We saw them from a distance: linked carts piled high with hives. They were traveling beekeepers from Jizak. They spoke a dialect of Persian, and they said the season was finished. They were putting up the hives for winter. They spoke vehemently, passionately, about honey. They said the best honey came from Jizak but that the red honey of Termez was good too. When Aziz the guide informed them of his ulcer, they gave him a small bottle filled with a concoction of bee prosopolis—a mixture of bee saliva and plant resins—diluted in alcohol.
Aziz took a sip.
“Wow” he said. “Wow wow wow.”
They gave us tea. They gave us bread and salami. They gave us a jar of their hives’ crystallized honey dregs, apologizing for its low quality, for the sugar ants embedded in the whiteness. They said there was no better life than this one. Nomads are like this.