In the Beginning...
Updated: May 4
I created this blog...
Credit to the above image to be readily given once I am aware of the identity of its creator...
Far be it from me to steal words from the almighty, as I will certainly need his assistance to create this as workable website/blog that isn't laughable rubbish, and to complete the intended journey. As a first blog post, this will be a learning experience (doubtless, one of many), however, I intend to document it nonetheless, errors and all.
As for the blog/website itself, why have I named it thus? "A Golden Journey" is reminiscent of not only the vast tracks of sand and stone I intend to cross, but a magnificent poem which displays at length the history and romance of the old Silk Road. That poem "The Golden Journey to Samarkand" by James Elroy Flecker is copied below for the enjoyment and elucidation of the viewer. To my close friends, yes cue the jokes about the name... you know who you are, w**kers.
The purpose of this blog is rather selfish and rather simple, namely, to document my own journey from Chengdu, China across the Silk Road. I will take the northerly route across the Taklamakan/Xinjiang, briefly entering Kyrgyzstan, then traversing the Pamir Highway of Tajikistan, and from there through the old Silk Road cities of Uzbekistan, including Samarkand and Khiva of course, with an endpoint in Istanbul. A detour to the K2 base camp from Kashgar would be magnificent, but current research indicates that (for varied administrative reasons), most trekking firms have cancelled their near-term expeditions, a pity.
Lastly, and perhaps rather importantly, I ought to explain why I am embarking on this venture.
This is a multifaceted answer, but the first reason is simply that the Silk Road is truly a fascinating and magical region that also happens to be a less explored destination; I suppose that makes it a rather romantic place to visit in my mind. I hope to document both the natural and the historical, and perhaps even the personal.
The second reason is that the time was right for various reasons, some of which I will keep to myself, and some of which may be common to any readers who are of a similar age to myself. That is to say, I'm not quite prepared for the next phase of hard graft which will likely be a (metaphorical) prison. We're at an interesting time economically, people work harder and are likely more productive than at any other time in human history, yet we seem to have less to show for it. Asset / property prices have reached or exceeded the point of absurdity (how is one supposed to get started?), and the legislative / regulatory framework / central bank policy which heavily influences (read: distorts) the price mechanism shows no signs of changing, indeed, it only seems to get worse. I will spare the reader a political rant or an explanation of why I think this is. In any case, I wonder if it is similar to how many travelers of old felt when they left Europe (or elsewhere) looking for a better life, or more aptly, when they crossed vast tracks of desert and mountains to bring a certain fine textile to market.
Thus ends my first blog post, enjoy the poem.
THE GOLDEN JOURNEY TO SAMARKAND
PROLOGUE
We who with songs beguile your pilgrimage
And swear that Beauty lives though lilies die,
We Poets of the proud old lineage
Who sing to find your hearts, we know not why, -
What shall we tell you? Tales, marvellous tales
Of ships and stars and isles where good men rest,
Where nevermore the rose of sunset pales,
And winds and shadows fall towards the West:
And there the world's first huge white-bearded kings
In dim glades sleeping, murmur in their sleep,
And closer round their breasts the ivy clings,
Cutting its pathway slow and red and deep.
EPILOGUE
At the Gate of the Sun, Baghdad, in olden time
THE MERCHANTS :
Away, for we are ready to a man!
Our camels sniff the evening and are glad.
Lead on, O Master of the Caravan:
Lead on the Merchant-Princes of Baghdad.
THE CHIEF DRAPER :
Have we not Indian carpets dark as wine,
Turbans and sashes, gowns and bows and veils,
And broideries of intricate design,
And printed hangings in enormous bales?
THE CHIEF GROCER :
We have rose-candy, we have spikenard,
Mastic and terebinth and oil and spice,
And such sweet jams meticulously jarred
As God's own Prophet eats in Paradise.
THE PRINCIPAL JEWS :
And we have manuscripts in peacock styles
By Ali of Damascus; we have swords
Engraved with storks and apes and crocodiles,
And heavy beaten necklaces, for Lords.
THE MASTER OF THE CARAVAN :
But you are nothing but a lot of Jews.
THE PRINCIPAL JEWS :
Sir, even dogs have daylight, and we pay.
THE MASTER OF THE CARAVAN :
But who are ye in rags and rotten shoes,
You dirty-bearded, blocking up the way?
THE PILGRIMS :
We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go
Always a little further: it may be
Beyond the last blue mountain barred with snow,
Across that angry or that glimmering sea,
White on a throne or guarded in a cave
There lives a prophet who can understand
Why men were born: but surely we are brave,
Who take the golden road to Samarkand.
THE CHIEF MERCHANT :
We gnaw the nail of hurry. Master, away!
ONE OF THE WOMEN :
O turn your eyes to where your children stand.
Is not Baghdad the beautiful? O stay!
THE MERCHANTS in chorus :
We take the Golden Road to Samarkand.
AN OLD MAN :
Have you not girls and garlands in your homes,
Eunuchs and Syrian boys at your command?
Seek not excess: God hateth him who roams!
THE MERCHANTS :
We take the golden road to Samarkand.
A PILGRIM WITH A BEAUTIFUL VOICE :
Sweet to ride forth at evening from the wells
When shadows pass gigantic on the sand,
And softly through the silence beat the bells
Along the Golden Road to Samarkand.
A MERCHANT :
We travel not for trafficking alone:
By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned:
For lust of knowing what should not be known
We take the golden road to Samarkand.
THE MASTER OF THE CARAVAN :
Open the gate, O watchman of the night!
THE WATCHMAN :
Ho, travellers, I open. For what land
Leave you the dim-moon city of delight?
THE MERCHANTS (with a shout)
We take the golden road to Samarkand.
(The Caravan passes through the gate)
THE WATCHMAN (consoling the women)
What would ye, ladies? It was ever thus.
Men are unwise and curiously planned.
A WOMAN :
They have their dreams, and do not think of us.
VOICES OF THE CARAVAN : (in the distance, singing)
We take the golden road to Samarkand.
James Elroy Flecker
1884-1915
