Long face, stooped shoulders and straggling steps were signs of sadness. It had to be. It was all over: a 15-days course in Murree Hills, Pakistan. Gone were hours of gazing terraced hills, fir-trees and blue mountains mingling with sky.

A heavy pat on my neck jolted me. I heard someone saying, "We are not going back to Karachi. " It was Hussain, my colleague and course mate. "I have left a message with PS of the Boss that we are going to Uzbekistan to pursue our studies further," he continued. "What this course has to do with a foreign trip," I asked. "Leave it to me. I would face the music," he showed his teeth. As to prior permission, he shouted, "Permission! You fool; don't you know it would be much easier to seek forgiveness. Now check out before the boss gets us caught." In a minute, we were on the road, re-packing our belongings. By the same evening, we were airborne. Where there is a will, there is a way.

We were first to board an aging Russian-made airliner, IL-86. No one greeted us, nor guided us. We ran for the two window seats on either side of the first row. Other passengers had little trouble getting in. They were loaded with luggage of all sorts: hand-held, backpacked, shouldered strapped and even teeth-clinched. Mostly were plump Uzbek ladies, with pale mahogany skin and half-moon eyes. They were returning back after a shopping spree. Later, I learned, they were carriers, sponsored by newly surfaced underworld lords. They were above and beyond the law. There was nothing they could not do, no whim they could not indulge. They floated a simple system. For $200 and one hour-wait, one could get, through a couple of traveling agencies, a 15-day viza with 3-day-free-stay. This was sweetened with meet & assist, pick and drop services. More costly deals were available for the up-market.

It was three hours flight, a thrilling adventure in itself. It passed over deep gorges as it maneuvered its way through high mountainous areas. Snow-peaked tops rose thousands meters above the aircraft. It crossed Afghanistan and Tajikistan before entering Uzbekistan. It afforded us spectacular views of mountains, bubbling rivers intercepted by vast stretches of sand dunes. The sun was setting in, painting the territory with crimson colours.

It was a little cold when we landed at Tashkent. The immigration and custom clearance was rather slow. Every passport was minutely examined and each baggage was checked. In the meanwhile, the local representative found us by trial & error. He helped us in minimizing bureaucratic hassles. He had his own pickup and led us straight to Hotel Leningrad. Being seasoned travellors, we had brought our own food. We had early dinner and slept like a log.

TASHKENT

There were a few hotels where the foreigners with prepaid room rent could stay. All were third rate, like cheap motels in European countries but not as clean. Only their charges differed from US$ 20 TO $150 per night. It all depended on the traveling agent back home to assess the capacity to pay of the intended visitors. Ours was at rock bottom but we were least worried. There was no soap, no towel and no hot water. Only one thing surprised us, a direct and free telephone was available in each & every room.

Next day, we went out to locate a restaurant for breakfast. In the process, we saw a little of Tashkent. It resembled Eastern European cities in the '70's, with relatively few cars, wide streets and crowded trams. Many buildings were in decay. New were coming up but some left half -constructed. It appeared that with the break-up, the fund flow from the Centre ceased altogether and many projects were abandoned. Soon we spotted a tea-house. It was open-aired in the shade of a tree. Uzbeks were sitting cross-legged on carpeted platforms, drinking green tea. We said loudly, "Assalam-Aliakum", the traditional Islamic greeting. All replied in unison, "Wa-Aliakum-Salam" and we became instantly friendly. We were offered tea and bread. Later a young man brought for us halvah, a popular sweetmeat. "A shop is nearby, full of such items," the youngman volunteered some information. Later, we followed him to the shop and saw many delicacies in preparation. The main ingredients were sugar, molasses, flour, fat and fruit. Those were mixed with poppy seeds, nuts, almonds, sesame-seeds, ginger and cardamom.

Tashkent was a splendid showcase of Soviet foresight. Everything was so large that it could cope with population and traffic in the next two decades. There were tree-lined boulevards providing much-needed shades. Fountains were sprinkling water. It seemed a page from paradise. Later, we went up a tall tower to have a bird's eye view of the city. Indeed, it looked like a forest, with barely a building lurking through its canopy except the City Centre. That evening we had local foods: 'Plau' which was rice with meat and vegetables. It was followed by fresh melon. Prices were not high. Just two dollars were more than enough for a hearty meal. For another dollar, one could anywhere in the city on taxi. Besides, Tashkent had very efficient underground network of railway. The stations were spacious and clean. They looked like palaces with ceramic and bronze panels. Chandeliers added touch of elegance. White, pink and grey marble created a unique display of colours.

In a week, we had seen all in Tashkent and thought of moving further. I had heard exotic names like Samarkand and Bokhara shrouded in mystery and splendor. But Hussain was all out for Fergana in the opposite direction. We amicably parted to meet after a week of footloose and fancy-free travel of our own choice.

SAMARKAND

I got up a little late. Hussain had already left for Fergana leaving a heavy breakfast tray for me. Indeed, he was thoughtful!

No English was spoken nor understood in Tashkent. The best way was to display a card in Uzbek. I had one, "Bus station for Samarkand". Literacy was 100%; people understood it and bundled me there through a push-n-drag system. At the bus station, I was baffled to see a mad rush - a wild crowd pushing and shoving towards the only ticket window. Twice I was near it but sent back as if riding a down escalator. I got desperate and swore loudly in my own language. Someone got the message. Tapping my shoulder was a young man wearing European dress with an embroidered skull cape. He knew a little Urdu language as he had been in Pakistan for buying leather jackets. He managed to get a ticket through a friend and gave it to me as a present. Looked like he was treated well in my beloved country or maybe he had some quid pro qua in mind.

