Ah, the thrill of the open road. Enthusiasts will tell you that two-wheeled road trips are the only true way to immerse yourself in a location’s culture, people and landscape. We scouted out 5 gorgeous countries in Asia for motorbike trips of a lifetime, and the best companies to book your tours with or rent your wheels from.

SCOOTERS, MOTORBIKES, MOTORCYCLES, mopeds, mosai, dirt bikes – whatever your saddle and terminology of choice, it only takes a few seconds on the ground in Asia to realize this continent runs on two wheels. From fitting families of five on the back to entire refrigerators, motorbikes are often more than just a mode of transportation.

But when you buck practicality, they’re made for joyriding. And it seems almost clandestine that some of the world’s best motorcycle routes are in Asia. From the mountains of the Himalayas to the rice paddies of Southeast Asia, these are the best, and some perhaps most unexpected, destinations for hopping on and taking off on the ride of a lifetime. 

5 Countries in Asia With Awesome Motorbike Adventures, and the Best Companies to Book Your Trips With

Vietnam

Spend a day riding around Vietnam, and you’ll encounter everything from frenzied intersections to swaying rice paddies to sweeping mountain vistas. The diversity of landscape and riding options make it one of the best places in not just Asia but the world for motorcycle trips.

No one knows the terrain better than Onyabike Adventures. With trips of up to 21 days, their tours are customizable and all-inclusive, so riders experience everything, including culture and food, and worry about nothing while on a Royal Enfield Himalayan 410cc.

The team at Onyabike Adventures has been roaming Vietnam since 2017, so they know all the best spots. Among their most popular is the seven-day Highlights of Central Vietnam route that rides over the iconic Hai Van Pass and along the Ho Chi Minh Trail.

Sri Lanka

Sri Lanka isn’t just for surf trips and train rides. From its palm-fringed coastline to its tea-filled interior, it’s a beautiful place to explore at your own pace.

The crew at Ceylon Motorcycle Tours has a varied fleet of bikes to choose from, including a Baja 250 CC or a Royal Enfield. And while you can rent one and head off solo, riding is always better with a buddy. They’ve got 20 years of experience, local guides and the best motorbike tours and routes for all Sri Lanka’s highlights, Tangalle to Ella.

Bhutan

Switchback roads and mountain-peak views make Bhutan one of the most beautiful countries on Earth for motorbike trips. Ideal during spring and fall, it’s perfect for adventurous bikers who don’t mind dodging the occasional yak or two.

Bhutan T.U.S.K Motorcycle Tours specializes in touring the Himalayan country on two wheels. Fixed trip routes span four nights to 14, taking riders through some of the most famous and the most remote parts of the country.

For a far-flung ride, head to eastern Bhutan, where mysticism and magical views converge. If you’re looking for something shorter, opt for a trip that includes the route from the capital city of Thimphu to the country’s most famous dzong in Punakha.

Kyrgyzstan 

While we stan the Stans, to some folks this motorcycle destination might feel like a roadside cow coming out of nowhere. But as soon as you coast down the Silk Road, you’ll understand why it makes our list.

Nicknamed the Switzerland of Central Asia, the majority of the country is covered by the Tien-Shan mountain ranges. SilkOffRoad Motorcycle Tours has been riding these mountain passes for more than 18 years, roving all over all the Stans. Their most popular Kyrgyzstan trip is the 11 Passes of Tien-Shan that lasts 12 days. The riders mount a Suzuki DR650 and take off on a journey that spans over 2,000 kilometers and reaches nearly 3,000 meters in elevation.

Laos

Landscapes in Laos are like scenes out of Jurassic Park. Lush jungle and leafy peaks dominate this all too underrated country, one of the best in Southeast Asia for spicy food, languid days, and dream-fulfilling motorbike tours. In a country this unique, your road trip should be, too. 

Lao ADV Tours specializes in Dirt Bike trips venturing off-road through the country’s hidden trails. One of their most popular tours is the 10-day Lima Sites and Secret War Trails route, on which military-history enthusiasts can visit Northern Lao sites. Just be prepared to get muddy.

Lede image courtesy of SilkOffRoad Motorcycle Tours.

Layovers don’t have to be a bummer – just make sure they’re long enough to get out of the airport and into the destination. We spent 12 hours in Taipei on a layover between Japan and Australia and flew away wanting more, but totally energised from a day full of exploration. Here’s our ultimate one-day itinerary for Taipei. You might even call it “Taipei 101.”

TAIPEI IS A BRIGHT AND FRENETIC assault on the senses. It can overwhelm even the most seasoned traveller, and if you happen to be there on a stopover, don’t just stay in the airport scrolling on your phone while eating overpriced food. No, friends, my advice is to get onto the metro and submit yourself to the frantic nature of this modern Asian metropolis. Let yourself become consumed by the city’s lights, colour and sounds. 

Taipei vibrates with the tones of Tokyo, the sophistication of Singapore and the alluring hedonism of Bangkok. I happened to find myself in the Taiwanese capital on a 12-hour layover between Okinawa, Japan, and Melbourne, Australia, with China Airlines, and it turned out to be a full day of fun. So, let me share my one-day itinerary in Taipei; if you have more time, good on you, but if not, this’ll give you a great taste of one of the world’s tastiest towns.

12:40 pm – Taipei Taoyuan Airport

Taipei Taoyuan Airport is pretty good as far as transfer airports go. The gates in the international transfer area are themed with different Taiwanese environmental or cultural adornments, making it a destination in and of itself. Still, you want to hot foot it out of there as quickly as possible after arriving because you’ve got a bit of a journey on the metro to reach Taipei 101 — and we’ve got a full itinerary to pile into just one day.

Taoyuan Airport MRT to Taipei Station = NT$160 (US$5.20)
www.tymetro.com.tw

2:15 pm – Taipei 101

For a short time, this colossal skyscraper held the title of the highest in the world until the Burj Khalifa in Dubai came along. Most impressive are the elevators, which transport you up 89 floors in just 37 seconds. With seating areas adorned with polar bears, floral arbours, and swings, all with 360-degree views of the city, this is a clear front runner for your first stop on a clear day. On a not-so-clear day, you can watch the giant steel ball at the centre of the building sway like a pendulum to counterbalance the movement of the skyscraper in high winds.

