largest natural gas reserves in the world, and landed in Ashgabat the capitol.

Turkmenistan has been at the crossroads of civilization for hundreds of years yet Theroux’ account of the dictator Sarparmyrat Niyazov and how he ruled the country would turn most westerners off to the possibility of following Mr. Theroux into that part of the world. After his sudden death in 2006, the Turkmens elected Gurbanguly Berdimuhamedow (the only one running in the election) as president. He overturned many of Niyazov’s policies and, not that life has become democratic, but many moves were made to correct repressive rules and regulations.

GB’s photo with the Obamas. From the color of the president’s hair, the photo was obviously taken several years back.

I was surprised to learn that Turkmenistan is the least explored country in Central Asia, but in recent years one site, a natural gas field, appropriately named Door to Hell has whetted the curiosity of tourists.

Another visited site in this land of mainly black sand desert is Turkmenbasy Ruhy Mosque the largest in Central Asia.

My week ended at a birthday party in Sacramento with a group of wonderful people from Poland. Over bowls of creamy Borscht, we enjoyed conversation and personal story. A few of the group read my blog so Baku intruded briefly into our conversation, but when the hostess spread the table with risotto, potatoes, leek and apple salad and grilled lamb all prepared in traditional Polish style the conversation turned to Poland. My friends  waxed eloquent on the forests, mountains and rivers in the north of the country. They advised me that I should make a trip to the north then head for Krakow in the south.

Never been to Poland. I am hearing the call. Hm……