We’d been getting lost for days among the canals. There were hundreds of them: muddy capillaries of river water slaking the thirst of countless fields of rice, cotton, sorghum, thickets of reeds. Sometimes we had to swim, driving the packhorse first into the water, then pulling the cargo donkey into the currents. The river carried the bone dust of its mother, the Pamirs.
The Amu Darya was once called the Oxus. Everyone had crossed its snaking channel: Bronze Age nomad raiders, Chinese Buddhist pilgrims, Silk Road traders, the armies of Genghiz and Tamerlane, sunburned Russian and British spies during the Great Game. Today the river is patrolled by ants. We looked for its scarce bridges. At the bridges were shops with freezers. They sold ice cream.