Taipei 101 Floor 89 = NT$600 (US$19.60)
stage.taipei101mall.com.tw

2:45 pm – kafeD Taipei 101 Shop

Baristas brew coffee on the 89th floor of Taipei 101 with scientific precision. A Salted Bonn Cherry Blossom Latte is hard to avoid. But really, any caffeine at this altitude is welcome and necessary, as you’ll need the energy for the rest of your whirlwind visit through Taipei.

Salted Bonn Cherry Blossom Latte = NT$180 (US$5.90)
www.kafed.com.tw

3:30 pm – Dihua Street

Dihua Street is the oldest street in Taipei, and the architecture throughout the Dadaocheng, Datong District is simply stunning. It’s a gorgeous spot for wandering in the early afternoon, traversing between laneways where century-old businesses and temples sit alongside modern cafes and beer bars. Don’t miss the City of God Temple on your visit, built-in 1859. This sacred Taoist temple has been beautifully maintained and is known as the temple for finding love.

4:45 pm – Twatutia Coffee Design & aLife Project

Around the cobblestoned corners of the historic Dihua Street, the city’s ambience consumes you in the fading afternoon light. Dihua is not a place for just textiles, old stores and traditional medicine. Scratch the surface a little further, and you’ll find young Taiwanese gathering around baked treats and cups of coffee beneath flickering Edison globes. The baristas and bartenders wouldn’t be out of place in Melbourne. Twatutia Coffee is a cafe-cum-homewears studio that roasts its beans and serves your coffee alongside traditional Taiwanese mooncakes with sweet taro yolk.

Romano Espresso (served with honey and soda) with a Taiwanese mooncake = NT$250 (US$8.15)
www.instagram.com/twatutia

6:00 pm – Ximending 

Ximending is your chance to wander and look up in awe at the city above you. Only by looking at the buildings can you fully appreciate the city’s vast scale. The streets around Ximending are Taipei’s version of Shinjuku. The city’s main artery is simultaneously bustling with motorbike traffic and pedestrians, cafes, underground bars, gaming machines and flickering neon. Get lost in Ximending for 20 minutes, and you’ll fall in love with this city forever.

6:20 pm – 梁山泊小籠湯包 (Dumplings Ximending)

Blink, and you’ll miss this local, heaving market restaurant tucked in the side streets of Ximending. The only advice I can give is to plug the name into Google and follow your nose. There are two options for food here: “set menu a” or “set menu b.” Set menu b will unearth a pork dumpling experience that will genuinely change you. Consider this your warning – if you eat here, you’ll never enjoy another dumpling anywhere else again.

Set menu “b” = NT$120 (US$3.90)
www.tripadvisor.com.tw

7:00 pm – Ximen Beer Bar

They take their craft beer seriously in Taiwan. At Ximen Beer Bar, dozens of local draught beer options and cans are available in a self-service fridge, making it a magnet for young travellers and local beer lovers. There is a minimum service charge, but that’s OK because you’ll need to try at least three glasses of beer for the whole experience.

Minimum service charge = NT$350 (US$11.40)
www.facebook.com/XimenBeerBar

8:05 pm – HANKO#60 Bar

Might feel a bit early in the day for speakeasy vibes, but we’ve only got one shot on this Taipei tight itinerary and HANKO#60 deserves a drink (or two, if you drink fast). To find this hidden bar, you must first look for the innocuous Bruce Lee or Leonardo Di Caprio cinema posters on a dimly lit, grey wall. At first glance, it seems more like a fridge or factory door. When you peek through the small cut-out hole in the door, a doorkeeper should let you inside, where they will guide you to a tall table, and the madness of Hanko begins. Barmen flare their bottles of spirits and muddles across the room while silhouetted against deep red neon signs. Most cocktails are movie- or cinema-themed, so my True Blood cocktail came in a dry ice-wrapped blood donation bag.

True Blood Cocktail = NT$400 (US$13)
www.facebook.com/hanko60

9:00 pm – Taoyuan Airport MRT 

You’ll want to return on the train no later than 9 p.m. for the 45-minute journey to Terminal 2 at Taipei Taoyuan Airport, so don’t linger at Hanko#60. Don’t let Taipei’s metro fool you either, as you’ll need to rush to Taipei Main Station before you get on the specific Airport MRT.

Taoyuan Airport MRT to Taipei Station = NT$160 (US$5.20)
www.tymetro.com.tw

9:50 pm – Arrive back at Taipei Airport

Remember you’ve already checked your bags onto your flight, and you should also have your boarding pass, so all you’ll need to do is head through airport security and go straight for the gate. If you’re flying with China Airlines and have Sky Priority status like me, one of the four China Airlines VIP lounges is a very comfortable spot to grab a shower and a Taiwan Lager before your departure to, for example, Australia at 11:50 p.m.

news.china-airlines.com/bvct/VipLounge

This month, T+L celebrates travel by highlighting all the wonder and awe you can find in this great, wide world of ours.

I RECENTLY READ AN article that inspired me. It was about how injecting awe into your life can change everything for the better. Awe, according to Dacher Keltner, a psychologist at the University of California, Berkeley, is a powerful emotion that can generate a positive physical response and the amazing thing about it is we can find it everywhere if we just take a minute to be mindful.

“Awe is the feeling of being in the presence of something vast that transcends your understanding of the world,” Keltner told the New York Times in an interview about his book, “Awe: The New Science of Everyday Wonder and How It Can Transform Your Life,” and what better way to describe the essence of why we travel. Shift your worldview, change your perspective, and guess what. Not only do you think you’re washed over with a sense of calm, your heart rate actually slows, your breathing deepens, you release oxytocin, your digestion eases, and – perhaps best of all in this hyperconnected world – you quiet that self-critical voice in your head.

I bet we could all think of a favorite travel experience that meets some of the top examples of experiencing awe. Small sightings of singular beauty. Immersing in nature. Participating in collective movement. Going on a pilgrimage. Witnessing the world through a child’s eye is a good one, and I need only think of watching my toddler nieces and their pure joy in the waves in Phuket. “Hoorayyyy!” rings in my ears. and brings a smile to my face.

