Bernard Ollivier - Road to Samarkand: In Search of Turquoise Skies on Foot across The Silk Road

Copyright 2001 by Bernard Ollivier

Originally published in France as Longue marche: pied de la Mditerrane jusquen Chine par la route de la Soie. II.Vers Samarcande by ditions Phbus, Paris.

English translation 2020 by Dan Golembeski

The translator would like to express his thanks to Dr. Jennifer Wolter of Bowling Green State University for her insights and suggestions, and to Jon Arlan for his careful revisions and constructive comments. This translation was made possible by a 2017 National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

Cover design by Brian Peterson

Cover photo credit: Getty Images

ISBN: 978-1-5107-4689-3

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-4691-6

Printed in the United States of America

Lifes caravan is hastening on its way;
Brood not on troubles of the coming day,
But fill the wine-cup, ere sweet night be gone,
And snatch a pleasant moment, while you may.

OMAR KHAYYM

The Quatrains of Omar Khayym, translated by E. H. Whinfield. London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trbner, & Co. Ltd., 1893, 2nd edition revised.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

THE STORM

May 14, 2000. Between Erzurum and Doubeyazt. Mile Zero.

The bus driver is dumbfounded.

You want me to let you off here? But this is the steppe; were in the middle of nowhere! In fifteen minutes, well be in Doubeyazt...

No, I want off now. I want to walk!

I have neither the time nor the Turkish vocabulary to explain that I am, in fact, bound and determined to begin a two-thousand-mile walk from this precise spot. I know its an unusual request! Incredulous, he turns to his coworker and they exchange a few words. I imagine it goes something like this: Am I even allowed to drop a passenger off out here in the countryside? Has this Western roumi lost his mind?

We left Erzurum early in the morning. Before boarding the bus, I had been on three flights: ParisIstanbul, IstanbulAnkara, and finally, AnkaraErzurum. Comfortably strapped in my seat, I looked down and watched as the landscapes, cities, and villages that I traveled through last year raced by.to get back underway from precisely the same spot so as to finally complete the first leg of that journey, which was supposed to end in Iran, in the city of Tehran. From there, Ill set off for Samarkand, the turquoise-domed city Ive often dreamed about since I was a child. It will mark the halfway point in my journey down the Great Silk Road, which Im attempting to travel from one end to the other on my own, on foot, and in four years. Im dead set on picking up the interrupted stage right where illness laid me low. An act that proves, if nothing else, that Im a a purist: but I also see it as a matter of integrity. Ive decided what I want to accomplish, and I have no intention of giving it all up at the first sign of trouble, or of shortening the journey the first time someone advises me to. I refuse to skip even one inch of this road that, if everything goes well, will take me all the way to the city of Xian in China, and to hell with anyone who takes me for an extremist or fanatic! So right now, I have to get this driver to stop. He thinks he has me figured out:

You need to pee, is that it?

No, I want to get out and walk.

The way his face twitches as he throws his coworker a glance says it all: The guys a madcap, were dealing with a madcap. He gives in and puts on the brakes. I jump from the vehicle with as much grace as my thirty-three-pound backpack and boots allow. Dismayed, but helpless to prevent me from doing something so stupid, he puts his foot on the gas and pulls away.

I have no time to wax nostalgic over the events that took place here ten months ago: before the bus is even out of sight, before theres even time to pull my rain poncho from my bag, an icy downpour darkens the plain, accompanied by strong winds and freezing rain. Things are off to a great start. I see little shepherds crouching down and covering themselves with plastic sheets. As snowflakes softly fall onto the black sheep, now huddling together so as to better withstand the wind and cold, the animals start to look like ngres en chemise, a type of pastry I could never get enough of as a kid. I didnt renew my rain ponchos waterproofing before the trip, so it isnt long before Im completely drenched, both inside and out. Even the Kangals, those fearsome Turkish dogs, go flat on the ground waiting for the storm to pass. Its a good thing for me, too, since I didnt have time to pick up a walking stickthe only weapon I know how to wield against these bloodthirsty monstersand here on this treeless plain, its very unlikely Id ever find one.

The storm keeps me from getting underway. Its an easterly squall, and it catches my rain jacket, throwing me off balance. The rain blinds me and stings my face. I arch my back to keep from being blown over by the gusts. The downpour heckles me, it jostles me, nastily knocking me about. To be safe, I decide to do like the young shepherds. Since theres nowhere to go for shelter on this godforsaken steppe, I crouch down a fair distance from the road, far from the trucks driving blindly along and protected somewhat by my rain jacket, which I hold up against the wind and rain. My hand is soon numb from the cold. The bus driver, safe from the elements as he speeds toward the city, must be gloating: Serves you right, you stubborn old mule. Nice going!

Thats when I suddenly decide to revisit all the rather dark thoughts that had started to hound me on the plane from Paris. Its the same old unanswerable question back to badger me: just where do I think Im going and why? And above all, why am I doing this to myself againtearing myself away from the ones I love and who love me, too, as theyve proven time and time againafter the agony I went through last year?