The Silk Road

I’ve been holding onto these photos, keeping them tucked away like a secret, from my travels through Central Asia this past October and November. I visited all the ‘Stans—except for Turkmenistan, due to visa limitations—but I made up for it with nearly a week in Beijing on my way back to Australia. A first-time visit there, too. The entire trip was an immersion in history, culture, and landscapes that felt like stepping into another time.

Maybe that’s why I’ve been procrastinating on writing this. A part of me wanted to keep the experience to myself, to let it stay untouched, existing only in my memory like a vivid dream.

Much of my time was spent far from cities, off-grid, disconnected. Just me, my camera, and the ever-expansive terrain. Occasionally, I’d pass by nomads in the mountains, perched on boulders in quiet meditation, watching over their cattle as they grazed across the endless land.

Each country had its own breathtaking beauty and warm, unwavering hospitality. The cities I did explore were lined with avenues of golden autumn trees and sprawling green parks. The train stations were pristine, tiled from floor to ceiling in intricate mosaics. And the Soviet-era diners? They felt like stepping straight into a different decade—faded pastels, lace curtains, thick porcelain teacups, and the kind of quiet nostalgia that makes time feel elastic.

The homestays with local families in Kazakhstan, sharing traditional meals cooked with warmth and care. Sleeping in nomadic yurts nestled in green landscapes, waking to the quiet hum of the earth. Swimming in ice-cold lakes and riding with the wild horses in Kyrgyzstan, the wind tangling in my hair as we galloped through endless valleys. Crossing borders between no man’s land in the snow-capped mountains of Tajikistan, where the air was thin but the silence was vast. Wandering through ancient fortresses and getting lost in a maze of courtyards, stepping into mosques so vibrant and intricate that their immense scale made me feel small in the best way—Uzbekistan, a masterpiece of tile and time.

Looking back at the collection of photos I took—some with my camera, others with my iPhone on days I wandered from the homestays without my DSLR or backpack—and all the moments I didn’t capture, I realize now that the true essence of this trip wasn’t just in the landscapes but in the people. It was in the conversations exchanged through gestures and laughter, in the generosity of strangers who welcomed me into their homes without hesitation.

No matter the language, no matter the faith, the craving for connection is universal. Love remains at the core. The people who had the least often had the most to give. They were the happiest. When I left, a part of me stayed—just as it does everywhere else I have been.

Every time my intuition tells me to go somewhere, I am always grateful I listened. When I decided to travel to this region of the world, I was mostly met with one question: Why? Concerned looks from family, worries about being a solo female traveler. But like anywhere, there aren’t bad places—only bad people. The cities I walked felt safe, and for me, being out in the wild, vast landscapes—away from ‘civilisation’—was even safer.

I felt taken care of, held by the mountains and rivers in a way I had never known before. This trip was something special. There are moments I have carefully journaled, pen to paper, and others that live inside me on a loop, playing over and over. Coming back, I felt the kind of reverse culture shock that still catches me off guard, no matter how many times I travel. I felt homesick for everywhere I had been, for places that suddenly felt impossibly far. I missed the absence of modernity, the quiet. The open roads dusted with adventure, the long days where forty thousand steps still didn’t feel like enough, the simplicity of living alongside nomads—cooking together, existing side by side, sharing something unspoken but understood.

But then I take a deep breath, press my hand over my heart in gratitude, and remember—home is not one place. It is all the places I haven’t yet been.

There’s still so much of the world out there.

This was just another beautiful piece of the puzzle.

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Kyrgyzstan, yurt stay. 

Down the way from the yurt, Issyk-Kul Lake stretched out like a vast, glacial mirror—ice-cold and impossibly clear, with Kazakhstan just beyond the snowy mountains in the distance. Each day unfolded in a rhythm untouched by time. Mornings spent on horseback, weaving through valleys, climbing higher and higher into the landscape. Afternoons foraging, cooking, taking daring, breath-stealing plunges into the freezing lake, sprinting barefoot down dusty roads, or swinging lazily in the hammock, reading stories aloud to one another as the sun dipped lower.

