Uzbekistan Travel Diary - The Preface
Overcoming sickness, travel anxiety, and my editing laziness
I recently came back from a trip to Uzbekistan which I documented through writing. It's venturing into the travel genre, with a mix of journalling, and a sprinkling of fiction thrown in. This is the first of a few posts so I hope you'll enjoy.
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Monday morning. T-2 days until we leave. I roll out of bed with an oncoming headache and a threateningly itchy feeling at the back of my throat. Ugh.
It's the first international trip my Husband (a.k.a. T) and I are taking since our honeymoon. I am falling helplessly sick, or so I hope not.
Ironically, I fell sick just before our honeymoon too, along with the trip I took to Azerbaijan a couple months ago. It seems to be a sad irony that any trip I take is prefaced by a physical ailment (I'm not writing them all down for fear of making it some sort of permanent record).
But, like all the other times, I'm determined to best this as I down paracetamol, strepsils and brew myself an overly strong cup of black tea. Saddling my macbook-heavy backpack onto skeletal shoulders (I really need to work out), I head off to work. I'm convincing myself that it's all good - there's no alternative anyway.
It's been a while since I've written anything publish-worthy, but the books I am reading these days help fuel my writing momentum.
My current read has only been open two days, yet I'm halfway through it, in a desperate bid to finish it before my flight. ‘In The Weeds’, a book post-humously written about the chef and TV personality, Anthony Bourdain, through the eyes of one of his closest colleagues, the creative producer behind many of Bourdains’ shows, Tom Vitale.
It's gripping and page-turning. More importantly, it's fuelling my artistic expression on multiple fronts, giving me the urge to both write and make videos, in an attempt to make my own documentary of the upcoming trip.
At work, I'm antsy, waiting to get back to reading. By the time I do, its 7pm. I set the book facedown on the pillow in front of me.
I'm reading in the salon, a reprieve from a long day at work as I ready my nails for the trip. I'm seated opposite a lady with two butterfly clips in her lathered hair, getting a pedicure at the same time as me. I'm reflecting on the state of my health as I sip my sixth hot beverage of the day, yet another strong tea (only because I have nowhere to lose the tea bag). I must say the sickness has gotten marginally better. But back to the book.
Reading Vitale’s story, about the process behind wildly wild and wildly successful shows (Parts Unknown, No Reservations to name a few), has me itching to construct my own narrative, starting with this blog. But first, I have to actually start the editing process. This proves a little more difficult.
I can't say I'm much of an editor (I've mentioned before in a previous blogpost what a horrible knack I have for re-looking at my own content). But in reading this book I am growing to appreciate the art and see how I can apply it to my own work. How can I be both the editor and the creative director?
In order to create content that feels right, that still retains the feeling and spark of the moment, I know I will have to write as I go. When I try to think of the words after the moment, the ideas float in mid air as I attempt to catch them, darting away like fish in a pond.
This means I must write, draw and record everything as I live it. It's a task that feels both monumentally large, yet utterly sacred, an honest and raw representation of the present moment. Despite the weight of it, I know that it's something I will appreciate looking back on later (me editing this after the trip definitely appreciates it!).
Fast forward to 1AM. T and I are in a friends car, speeding towards the bus station. He's dropping us off for the bus that will take us from Dubai to Abu Dhabi.
As I ride in the back, I try and get some shuteye in the car. But the moment I close my eyes, I find myself unknowingly grinding my teeth. Last minute to-dos barrage their way through my mind in an attempt to spur my ever increasing anxiety. Did I forget to pack anything? Did I send all the emails I needed to? Did I turn off the AC? My lack of travel experience manifests evidently, anxiety-inducingly and rather annoyingly, as my husband jokes with his friend up front.
I wonder, for a fleeting moment, wouldn't it just be better to stay at home? Avoid all this hassle of packing, of worrying I'd forget my charger or a spare set of clothes? Wouldn't life be more…chill?
But we're nearing the bus station now and I know it's too late (not to mention T wouldn't ever dream of going back). I tell my anxiety it's fruitless to think like this. There is no turning back now. I have to keep telling myself that I'll be back after a week, I'm not leaving forever. The house will not burn down, the gas is not switched on, ACs are off, doors are locked.
A week. Just a week. Enjoy the journey.
And before I know it, it's 1.30AM, we're waving goodbye, and boarding the bus. Bearing in mind our flight is at 6AM - my eyes droop, a long way to go yet.
The rest of the travel goes by in a hazy blur, a series of spontaenous scenes: a blackout for the one hour duration of the bus journey. Navigating suitcases through the throng of the Terminal 1 airport. Bags and bags and bags everywhere. Three little sisters in three different sizes, all in matching shirts of lemon yellow with black flared trousers, their oversized backpacks threatening to topple them over.
As the early morning drags onwards and we board the flight. It's a relief to sit in the seat as I'm stumbling further into a disintegrated state of sleep deprived disorientation, remedied a little by the three hour flight. Anything over two hours is too much, I think in my inebriated state.
But as I have found these days (particularly as I edit this now that I'm back), time moves all too fast and suddenly, window blinds are pulled open and the first glimpse we get of Samarkand is endless streaming sunlight over dusky brown desert. Goodbye Dubai, hello holiday.