6. A desert reflection in the Bukhara style

I don’t know the day, i don’t know the time. Emerged from a five day desert ride. Not a dessert as i am temped to say, perhaps a desert of the mind. Pete is showering, the first in a while. We have a room, in the Bukoro style. A desert meditation is what befell us these days, an endless road of bumps and sand, the cars all beep as they pass you by, hot exhaust smoke in your eye. Trying to combat the high charges for food, for drink or bread. I’m white you see, from a land of Anglia, the place of football Man U – united. So obviously I have a lot of money to burn, you don’t want to know me, you just want my money. Until, a kind soul sets the world back to right, my anger is subdued and my souls again light. A camp in the desert with new tortoise shaped friends, conversations in the sands and camels which stand, off in the distance, they don’t care where you’re from. The big hairy spider with a threatening eye won’t let you look to the stars. The cremation was not a spiritual affair, only unrest seemed to linger in the air. But back to the anger, an emotion so strong, it clouds up your reasoning not to belong. A vicious attack on a person unknown, trying to make a buck on the persons unknown. Not even to try to understand or to know, the places you’ve been or the places you’ll go. The sun burns down my skin’s turning red, my eyesight is blurry, theres pain in my head. A places for chai is in sight and we’re beckoned in. We wait, ask for chai and are asked where we’re from. We sit a little longer, chai an unanswered call. Ignored by the people my anger has boiled. Leave again, we’re aliens in this place – until someone take time, and they show the grace to simply see a human before their own eyes. A simple request means such a great deal, no longer a pound sign, I have thoughts and I feel. Treated to plov, a chai and more bread than can be possible had! Hurrah! Now awake from this reflection, it’s time to clean my grimy grimy body. AM