My Travels...

It was in the Autumn that I resumed my wanderings over the hills that divide greater Samarkand from the rest of the world that I stumbled upon a teahouse. The teahouse was like any other notable teahouses known to that part of the world, the kind that follows a Caravanserai and appears just when the ragged traveller is either famished or dying of thirst. It so appeared as I was in the throes of death, apparitions appearing before me and graciously welcoming me to the netherworld, that I was presented with a hot cup of green tea by a bony hand.
The hand belonged to a Mr. Zelimkhan, a man of small stature with a generously proportioned wife (she was hiding behind him at this point - quite a funny sight!). He didn't say much but seemed to know exactly what I needed when I needed them. A sheep broth and coarse bread was presented before me with a pot of tea and a bottle of mineral water, I later found out the bottle had been replenished at some point with the local tap. Mrs. Zelimkhan was nice, she never spoke but giggled all the time she was waiting on me.
I had arrived at the teahouse just after dark I was the only one there. It was a huge tent made on sturdy wooden foundations and covered with thick yak coat to keep out the wind and to keep it warm, the wind was kept abay but my feet were freezing nonetheless. It was lighted with kerosene lanterns that were dotted above our heads, it was comforting.
Suddenly a great clamour was heard as burly flat-faced and heavily tanned Uzbeks started filing in through the opening, I was startled and the comfort left me as the feeling of intimidation slowly crept into my mind. It was then that Mr. Zelimkhan spoke for the first time, he said "Indeed all who enter our establishment are our guests, but you sir you are a greater guest, you are all of our guest so feel at ease as we welcome you". I was absolutely astonished he had spoken in english and excellent english at that...