There was no service, no electricity—only simplicity. Days dictated by the sun and the sky. Nights woven with the kind of peace that can only be found in places where the modern world has not yet seeped in. The Milky Way above was the most vivid I had ever seen it, close enough to touch, close enough to swirl my fingers through constellations and whisper my secrets to the stars. I danced beneath them, weightless, feeling as if the universe itself was listening.

Every evening, my body—tired from the day’s adventure, sore in the best way—was warmed by the fire and the quiet presence of those around me. Nomads who had lived this way all their lives, travelers passing through, some staying just a night, others for weeks, unable to leave. We huddled together, sharing bowl after bowl of chuchvara, playing cards until we collapsed onto the silk-woven carpets, breathless with laughter, swapping stories, learning Russian and Portuguese phrases by firelight. The kind of nights that leave you with a full belly, an aching face from smiling too much, and a heart quietly bursting at the seams.

The intricate patterns of the rugs and pillows we sat upon were mesmerizing, each thread telling a silent story, woven with time and tradition. Kittens and puppies sneaked in at dusk, noses twitching for scraps of the bread we had baked earlier. I always saved the leftover bones for a local dog, Radhi, a thick-coated guardian of the land. He ran beside us as we rode through the valleys, keeping pace with the horses, a loyal shadow in the golden light of late afternoon. At night, though he refused every invitation to curl up inside my yurt, he stationed himself outside my door, standing guard until morning.

If I had to get up in the dead of night—to make the reluctant trek to the ‘toilet,’ a hole dug into the earth with a sheer fifty-meter drop—Radhi would nuzzle my hand, guiding me back safely. The night was thick with silence, save for the crackling fire outside. I kept the creaking wooden door of my yurt open, letting the warmth of the embers lull me to sleep, their glow flickering against the ceiling as if reflecting the stars above. At dawn, I awoke to the sound of wild dogs calling to one another from village to village, their howls carried by the crisp morning air. By then, Radhi would already be gone, only to return hours later, strolling back into camp as if he owned the place. He made his morning rounds, checking on each yurt, every traveler, always attempting to sneak into the kitchen tent—only to be promptly shooed away.

I had never slept better than I did in those yurts. Never breathed air so pure, or felt such peace carved into my bones. The quiet, the animals, the endless sky—it was the kind of life I could have slipped into forever, abandoning all else to grow old beneath the mountains, raised by the rhythm of the untouched wild.

One particular family of nomads who tended the camp stood out to me. Unlike most in that mountain region, who only stayed through the summer months to let their cattle graze, they remained well into autumn. By October, the air had turned crisp, the golden grasses swayed in the cool breeze, yet the weather remained gentle, as if it, too, wished for them to stay a little longer. Perhaps that was why they lingered. Or perhaps they simply belonged to the land in a way that made leaving feel unnatural.

They were, like every local I encountered on this journey, profoundly warm and welcoming. There was no such thing as a stranger in their world—only friends they hadn’t yet met. They would invite you into their yurt without hesitation, as if you had already been expected. A fire always flickered at the center, and before you could utter a word of gratitude, a hot cup of tea was placed in your hands. Even if you didn’t stay long, they’d press warm, freshly baked bread into your palms for the road, a silent offering of kindness. On my last morning, I cried sitting with Radhi, holding his big beautiful head against my chest as the tears fell. Be a good boy, huh Radhi? Thank you for looking after me.

I return to this place in my daydreams more often than I’d like to admit. Some memories soften with time, but this one remains vivid—the scent of firewood and milk tea, the warmth of their generosity, the feeling of being home in a land that wasn’t mine, yet welcomed me as if it was.

One thing I particularly loved about this kind of camping lifestyle—and have always loved about camping in general—is the simplicity of everyday rituals. Washing my face in the cold morning air, brushing my teeth under the open sky, collecting fresh water from the streams. There’s something grounding about doing these small tasks outdoors, something that reminds me of how little we actually need. Heating food over the fire, scrubbing dishes with the scent of pine and smoke lingering in the air—it all felt like a return to something more natural, more essential.