The vastness of the universe? For me, that would be during the inky nights of a weeklong sailing in the Mergui, the archipelago off the west coast of Burma where there’s zero cell reception but there are a gajillion stars. It made me think in wonder of the real intrepid sailors who centuries ago navigated our world’s waters just by the celestial patterns so far away and so much older than we could imagine.

Many experiences of awe are tinged by fear. Skydiving – check! But also getting up close to wildlife; animals are unpredictable and nature doesn’t necessarily follow rules. I’ve swum with mantas in the Maldives and dolphins in New Zealand, both in the middle of the open ocean. Both were awesome experiences I couldn’t stop gushing about for months after. Both put me in check about how much of the world is a mystery to me.

Witnessing random acts of kindness. Well, I could likely find awe in that every day if I looked up from my phone more, but I certainly notice it almost every time I travel, when a local person takes time to offer directions, translate for me, or not only allows me to use the bathroom in their home but then offers a parting snack – thank you to the Mexican grandmother in the wooden house on the mountain pass between Oaxaca and Mazunte; you really saved that roadtrip.

So, now that travel is truly back for almost all of us, let’s take this month to think about how awesome it is. February at Travel+Leisure Southeast Asia is all about the #awefactor. We hope it’ll help change your perspective and inspire new journeys.

Image Credit: swissmediavision/Getty Images Signature/Canva.

A trek across the Kunisaki Peninsula of Japan reveals the spiritual intersection of Shintoism and Buddhism, as well as endearing residents. Here you’ll find the intersection of Shintoism and Buddhism, and a host of neighbors you’d love to call your own.

I ARRIVED IN THE ONSEN TOWN OF YAMAGA one day ahead of my Walk Japan tour group and found myself with some extra time to explore the mysterious Kunisaki Peninsula on my own. I grabbed a map—indecipherable to me, in Japanese—and wandered off on foot to explore the sacred site of Kumano Magaibutsu, just a few kilometers away.

Hidden within a thick cedar forest, at the pinnacle of precipitous stone steps, believed to have been laid overnight by a mystical creature called Oni, sit two impressive stone relief carvings depicting Buddhist deities that date back to the late Heian period between the 9th and 10th centuries.

Next to these is a small wooden shrine, one of the thousands dedicated to Hachiman—the ancient Shinto god of war, divination and culture—that to this day remain under the helm of the prestigious Usa shrine. This unique synchronism of Shintoism and Buddhism, a cornerstone of Japanese religion and culture, is both consequential and palpable on the peninsula; it is here that shinbutsu shugo, the practice of combined worship, began more than 1,300 years ago.

I took pause on a bench in front of the temple, beside a tree with a thick rope tied around its circumference. I sat for a while in silent reflection, staring at the blue skies through lacelike golden Japanese maple leaves, and felt peaceful, almost spiritual. The following day l learned from our guide that in Japan, trees with ropes are considered spirit trees. It seems I knew intrinsically that there was something unique about this place.

Most of the Japan I have experienced over the years is the frenzied, feverish, vibrant and visceral kind found in the giant Lost-In-Translation-esque metropolises of Tokyo and Osaka. Even Kyoto, with all its quaint and historic glory, still beats with a perceptible energy. It was only when I spent five days trekking across the northeastern tip of Kyushu that I felt I finally managed to glimpse this nation’s beautiful soul.

While moving through Kunisaki’s sacred forests and scenic countryside, stopping to rest in cozy ryokans and indulging in deliciously fresh local cuisine, I encountered incredibly passionate people who thrive in this unique environment and its tangible spirituality. Committing their lives to preserving art, culture and religion, and promoting local produce and cuisine, these individuals have discovered and harnessed their ikigai—their “reason for being.”

Fuki-ji Temple

Nestled in the quaint town of Bungo-Takada is the 900-year-old wooden Buddhist temple, Fuki-ji. This historic temple was once the private sanctuary of the head Shinto priest of the nearby Usa shrine and has become a symbol of the unique spiritual symbiosis of Buddhism and Shintoism that characterizes the Kunisaki peninsula. Fuki-ji has been under the care of the Kono family for three generations.

“I believe it is important to keep the temple culture alive for the future generations,” Junyu Kono, Fuki-ji’s 39-year-old vice monk, told me. “Even if the Japanese aren’t all that religious anymore, at each turning point in their lives they seek salvation in temples or shrines. A temple provides spiritual shelter, a place where people can come, speak to their higher selves and a higher being, and to find peace within.”

“My son does not need to follow my footsteps into monkhood. As long as he is in a position to help other people, he will find his inner peace and happiness,” Junyu said. He and his family also run Fukinotou ryokan, which sits beside the temple and is famous for his handmade soba. Junyu discovered his passion for food during his training as a monk. “I learned to really appreciate food and contemplate its meaning,” he explained. “I find that there is a parallel in what I do and making soba. Every day I try to find that balance between being a monk and taking care of people at the inn and my family. When I make the noodles, I tried to find that same balance.”

Choan-ji Temple

At the end of a two-hour hike through lush cypress forests, Choan-ji temple waits on the mountainside overlooking the Kunisaki peninsula. “I’ve been a monk’s wife for as long as I can remember,” laughed Setsuko Matsumoto, the 84-year-old temple caretaker. “When my husband died, things became extremely difficult.” Her son is now the abbot on weekends and special occasions but is a practicing dentist.

“A few years ago, we had to replace the roof—we barely had any funds for repair.” Although seemingly physically isolated, Setsuko never feels alone. “The community came to help, and the stock market paid for the rest!” she exclaimed with a big smile. “Since the internet has arrived, I dabble every day in the stock market and do quite well for myself!”

Ota

Mameno-Monya Café

“When we first stepped in, we felt the spirit of the former inhabitant—an old lady who loved to nourish and nurture her family and friends,” Shinobe Murakami explained about the isolated old house she and her husband, Junya, purchased and transformed into a dining space. “We immediately thought that this should be the driving principle behind our café: to bring people together.” Shinobe met Junya, a guitarist, in Tokyo and they decided to move away from the frenetic city life in order to connect with nature and help the aging rural communities.