I was in for a five-hour-ride on a decent highway across fertile, irrigated land. Chaykhana (teahouses) bordered the road, and peasants were selling fruits or their crops. The sun had now risen laying spread a green carpet before me. There was no interruption in its scenic beauty. I took this opportunity to observe the fellow-passengers, a mix of Uzbek, Tajik and Kazak. They were delightful & lively. Men were mostly bearded with turbans on their heads, brightly patterned robes on their bodies and long-boots on their feet. Women wore non-revealing dresses, ankle-length silk or cotton gowns with zigzagging turquoise, red or yellow patterns.

Samarkand was one of the oldest cities of Central Asia. But it did not show up at first glance. Rather, it looked like a modern industrial city with heavy traffic belching black smoke. The old city was hidden in a maze of modern buildings. The archaeological sites, called Registan, had turquoise-tiled mosques and mausoleums still reflecting the splendors. This was a country of Tamerlane, a fourteenth-century conqueror. He was now lying buried beneath a tomb made of the largest block of jade in the world. It was definitely one of the finest, but least- known, cluster of medressas, seats of learning. There were intricate geometric mosaics covering every inch of their walls. The walls were glimmering in the waning sunlight beckoning the visitors "enter to learn and go forth to serve". The sight was awesome.

I was in luck to get a guesthouse in Samarkand. It was an old house, its courtyard was spacious and laden with trees. Salahuddin managed it with the help of his wife, Ludmilla and a daughter, Khanum. In the evening, there was quite a little gathering of their friends and backpackers. They had invited an English-speaking fellow and a good discussion ensued. Quite a few people told me that if they had the choice, they would go back to communism. They said that communism was bad, but not as bad as conditions afterwards. Soviet influence was also observed in their secular attitude. They had a little knowledge of the religion. Despite their Muslim heritage, they loved dogs and sipped wines said to be dry, sweet and strong. I being teetotaler asked for forgiveness and a ripple of laughter ran through the house. However, pork was unknown as in other Muslim world. Their staple food was beef, potatoes, cabbage, rice, beans and melons. It was Turk-like in its use of seasonings, herbs, spices and yogurt. For that evening, they prepared a superb cuisine: "mantI", "shashlik" or "kebab" and "kofte" along with fragrant sherbet, butterfly shaped pastries and chak-chak, a traditional Uzbek dessert. I had a hearty meal oblivious of the charges. Later, I was asked to pay only the agreed $ 12 a day for full board and lodging, leaving me in awe and wonder.

BOKHARA

After staying for three days, I was ready to move. Salahuddin personally drove me to the bus station. Because of his contacts, it was easy to get a ticket for $ 1. The bus was standing in the sun. It was quite hot inside like an oven. The seven-hour journey ahead became dreadful. However, once the bus moved, fresh countryside air brought the much-needed relief.

Bokhara highway was a part of great Silk Road. It was well paved and straight. It passed right through valley of Zarfashan River, supplying its muddy water all over the region. There were a large number of canals and watercourses, many cemented and well above the ground. The water could reach all patches whether lying high or low. This was ingenious. The bus also passed through an area where great generals were borne- Genghis Khan & Tamerlane, popularly know as The Earth Shakers.

I arrived in the evening at the fabulous city. Unlike Samarkand, Bokhara had retained much of its originality. It resembled one huge museum. It had a maze of dusty and unpaved narrow streets. The one-storey Uzbek houses were built around shady courtyards. Being tired after a long journey, I headed straight for a Government hostel. I got a good and airy room for $ 3. However, there were no restaurants. Once again my emergency ration saved me from hunger and despair.

Next morning, I was awaken by the sound of karnai, traditional wind instruments. This was a signal for some upcoming event or festival. I did not bother to know. I had to get some breakfast. There was still nothing in the hostel to eat. I went out and saw a teahouse. A young boy was there. Though still in primary school, he could speak flawless English. He introduced me to his grand father who also was owner of the teahouse. We had nice chat over a cup of tea and biscuits.

Later, I started my stroll. Bokhara was great but small enough that one could walk anywhere. I passed by "The Ark", a 2000 years old fortress. It dominates the city centre. Nearby was a Tower of Death. About 300 feet high, it was built long ago with clay. Bands of brick patterns were decorating it from top to bottom. Though it was a minaret of Kalyan Mosque, it had an eventful past. It has served as a watchtower, and as a landmark and beacon for desert caravans. It was also called the Tower of Death as criminals were thrown from it in the distant past. A little further were the twin domes of Mir-i-Arab Medressa sparkling with blue tiles. Since the break-up of the Soviet Empire, Islam was re-emerging as a dominant force. Bokhara once more resounded to the call of the muezzin. Hundreds flocked to the ancient shrines of saints, and the religious schools were full of young boys learning Holy Koran.

In the evening, I had a reserved seat in Bokhara Express in four-seat compartment. The other three were Kazak, tall, heavy built with daggers by their waist. It was a night train, a foreign land, little light inside and pitch dark outside. I was out-numbered facing ferocious looking persons with slanting eyes. There was absolutely nothing I could do. What ever was to be done, was to be done by them. Why should I worry about? I started thinking of meeting with Hussain next day and our return to office after two weeks of French Leave.