The second photo below was taken in Tajikistan, in a hotel—an actual hotel, not a hostel, since in most places along this journey, hostels weren’t really a thing. I imagine that could change if this region ever became a major backpacker destination, though selfishly, I hope it doesn’t. Some places are best left untouched by the fast-moving, budget-travel trends of the West.

Out of all the countries I visited, Uzbekistan felt the most ‘touristy.’ The neon-lit restaurants, boutique shops selling mostly Western fashion, and even the presence of fast-food chains surprised me. It wasn’t overwhelming, but it was noticeable—the contrast between the ancient, intricate mosques and the bright, flashing signs of modern commerce.

Still, I can safely say that, so far, I haven’t brushed my teeth with a more scenic view than these. Some moments imprint themselves so deeply into your memory that they almost feel stolen from a dream—standing by a rushing river, the mountains reflecting in its icy surface, the air so crisp it wakes you up better than the water itself. If every morning could begin this way, I think I’d never want to leave.

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taken from the backseat of a local bus in tajikistan as the sun set

Taken from the backseat of a local bus in Tajikistan as the sun set

A note from the wild to the underground—Tashkent’s metro and a day of walking, exploring, and riding the trains.

I met with a local guide my first two days in Tashkent, and when I told her I wanted to see as many metro stations as possible, she smiled and said, “You know, just a few years ago, it was illegal to take photos down there.” That alone made me feel lucky to capture even a handful of them. Out of the 29 stations, I tried to visit as many as I could, moving from one to the next like a traveler between worlds.

Before heading out on my day of metro-admiring, I had done a little research. Some history I noted down:

The first metro line, Chilonzor, was opened in 1977, followed by Oʻzbekiston in 1991 and Yunusobod in 2001. More than just a means of transportation, these underground stations were also designed to function as bomb shelters in the event of a nuclear attack. Tashkent’s metro wasn’t just the first in Uzbekistan—it was the first in all of Central Asia.

Each of the 29 stations is a masterpiece in its own right, with architecture and artwork telling stories of Uzbekistan’s history. From influential figures and key historical events to the legacies of empires that once ruled these lands, the metro is more than just a transit system—it’s a time capsule.

A ticket to ride costs 1,400 Uzbek som (about $0.15 USD). I had brought USD with me and exchanged into local currency upon arrival, which was the most practical way to navigate each country. The entire journey, from station to station, took me about four and a half hours, but I could have spent even longer simply admiring the details of each stop.

Below are some of the stations I captured, in no particular order:

  • Alisher Navoi

  • Mustaqillik Maydoni

  • Bodomzor

  • Kosmonavtlar

  • Novza

  • Beruniy

  • Gafur Golum

  • Hamid Olimjon

Every station felt like stepping into a different era, a different mood. Some were sleek and futuristic, others ornate and regal. The ceilings stretched high, the chandeliers glowed, and intricate mosaics told stories in color and stone.

The day was spent mostly underground, but it felt far from ordinary.


the above photograph was taken by a photojournalist in 2014 of a young yazidi girl fleeing with other villagers from ISIS. taken in an unmarked area of the Pamir mountains.i saw the photo the first time my final year of university while studying journalism and in 2016 at the time had no plans or ideas for what a trip to central asia, let alone tajikistan would be like. ISIS was very prevalent in the news that time and that region of the world was even to my then adult self associated with war.

The above photograph was taken by a photojournalist in 2014, capturing a young Yazidi girl fleeing with other villagers from ISIS. It was taken in an unmarked area of the Pamir Mountains.

I first saw this image during my final year of university while studying journalism. It was 2016, and at the time, I had no concrete plans—or even a vague idea—of what traveling to Central Asia, let alone Tajikistan, would be like. The region still felt distant to me, a place associated with war and conflict, especially with how often ISIS dominated the headlines then.