“Our love for the people of our community keep us going,” Shinobe told us. “Because the whole community is aging, just being the only young people here is a very big help. We assist in clearing the fields, participating in festivals and offering extra manpower. In turn, they visit our café and support our business.”

Kunimi

Tourinryo scrolls and screens

“The nature of Kunisaki is my inspiration,” declared Konomi Wada, a specialist in the restoration of ancient scrolls and byobu screens. “I often ponder the unique history of the peninsula, where Shintoism and Buddhism co-exist; it’s a true sanctuary.” Konomi has always lived in this house, a former brewery named Tourinryo built by her grandfather.

This once-sleepy town is now an artists’ enclave with a biannual festival that she co-founded 10 years ago. “I have always had kabuki friends who would perform in the temples and shrines here. Now there are more artists from different disciplines settling here. I love how people here are so connected with the esoteric and it transcends into my work.”

Yo Murakami

When we arrived at the train station, we were welcomed by a very handsome young man. “Hi, I’m Yo,” he said with an unexpected American twang. Yo Murakami, our guide for the day, was born in Okinawa and raised near the U.S. military bases there. “I grew up with such an American influence, I was even running a hip-hop clothing store. I always liked being different, but then I wanted to get to know my Japanese history and culture more—to connect to my roots through travel and by sharing it with others.”

Kitsuki

Tomaya Tea Shop

We wandered into the 280-year-old Tomaya Tea Shop while waiting for our car to pick us up. We sat, browsed and sampled tea. The house was run by a beautiful elderly woman, Takako Inoue. Everything about her exuded a timeless elegance. She refused to disclose her age, laughing daintily at the question.

“I was just 20 when I married into this family,” she shared. “And completely clueless about tea. My husband’s family has owned this teahouse for 10 generations.” It took her five years to learn how to perform a proper tea ceremony. “I love the slowness of it all. How symbolic each movement is, how graceful it all has to be. Today, it seems everything moves so fast and that the good old Japanese culture is fading away. It’s important to keep these traditions alive, that’s why I love working in this teahouse.”

Nakano Shuzo Sake

Seventy-three-year-old Nakano Seizuo is quite the character. Eccentric and full of energy, he runs a sake brewery that has been in his family for five generations. He welcomed us into his tasting room with the usual marketing dog-and-pony show. However, when he walked us into his brewery, his entire demeanor changed: his eyes lit up joyously and he excitedly shared his secret to making excellent sake.

“I play Mozart in my brewery! A little Chopin, but definitely no Beethoven or Beatles.” According to him, the yeasts and molds necessary for fermentation need a pleasant and calm environment to thrive. “There is no perfect formula, and ultimately no perfect sake. Everything comes from the heart and that’s what makes good sake.”

Tetsuo Nakahara

Our guide

Our guide for this epic trip, Tetsuo Nakahara, or Tetsu for short, had a very distinct surfer vibe. Athletic and fit, he exuded that signature nonchalance and relaxed energy that reminded me more of coastal islands like Siargao or Bali than rural Japan. “I’m a native of Oita,” he shared proudly of his local heritage. “But I grew up in the 80s and was obsessed with MTV. I wanted to see the world and experience a different culture, so at 18 I left for Florida… Eventually I ended up in California and became a professional beach bum.” From Baja, Mexico, to Hawaii, Tetsu worked as a dive instructor and then journalist, eventually settling in Tokyo where he met the love of his life.

“We both decided to move back here to Oita. In my village, there are only 13 houses with 13 families—most of them are in their seventies. They are so excited that we are having a baby because it has been more than 12 years since they’ve had a baby in this village!” When asked what his life philosophy is, he laughingly replied: “Just keep walking, everything is changing, so we must keep moving forward. It’s important to carry on for the next generation and to keep the soul of these beautiful communities alive and thriving.”

Walk Japan is a boutique travel outfit specializing in off-the-beaten path tours around the country. The Kunisaki and Yufuin Walk is a five-day/four-night tour that begins at Hakata train station in Fukuoka and takes you from the onsen town of Yamaga, across the countryside by bus and by foot, stopping to rest in quaint ryokans every evening. The tour ends in the charming town of Yufuin where one can extend for a night to enjoy the delicious street food and quirky shops. For more information, visit: walkjapan.com

Photographs by Scott A. Woodward.

Ramble through the lush central coast of Vietnam while dining on gourmet fare, getting a headrub, and imbibing bottomless bubbles.

THAT FABULOUS BAR ON THE UPPER DECK of the Emirates A380—that’s what I feel like I’m walking into on The Vietage, except everyone on board has access to these leather swivel chairs, marble countertop and customized coasters for bottomless beverages. Oh, and the rolling #viewsfordays you don’t get from even the best seat on a plane.

Luxury train travel is having a moment, and Anantara Hotels has jumped on-board, full steam ahead. Passengers on the Vietage can now travel between Đà Nẵng, 45-minutes from Anantara Hội An Resort, and Quy Nhơn, 30-minutes from Anantara Quy Nhơn Villas, sipping bubbly the entire way.

Anantara has tricked out a carriage inside a local train to make for the country’s most comfortable ride. While train travel has been a popular and affordable way to get around Vietnam for decades, standards for cleanliness and comfort haven’t been the highest priority. But now, you can travel through picturesque Central Vietnam in sophisticated style without having to worry about any strange liquid running down the aisle.

The wheels have been in motion for this luxury train ride since 2018. “With Anantara resorts in Hội An and Quy Nhơn and currently no direct flights between the two destinations, we saw an opportunity to introduce a seamless travel experience for guests to transfer from one resort to another while enjoying a visual exploration of the Vietnamese countryside,” says Pieter van der Hoeven, the regional general manager for Indochina at Minor Hotels.

