We were crossing the historic Fergana Valley. It was in the heart of Central Asia. Winter was coming. We were pushing hard, pacing off 25 cold miles a day, trying to reach the Kyrgyz border before the heavy snows. We were walking to the old Silk Road town of Margilan.
Alexander the Great was said to have founded Margilan. He named it after a great lunch he enjoyed there, camped beside a river with his army of sunburned Greeks: murgh (“chicken” in Persian) and nan (“bread” in Persian).
We, on the other hand, walked from chaikhanna to chaikhanna—from teahouse to teahouse—gnawing on samsas, traditional Uzbek meat buns. But at this samsa kiosk beside the road, the baker shook his head sadly. He splayed his hands in helplessness at the waxen sky. He shrugged. It was his day off. He raised the lid on the clay samsa oven: dark, empty, cold. On the 4,600-mile mark of a world walk, there would be no samsa. We nodded bleakly. We notched our belts tighter. We walked on.