But this picture stayed with me. The look on her face, the rifle that seemed so out of place slung across her back, the single bottle of water in her grasp—so much weight for one person—literally and figuratively. Fleeing. Innocence long deteriorated. Displacement. Unfairness. I found myself staring at her and wondering, What is her name? I wanted to know who she was beyond the labels, beyond the moment that made her a symbol. And then, the thought hit me: Who is to say this couldn’t have been me?

When planning this trip—mapping out border crossings, visas, and logistics—I quickly realized that the Pamir Mountains and Highway would be a defining part of the journey. Known as one of the highest-altitude roads in the world, it is a place of staggering beauty, vastness, and near-complete isolation.

The local border taxi bus I had taken wound its way through narrow, hairpin roads along towering mountain passes, threading through landscapes so untouched they felt otherworldly. One moment, we were engulfed in a snowstorm, the world around us nothing but a thick white blur. The next, we descended into a valley where the sky opened up to deep blue, the sun warming the frozen edges of the landscape. We stopped at crystal-clear lakes, nestled between the peaks, their surfaces unbroken by even the faintest breeze.

We also bordered Afghanistan and made a stop in Eshkashim (Ishkoshim to Tajiks, Ishkashim in Persian)—a small, remote town and trade market that straddles the Panj River, where its course takes a sharp northern turn.

Standing there was surreal, not just because I had never imagined myself in a place so off-grid and remote, but because it was a delicate balance of curiosity and awareness. This was a region where acts of terrorism along the border were not unheard of. And yet, despite this, life carried on.

I stepped out of the vehicle, drawn by the scent of fried figs and roasted nuts, eager to take in the atmosphere of this in-between place. As I lifted my camera, the locals—through hand gestures and a few scattered words translated by our driver—asked me to take their portraits. There was no hesitation, only warmth.

For them, the presence of a traveler was something to be acknowledged and welcomed, even in a place where visitors were rare. Most who passed through this border town were the bold ones—motorcyclists, cyclists, long-haul trekkers. And for a fleeting moment, I was part of their world, a passing figure in a place that exists in the margins, where two nations meet, where uncertainty and resilience coexist.

beautiful autumn colours & trees along the highway, a stop along the way driving through the Pamir mountains in Tajikistan.

Beautiful autumn colours & trees along the highway, a stop along the way driving through the Pamir mountains in Tajikistan.

i stood on the edge of a winding corner where we stopped to stretch our legs for a final time as we drove through the night. i felt so little. the snow capped mountains towering above, darkness below me as i stood with one foot perched on a bundle of loose rocks someone had stacked perhaps in an ill-fitting attempt to create some sort of safety barrier. i took deep breaths and shivered from the cold, crisp air. i couldn’t stop staring at the crescent moon. even when i got back in the bus my head leaning against the window, bumping my forehead struggling to keep my eyes open from a long days’ travel.

I stood on the edge of a winding mountain pass, where we had stopped for one last stretch before the long drive through the night. The air was thin, crisp, and cut through my layers with an unforgiving chill. I felt so small. The snow-capped peaks loomed above me, their jagged edges catching the faintest light, while below, nothing but a dark abyss. I placed one foot on a bundle of loose rocks, stacked by someone in what must have been an ill-fitted attempt to create a safety barrier, though it felt more symbolic than functional.

I took deep, measured breaths, watching them turn to mist in front of me. The crescent moon hung low, sharp against the ink-black sky. I couldn't stop staring at it. Even when I climbed back into the bus, my forehead resting against the cold glass, jostling with every turn of the road, I kept my eyes fixed on that sliver of silver light.

Mountains this size don’t just exist; they command. They humble. They remind you that despite everything, you are simply passing through. Their presence demands surrender—not in fear, but in awe. Even as exhaustion threatened to pull me under, I kept my gaze on the peaks, trying to grasp their enormity, trying to hold onto this moment where the world felt vast and untouched, where I was nothing more than a traveler weaving through its greatness.