There’s been a lot of hype about The Vietage far in advance of its July 2020 debut, and I’ll admit, I’ve never been more excited to embark on six hours of travel. I step up onto a wood floor hallway with woven rattan separating each pair of yellow and blue linen seats and attached tables. The space for twelve passengers is compact and intimate, with the swank bar beckoning me toward its central spot of glory.

I settle into my seat, trying on a pair of Vietage slippers, and elect to start the 9:30 a.m. trip off slowly, with a cà phê sữa dá. My partner opts for bubbly instead, and his glass, thanks to attentive service, doesn’t hit empty our entire journey.

As the train lurches out of Đà Nẵng station, past locals washing dishes next to the train track, the pastoral setting starts to open up as we chug south. Both Đà Nẵng and Quy Nhơn held important American air bases during the Vietnam War, are this is a land where, despite much progress, active bombs are still found in the tiny villages along the train tracks.

It makes you think about the pace of change. When The Nam Hai opened in 2006, Hoi An became home to the country’s first international-standard five-star luxury beach resort; the area now overflows with them, and Hoi An has been named among the top cities in the world by T+L readers for years. Neighboring Đà Nẵng is a fast-growing metropolis with corporations setting up shop and expats, digital nomads and beach bums making their way to this affordable stretch of coast.

As for our destination city, Quy Nhơn, within the past decade, an increase in domestic flights from Saigon and Hanoi has helped make it a hugely popular vacation spot for Vietnamese, with the Anantara and Avani offering the only five-star accommodation within view of the city. The new Zannier Hotels Bãi San Hô is a 45-minute drive away.

Quy Nhơn’s rich history dates back more than 1,200 years to the Cham Kingdom, where two Champa towers still stand tall on a hill overlooking the city. Today, the city is a seafood stalwart with crustacean-filled feasts that would haunt Poseidon.

As lunchtime rolls around and I’ve started on the rosé, the first of our pre-selected three courses is up. The Quy Nhơn seafood salad is the obvious choice with green papaya, mint and sweet and sour fish sauce to open up the palate. Next, I sample the salmon filet with a lemongrass and roasted chili beurre blanc accompanied by chargrilled asparagus. A smug look crosses my partner’s face as the braised wagyu neck topped with shredded carrots and zucchini in a sesame jus is placed in front of him. We’re both stunned at the high-end restaurant quality of the dishes served on a train ambling through the remote rice fields of Vietnam.

The 70-percent Đồng Nai chocolate crème brûlée is the meal clincher. While the Đà Lạt strawberries and coconut yogurt are a refreshing option, the thick-as-mud chocolate hits different, especially when paired with a Chilean Shiraz.

My partner pulls out the Vietage blanket and eye mask and drifts off to the rhythmic hum of the train. I’m perfectly happy gazing out the window for hours, watching iconic scenes of rice fields and water buffalo. But before I know it, a staff member says, “Are you ready for your 30-minute complimentary massage, miss?” OK, twist my arm.

thevietage.com; one-way tickets from US$185; special gastronomic journey on April 17, 2021, including four-hands, six-course, wine-pairing dinner by Chef Hoang Tung from T.U.N.G Dining in Hanoi and Chef Geert-Jan Vaartjes from Anantara Hoi An Resort for US$296 per person; contact 84-256-368-6168 or vietage@thevietagetrain.com for information.

We take a roadtrip across northern Thailand in search of the region’s best khao soi, aka hearty curry noodle soup.

EVERY PRINCESS KNOWS THAT snaring a perfect suitor can be a frustrating endeavor.

And I’m beginning to show the surly characteristics of a jilted debutante as I pilot my motorbike fruitlessly around the nether reaches of Chiang Mai.

We’ve been searching in vain for a legendary venue named Khao Soi Prince, known for its nomadic tendencies and irregular opening hours. It can be “hard to track down,” in the words of American chef and Chiang Mai food authority Andy Ricker, understating the point. After a voyage of thwarted hope to an out-of-date location pin, we are no closer to hunkering down to an aromatics-infused, coconut-milk-rich bowl of curry noodles endorsed by Ricker, cookbook author Austin Bush and legions of Thai regulars as a definitive version of khao soi, northern Thailand’s signature dish.

“Nah, it’s not here,” shouts Aidan, the photographer, struggling to make himself heard over the roar of our Royal Enfields as we back the 500cc beasts out of the blind alley, scattering a bunch of careless chickens as we turn.

I’m here in the north noising up barnyard animals and cursing the fickleness of Google Maps on a double-edged mission. First, and most importantly, I’ve decided that after three months of lockdown in Bangkok, with domestic travel now back in full swing in Thailand and my own recent acquisition of a motorbike license, it is a clear and obvious priority to fill my eyes with incredible scenery and my lungs with clean mountain air.

A good motorbike odyssey deserves a sense of purpose. I’ve got ample ground to cover on my intended loop through five northern provinces: Chiang Mai, Lampang, Phrae, Nan and Phayao. The distance (around 1,000 kilometers in total) offers scope to immerse in the culture of the north, its traditions shaped by centuries as part of the Lanna Kingdom, which was only absorbed into Siam in the late 19th century. It also— vitally—means lots of incredible local food.

I’m striving to eat as many versions of khao soi—one of the most potent weapons in Thailand’s culinary arsenal—as possible throughout the circuit. Many Thai staples have the power to arouse passions, but a turbocharged version of this mania seems to befall those with prolonged exposure to khao soi. Tales of curry-noodle obsessives here include, notably, a journalist whose commitment to khao soi resulted in a (questionable) decision to have a bowlful inked onto his upper arm.

It has an origin story as twisty as the mountain roads to which we’re heading. Some posit that the Thai version of the dish evolved as Chinese-Muslim traders plied the spice route south into what is now northern Thailand. The curry and the proteins (traditionally either beef or chicken, not pork) bear a Muslim imprint, while the noodles are, of course, intrinsically Chinese. Others maintain that the dish migrated from present-day Myanmar, when the Burmese held sway over Lanna lands. This theory is backed by the fact that the closest kissing cousin of khao soi is the Burmese ohn no khao swe.

My own affection for the dish is beyond question—though I don’t wear it on my sleeve. What’s not to like about tender, yielding chicken or beef, and firm, fresh egg noodles bathed in spicy coconut milk broth, topped with fried noodles and assorted pickles and finished off with a dash of fresh lime juice?

