Fifth Journey Day 83: The Corridor Smelled Like Fruit
Date: July 30, 2025
Location: Isfara, Tajikistan
This morning, the arrival was calm. It's not quiet — it's already humming at its own speed. The bus emptied slowly, and dust caught in the sunlight as people pulled their bags from under the seats. I stepped off with no map, just a name written in the Cyrillic alphabet on a piece of paper, and the wind that blew through the orchard.
Isfara is smaller than Khujand, and somehow feels older. It doesn't feel old in the same way that a street feels old, but rather in a different way. I dropped my bag at the guesthouse, then walked until I saw the rows of plum trees. The orchard edge isn't fenced. It starts off light and natural, with thin shadows on dry soil and the faintest smell of fermentation. A man nodded at me as he passed, leading a donkey with two woven baskets.
I sat under one of the trees with my knees up and my sketchbook open. The bark was cracked and soft. Plums had fallen — not a lot, but enough that the ground looked a little purple in some places. One split open near my foot, the flesh turning dark, a fly tracing the pit. I drew slowly, not to capture, but to follow. The shape of a branch, the way shadows gather in the folds of fruit skin.
A bee buzzed by my ear for a second. I didn't move. There was nothing to rush toward.
Later, I walked back with the sun on my shoulders and the smell of warm fruit in my hair. It reminded me of the back hallway of my grandmother's apartment, where she used old newspapers to ripen guava and papaya. I hadn't thought of that in years.
Some days are about moving forward. Today felt like a day for sinking in — into the ground, memories, and the small weight of a plum pit in my hand.