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The above photo was taken on my phone while hiking through Charyn Canyon, a stop along the way from Kazakhstan to Kyrgyzstan. It was one of those places that felt unassuming at first—a stretch of desert with a single small billboard marking the entrance to the national park. If you weren’t paying attention, you might not even realize you were passing one of the most breathtaking landscapes in Central Asia. But then, as you edge closer, the land begins to split open, revealing the vast expanse of the canyon and what is known as the ‘Valley of Castles.’

Our bus pulled into a small parking lot, and from there, you had to walk toward a railing where steep stairs led down into the valley. It wasn’t until I took those first few steps downward that I realized just how high up we had been. The wind, which had whipped around us fiercely above, quieted the deeper we descended. The heat settled in, and suddenly, the vastness of it all wrapped around me like an embrace. The hills stretched out in every direction, their sheer scale impossible to capture in a photograph. The canyon walls towered in shades of burnt orange and deep rust, the rock formations sculpted over millions of years into intricate spires and ridges.

As I walked deeper into the valley, I kept half-expecting a boulder to come tumbling down behind me, as if the land was too ancient and alive to remain so still. I found myself speaking in hushed whispers, as though anything louder might disturb the eerie silence. There was something humbling about standing there, cradled between rock formations that had existed long before me and would remain long after. It was the kind of place that made you feel both insignificant and infinite at once.

As I made my way through the valley, I overheard passersby arguing and laughing as they tried to make out shapes in the towering rock formations. Some swore they saw faces carved by time itself, others pointed to what they believed was a crouching animal. It reminded me of The Lion King, right before the stampede scene—how the mind loves to find meaning in nature’s rugged details, turning shadows into stories.

I loved the sound of the loose rocks crunching beneath my boots, the dry earth shifting ever so slightly with each step. Even though the trail through the valley was only 8km, it felt much longer—like time stretched itself out between the canyon walls. Just when you thought you had reached the end, another winding path would reveal itself, teasing the idea that maybe the valley had no end at all. But eventually, it did. And where it ended was nothing short of beautiful—a clear, rushing river carving its way through the landscape like a ribbon of glass.

Kneeling on the rocks by the riverbank, I filled my water bottle, watching the way the current shimmered under the draping autumn leaves. The trees stood tall in their golden hues, their reflections trembling in the water, their roots holding onto stories much older than mine. The river itself stretched 393 kilometers, its journey beginning in the Tian Shan mountains—aptly named the 'Heavenly Mountains'—before weaving its way across the arid semi-desert toward eastern Almaty. There was something poetic in that, the way water travels without hesitation, shaping the land as it goes. I sat there for a while, letting the quiet soak into my bones, wondering where this river had been before me and where it would go long after.

in between two borders. sneakily snapped this photo in between no man’s land. crisp cold air. nothing around but snowy mountains. behind me was two small ticket-booth-like buildings where my passport was stamped and friendly small talk was made between myself and the officers, who wanted to speak russian with me upon seeing my name is ‘anya’. another two guards were stood outside playing with the german shepherds, who loved rolling in the snow.

In between two borders, I snapped the above photo discreetly, capturing a moment suspended in no man’s land. The air was crisp, biting at my skin, and all around me, there was nothing but snow-draped mountains stretching endlessly in both directions. Behind me stood two small, ticket-booth-like buildings where my passport had just been stamped, the exchange marked with friendly small talk between myself and the officers. They had smiled upon seeing my name, Anya, and insisted on speaking Russian with me. Just a few meters away, two other guards stood outside, playing with German Shepherds that rolled blissfully in the snow, their thick coats dusted white.

A day or so after crossing the Kyrgyz-Tajikistan border, I sat in a small café flipping through a local newspaper. Though the English translation was questionable at best, I pieced together an article that made my stomach drop. An attack had occurred just one post away from where I had been. A militant group had stormed the border, killing sixteen officers. Some civilians—locals who crossed the border daily—had been taken hostage, though thankfully no further casualties were reported. I scrambled to connect to WiFi, searching for updates. It had happened 72 hours earlier.