With its tank-like heft and plant pot–sized piston, the Classic 500 is reassuringly solid—no small thing when faced with the vagaries of the Kingdom’s notoriously unsafe highways. What’s more, the bike’s iconic design, premiered by Royal Enfield just after World War II, means it looks a million dollars and makes you feel, for want of a less corny expression, pretty badass.

As we clear the interminable outskirts of Chiang Mai, the open road is working its magic. I give the Enfield some gas and feel the warm breeze whistling by my ears. By the time the peaks of Doi Khun Tan National Park are an emerald blur in my rear-view, I’ve all but forgotten about the initial food fail.

If khao soi is the official meal of the trip, Leo beer is its designated refreshment. We make it to Lampang by sunset, just in time for icy cans overlooking the Wang River on the outside terrace at the Riverside Guesthouse, a Lanna-style complex of wooden houses surrounded by gorgeous tropical gardens.

The following morning brings a brisk start. Not only do we have to tackle a route to Phrae that traces a twisting network of obscure roads, but we are also doubling down on breakfast. Thankfully, the beaming proprietor of Khao Soi Islam wastes no time getting the day off the right way as he plonks in front of me a bowl of visual and olfactory perfection. The aroma of homemade curry paste tingles my nostrils and it’s an effort to keep a grip of the slow-braised beef as it falls apart at the merest nudge of a chopstick. As I dig in, devouring the mound of super-crisp, deep-fried egg noodles on top, I’m harking back to a primer offered by cook and slow-food activist Yaoadee Chookong on the difference between good and bad khao soi.

“The key is always the ingredients,” she told me in Chiang Mai. “The coconut milk must be fresh-squeezed, the curry paste should be fresh-blended, and the pickles need to be homemade and not sourced from a factory. The same goes for the protein. Beef should be tender, and a chicken version tastes infinitely better if made using local birds, not factory chickens.” The version at Khao Soi Islam ticks all of Yao’s boxes. So too does its swift sequel at the packed Khao Soi Oma on the road out of town, where yellowed photographs of satisfied customers on the walls testify to the creed of its curry noodle gospel.

We reap rich culinary rewards for the next two mornings as well. At Pan Jai in Phrae, the slightly anemic khao soi is rescued by a punchy bowl of nam ngiao—a northern soup/stew with a tangy tomato base. In Nan, the excellent coffee served at Khao Soi Ton Nam provides additional uplift to its famous curry.

It’s not all about noodle soup of course. Other unmistakably northern food highlights along the way include the gaeng hung lay (pork belly curry) at Huen Jai Yong just outside Chiang Mai, and a spicy, herb-flecked sai oua (northern Thai sausage) and nam prik ong (chili pork dip) double-whammy at Krua Huen Hom in Nan.

Lampang and Phrae provinces serve notice of the north’s physical gorgeousness, while their eponymous capitals are rich repositories of princely teak-wood mansions and other traditional architecture. But visual highlights come thicker and faster as the trip progresses. After Nan city, our route enters more remote territory as we make a beeline for the mountains near the Laos border before looping back northwest through Doi Phu Kha National Park and then along Highway 1148, a winding gem that snakes through some of the most spectacular landscapes in the north. The tarmac skirts dramatic limestone pinnacles and valleys that fall away from the edge of the road. It’s an opportunity to luxuriate in northern Thailand’s sheer beauty and the mellow glow it engenders, which is no minor endorsement in these stressful times.

My personal favorite part of the route swoops, dives and turns for around 30 kilometers along a forgotten highway in the far east of Nan province. With nothing around but me, my companions, the ridiculously twisting road, and the endless green hills stretching way out in the distance towards Luang Prabang, it’s possible to get perspective on the present and dream of better times ahead.

Smaller details will also endure. Along the way we clean out a stall selling smoky gai yang (grilled chicken) at an obscure junction between Nan and Phayao, take a dip in a natural pool at Nam Min Waterfall in Phayao, and raise our arms like conquering heroes each time we pass through the ornate arches that mark the threshold of even the most one-horse villages.

Most uplifting, though, is the simple joy of being on the move. Motorbikes and the open road have long been a symbol of freedom—the preserve of the independent-minded adventurer, the leather-clad rebel. And it’s impossible to deny the exhilarating sense of liberty that comes with being in tune with your surroundings on near-deserted highways in one of the most beautiful countries on the planet.

The end of the road comes as both a relief and a disappointment. Prolonged exposure to a motorbike saddle does wreak havoc on the hindquarters; still, the journey itself is anything but a pain in the rear.

There’s just one piece of unfinished business to attend to in Chiang Mai before I return the bike.

I park next to the venue: the signage says I’m in the right spot. I head inside, and take a pew. Minutes later, a spicy, coconut-scented bowl of delight arrives. It’s packed with marinated chicken and springy noodles. The dash of coconut cream on top is a ballsy, almost decadent, touch. I’m more than smitten. After seven days, 1,000 kilometers, and countless Leos, this saddle-sore sweetheart has finally found a prince.

DRIVING NORTHERN THAILAND

MOTORBIKE HIRE

JP Moto Classic Chiang Mai 1/2 Soi 3 Wua Lai Rd, Hai Ya, Chiang Mai; fb.com/jpmoto classic; Royal Enfield Classic 500 from Bt1,000 per day

WHERE TO STAY

CHIANGMAI
137 Pillars House; 137pillarschiangmai.com; doubles from Bt12,233.

LAMPANG
The Riverside Guest House; theriverside-lampang.com, doubles from Bt900.

NAN
Nan Lanna Hotel; +66 52 772 720; doubles from Bt700.

BOKLUA
Boklua View; bokluaview.com; doubles from Bt1,200.

PHU LANGKA NATIONAL PARK
Ing Mok Homestay; +66 96 901 3637; doubles from Bt1,000.

WHERE TO EAT

Call ahead for directions and hours; khao soi is a morning-to-midday meal, so most spots close late-afternoon.

