"Come, come! I have something to show you."
We're about to board the train from Samarkand to Tashkent, when the train master appears out of nowhere. He leads us onto the train and into a cubicle. His cubicle to be precise - he's renting us his private cabin for the journey. It appears we've been selected, the chosen ones for this side hustle.
My husband and I are already prepared for this. Last night, as I painted in the guesthouse courtyard, the socialite that T is started chatting with two new guests who arrived for the night. Having arrived from Tashkent, the pair informed us of this scheme. Coincidentally, both guys are also travelling from Dubai.
'The train master got this side business so he is going to give you a private cabin,' Ibrahim, the main guy, informs us in a low voice. A long cigarette is bobbing from his fingers, ash crumbling into the tray beneath. 'He says 25 dollar for one person. I reckon you can get for lower rate if you try.' A cloud of smoke is exhaled as he speaks.
The cabin in question contains two fold-out beds, one on top of the other, screwed into the walls. A table is pushed into the corner space and a grimy window lets in air through the top. It's tiny, but private. A step up from the shared six-people-per-cabin that we've actually paid for.
"Normally, it is 50. I give you for 40." The train master shrugs in finality.
'Ah, too much,' my husband throws it back to him with what he hopes is a winning smile. 'We are small people, give us small price.' he reasons jokingly.
After an exchange of English, Uzbeki and harried gestures, we eventually fish out 35 dollars, to which the master gives a thumbs up and promises an endless supply of free tea and coffee.
Despite our concerns of bribery, one hour into our four hour long journey, we're happy for the private space to stretch our legs. I bring out my sketchbook and decide on a landscape panorama to capture the desertland we're speeding across.
For the most part, the scenery is unchanging. A vivid blue sky cut in half by golden, sandy mountains, dotted with dry shrubs and twisted trees. I could almost kid myself we're on the way to Fujairah.
Occasionally, villages appear where long white houses with faded red and green tin roofs gather in clusters. I spot farmers with straw hats under shaded trees and in between, horses run free on the greener pastures of farmland. It's somewhere between rural idyll and desert poverty.
I'm uncertain how to approach the scene before me but I allow it to build as I paint, not planning or thinking too much. I paint the sky and sandy mountains in with watercolour, reckoning that I have my gouache paints to add in thicker blocks of colour into the foreground if I need. I construct the houses, one rectangular blob at a time, adding smaller blobs for roofs. Eventually, the scene is built, framed by a tree I caught a glimpse of that's twisted in just the perfect way, with the country houses nestled in the background.
Adding the final touches, I twist my head to either side in an attempt to gauge my work. I like the composition but feel I've overworked the painting - the blue sky colour is too dark for one. Still, I'm happy another page has been covered, another memory captured.
After a round of photos and reel-taking, I close the sketchbook and settle into the narrow bed. A train attendant throws open the door and thrusts two papercups of the promised tea through the door, which we drink gratefully. It's only after all of this is done that I allow myself to fall into a deep, thoughtful sleep.