Chills ran down my spine. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, whispering a quiet prayer for those officers. My mind flickered back to that stretch of land, how silent and untouched it had felt, how weightless I had been in that moment, unaware. I thought about the shepherds, their tails wagging as they played in the snow. It was unsettling—the contrast between peace and peril, between innocence and violence. Just days apart, two versions of the same place existed: one where I had stood seemingly safe, breathing in the sharp mountain air, and another where lives had been lost in an instant.

witnessed upon invitation beautiful silk clothing & carpets being sewed in medieval city bukhara, which is more than 2,000 years old.

In the heart of Bukhara, a city with over 2,000 years of history woven into its very stones, I found myself seated on a silk cushion, watching artisans at work. Invited into a small workshop tucked behind a quiet courtyard, I witnessed the delicate process of silk being spun, dyed, and stitched into intricate patterns. The hum of sewing machines blended with the rhythmic murmurs of craftsmen exchanging stories, their hands moving with the precision of generations before them.

The carpets—rich in color, adorned with motifs passed down through centuries—were works of art, their threads binding together history, culture, and patience. The silk garments shimmered under the warm glow of lanterns, their embroidery telling tales of tradition and craftsmanship.

I ran my fingers over the fabric, feeling the weight of time in each stitch. It was a reminder that some things are made not just with skill, but with soul.

in the local parks i notice that there would be men taking photographs of groups of other locals or at times even tourists with film cameras. they then come to develop the film and if you so wish you could come and buy the physical photographs they took either of yourself or the city as a means to make money. amazing to see them use film cameras and have a red room inside to develop the photographs in such old style.

In the local parks, I noticed men standing with old film cameras, quietly observing, then clicking the shutter as groups of locals or the occasional tourist passed by. There was no rush, no frantic snapping of hundreds of digital photos—just one carefully chosen moment captured with intent. Later, they would develop the film in their tiny red-lit darkrooms, offering those same photographs for sale, a tangible memory of the day.

It amazed me, this slow and deliberate process, a craft preserved in a world that now favors instant gratification. There was something deeply human about it—watching them frame their shots, adjust the focus, knowing each click carried weight. It made me frown at my iPhone, at the cold efficiency of a device that not only takes pictures but talks back, as if the world needs one more voice demanding attention. For a moment, I felt as though I had time-traveled, standing between the past and the present, between the warmth of film grain and the cold precision of a screen.

Countless games of cards over endless cups of black tea in the courtyards, laughter drifting into the warm evening air. The maze-like cobblestone streets of Bukhara stretched in all directions, leading me through hidden alleyways, past wooden doors intricately carved by hands long gone, each one telling its own story. Potted plants lined the windowsills, small bursts of green against the sunbaked walls, their leaves gently swaying in the desert breeze.

I wandered through ancient fortresses, touched stone that had witnessed centuries, and traced my fingers over the smooth, weathered edges of history. And then, like clockwork, came the call to prayer—the first at sunrise, the last at sunset—its melody echoing through the city, weaving between the rooftops, settling into the quiet spaces between moments. The sky, an ombre canvas of golds, purples, and deep blues, seemed to listen, seemed to hold its breath. Bukhara especially had a way of making time feel slow, deliberate, like every step was meant to be taken exactly as it was.

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Kind-hearted humans, their warmth as vast as the landscapes that surrounded us. Pristine, untouched beauty stretched across rivers and snow-capped peaks, over mountains that swallowed the sky, across glacial lakes so clear they reflected the world back at you. Cities full of quiet charm and villages that welcomed strangers like old friends. Every place held its own rhythm, its own way of existing outside of time.

I’ll always remember these days—the golden hues of autumn painting every moment, the crisp air, the sound of leaves crunching beneath my boots, the stillness that made the world feel infinite. If you ever go, go in the fall. See the fire of the trees against the cool blues of the lakes, feel the season shift with each passing day. But I know I’ll be back in the summer, to see the wildflowers bloom, to walk the same paths under a different sun, to lose—and find—myself all over again.

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