CHIANG MAI
Khao Soi Prince; 79 Moo 9, Ban Thung Min Noi; +66 89 435 3991; meal for two Bt100.

LAMPANG
Khao Soi Oma; +66 54 226 881; meal for two Bt100.
Khao Soi Islam; +66 54 227 826; meal for two Bt100.

PHRAE
Pan Jai; +66 54 620 727; meal for two Bt150.

NAN
Khao Soi Ton Nam; +66 89 635 9375; meal for two Bt100.

PHAYAO
Khao Soi Sang Pean; +66 54 482 006; meal for two Bt100.

Photographs by Aidan Dockery.

The very name conjures images of ancient scholars, boundless riches, and the might of empire. But what has become of the historic Silk Road, a millennium after the height of its power? We caravan through Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan, once the epicenter of the known world, to see how their people are once again forging ties across borders—and finding new ways to understand their illustrious pasts.

FALL WAS ALREADY well along in Kyrgyzstan. The afternoon sky was piercingly bright, and the brisk air, made cooler by the snowy peaks of the Tian Shan, the “Heavenly Mountains,” called for a jacket. Nomadic herders along the south shore of Issyk Kul lake had already gathered their stock from alpine pastures and loosed them in a broad valley that hung between the mountains and a parallel range of hills like a rug thrown across two clotheslines. The mixed herds of cattle and sheep scattered across the unfenced range, each animal a sluggish atom on its own course, their slow dispersal local proof of cosmic entropy. Herdsmen on horseback kept them in check. At first, from where I stood in the hills, I couldn’t make out the riders: the scale of the landscape miniaturized their trotting.

When the eagle hunter arrived, he was dressed in the wardrobe of the country’s nomadic past but rode a Honda Fit, the hatchback horse of Kyrgyzstan’s 21st-century plains. His costume included a midnight-blue quilted silk coat over an amethyst corduroy waistcoat and gold-embroidered breeches; knee-high boots; and, for a belt, a heavy leather strap clenched by a steel buckle larger than his smartphone. His hat was a hunting trophy—its smoke-tipped fur quivered in the wind as if a still-living wolf—and his retinue included an assistant dressed in a similar if simpler vein, a driver in modern clothes, and two golden eagles. The assistant hoisted one of the birds on his right arm and climbed a nearby hill scabbed with rocks. At the hunter’s signal, he launched the eagle into the wind.

It circled overhead. The hunter called, and it tilted into a falling gyre that tightened and quickened in descent. The hunter ran, pulling a cord attached to a wolf-skin decoy. The eagle tucked into a dive and instantly overtook it, grappling the bloodless prey with its claws. Its reward was a chunk of raw pigeon, and it ate quickly and violently, before wiping its beak clean on the hunter’s bare hand and nuzzling his face with mammalian affection.

An apprentice eagle hunter’s rite of passage, I learned through my translator and guide, Aziza Kochkonbaeva, is to collect a wild chick from the nest and train it to hunt. By tradition and law, he will return the bird to the wild after 12 to 15 years. I asked where the hunter’s two eagles had come from— and where they would someday return, to soar to godly heights. The assistant pointed at the Tian Shan, a relentless caravan of peaks that crosses the country at Himalayan heights, and looked back at me.

“There,” he said.

BEFORE THIS TRIP, Central Asia was, for me, if not an entirely blank spot on my mental map of the world, then at most a negative space defined by the countries surrounding it: Russia, China, Afghanistan and Iran. Within that expanse I confederated a lot of ex-Soviet-stan countries, among them Kyrgyzstan, a clot of consonants that seemingly de ed English orthography, and Uzbekistan, where the cities bore names straight out of Orientalist poetry—Khiva, Bukhara, Samarkand. My 10-day itinerary with photographer Frédéric Lagrange began in the former, to experience nature and nomads, and ended in the latter, for its classical Silk Road cities.

The people I met were courteous, curious and tolerant, traits perhaps honed by centuries of commerce with strangers at the crossroads of empire. They were also multilingual and ethnically varied—true fusion cultures. Their architecture and decorative arts can be read like chapters of a great history book, three-dimensional stories about the rise and fall of rulers and armies.

In Kyrgyzstan, I felt Central Asia’s genetic tether to Mongolia and China. The country’s eastern hub, Karakol, has a mosque built in 1904 by the Tungans, Muslim refugees from China, in the style of a painted pagoda. Nearby, a wooden cathedral topped by a gilt Orthodox cross stands amid a garden of lilacs, second only to the Stalinist apartment blocks nearby as a physical reminder of Russian influence. In Uzbekistan, sky-high minarets, my directional beacons in medieval mud-brick districts, told of lasting Turco-Persian influence. Blink and at moments you could have imagined yourself in the Middle East.

During and after the trip, I spent a lot of time looking at maps, which made me think about how they affect the imagination. In the Renaissance and Enlightenment eras, the widely published Mercator projection map of 1569 cleaved Asia into halves, tossing the amputations to either edge of the sheet. Centuries later, when the center of global power had shifted to the United States, the Robinson projection map—commissioned in 1963 and still widely used—did better by placing Africa near the map’s center and keeping continents whole. But it still pushed Asia into the upper-right quadrant—way over there.

Doubtless like many Americans, I imagined Central Asia from an entirely wrong perspective. It’s not way over there. Central Asia was once the very center of the world, with populous, sophisticated cities that put to shame the backward, minor outposts of London and Paris. Its trade routes connected the great powers of China, Persia and India. For a thousand years, the Silk Roads bound Xi’an in western China to Baghdad, Damascus, Jerusalem, Constantinople, Athens and Alexandria. One silken strand unspooled as far as Venice, where merchant princes paid Palladio, Titian and Tintoretto with profits from Silk Road commerce.

ONE NORTHERN BRANCH of the Silk Road crossed what is now Kyrgyzstan. Caravans of camels laden with textiles and other goods called at Balasaghun, 80 kilometers east of Kyrgyzstan’s Soviet-built modern capital, Bishkek. Before 1218, when the Mongols invaded and the fabulously rich city succumbed to pillage and centuries of earthquakes and erosion, some world maps placed Balasaghun at their center.

An unidentified 11th-century Turkish ruler who converted to Islam erected a 45-meter minaret there, Burana Tower, from which the muezzin’s call to prayer fell over Christian, Buddhist and Zoroastrian subjects as an inducement to join the ruler in his new faith. But the minaret, partially restored in the Soviet era, was to me less evocative of the multicultural city than the nearby 14th-century cemetery, with headstones inscribed in Turkish, Arabic, Cyrillic and Latin. A museum displayed artifacts from the site: Islamic tiles covered with polychrome geometry; a Nestorian cross, possibly ninth century; seventh-century Buddhist stelae; a sphinx embossed on a ripped copper sheet.

“I always say the Silk Road was the Internet of the age,” Kochkonbaeva told me. You go on the Internet to acquire information, learn a language, or buy anything you can’t find close at hand. On the Silk Road, the commerce was in ideas as much as commodities. “It’s where you would learn about Europe,” she said, which made me think of Marco Polo, the son of a Silk Road merchant, who set out from Venice in 1271 as a 17-year-old. While he didn’t get as far north as what is now Kyrgyzstan, he typified a new, curious generation found along, and perhaps even created by, the Silk Road: the world traveler.

Kochkonbaeva pointed out a vitrine filled with pierced Chinese coins from the eighth to 12th centuries. “It was the dollar of the Great Silk Road,” she said. “I recently had Chinese tourists tell me what is written on them.”

I was astonished: those words, political messaging crafted by Tang dynasty rulers at a high point in Chinese civilization and stamped onto the reserve currency of the era, were still legible after the intervening centuries, during which first Europe and then America eclipsed China’s power before the Middle Kingdom rose again to contend for global dominance.

The coins read TRADE, PROSPERITY, PEACE.

Mountainous and spectacular Kyrgyzstan offers only basic tourist infrastructure. We rode long distances over rough roads to simple guesthouses, sustained by plain food in unadorned restaurants. Mutton and potatoes prevailed, though breakfast spoke a Tolstoyan language of black currant and raspberry jams.

The driving route over the next several days circled Issyk Kul, the world’s second-largest alpine lake after Titicaca in the Andes. Along the northern shore, cooler summertime temps and a sun-facing orientation favor beach resorts and apple trees, which were heavy with fruit during our visit. On the sparsely settled southern shore, apricot trees, inflamed with fall color when we stopped at an orchard for lunch, grew to the waterline. A spur of the Tian Shan called the “shady mountains”—shrouded in clouds, forbidding, as if the seat of unknowable gods—walled in the lake on the north, and to the south, the “sunny mountains” reflected undimmed daylight with a hard mystical clarity familiar to holy pilgrims and mountain climbers.

The mountains drew us, too. On our second morning, a cold start, a driver met us in Karakol in his Soviet-era UAZ troop carrier, a jeep built like a steel strongbox. “Everything Soviet is immortable,” Kochkonbaeva noted, coining a useful neologism for unkillable strength. The driver tested her maxim in Altyn Arashan Gorge, on the way to a guesthouse above the tree line. The rough track merged with a rocky streambed and further deteriorated as it climbed over scree slides, boulder fields, and stone ledges slimy with mud and pocked with sloshing holes. The driver was nonchalant and chatty, and he told us about a group of young Japanese travelers he ferried once. A panic rose among them as they bounced around the passenger compartment until one, out of her mind with fright, pushed open the door and leapt from the moving vehicle.

“What’s the secret to not getting stuck?” I asked, as the UAZ whined through mudholes and growled over rock. Kochkonbaeva laughed hard before catching her breath to translate. “He said, ‘What makes him think we’d get stuck?’ ” In tourist season, the driver completes the round-trip twice a day.

WITH A ONE-HOUR FLIGHT from Bishkek to Tashkent, Uzbekistan’s capital and largest city (population: 2.4 million), we left mountains and valleys for plains and deserts, trading an atmosphere high and bright for one smoggy and sunbaked. It was a short flight between two worlds: Rural and urban. Nomads and agriculturalists. Felt dwellings and timber houses. Wool and silk. Apples and melons. We traveled by high-speed trains that arrived on the minute and one night stayed in a hotel described as “five-star,” although that was more than a little aspirational. The eating improved, too: the array of meze—pickles, dips, bright salads freshened with herbs—and the refinement of kebabs instead of bony stews.

Our guide in Uzbekistan, Kamal Yunusov, boasted that his mother was raised to speak three languages: Uzbek at home, Farsi when doing business, and Arabic for religious practice. He was keen to convey the message that Uzbekistan, always a cosmopolitan country, is a modern nation on the rise. In his eyes, the contrast with Kyrgyzstan could not have been clearer.

“I like Kyrgyzstan,” he said on our first meeting. “The people are still simple, open, proud and they take care of their environment. An ex-nomad people.”

But Uzbekistan! The Uzbek language was now an option on Apple’s iOS 13. And the Uzbek government had simplified visa requirements, so direct flights were arriving from Rome, Paris and Frankfurt. Some 55 new hotels had been built. What would be the tallest skyscraper in Uzbekistan was currently under way!

At the least, Uzbekistan’s post-Soviet transformation reveals how capitalism is returning Central Asia to a place of global economic and strategic significance. The country’s leadership also understands the value of its historic sites as a draw for tourist dollars. It has rallied pride around the triumphant national hero Timur, also known as the emperor Tamerlane—a red-bearded herder’s son who conquered much of the known world in the 14th century. A glorious past is being used to inspire a glorious future. At Amir Temur Square, the radial center of new Tashkent, an equestrian statue of Tamerlane rides into battle against a backdrop of modern buildings: the Modernist Hotel Uzbekistan, a Soviet relic, and a 2009 marble convention hall known as the Palace of International Forums.

In fact, Tamerlane was only one conquering ruler among an encyclopedia’s worth. I was drawn to the visual sophistication that he inherited from the Samanid era, when Uzbekistan had been part of Persia: it vibrated before my eyes everywhere. At Tashkent’s decorative-arts museum, which is housed in a historic mansion that was occupied by a czarist ambassador during the Great Game, when 19th-century Russia and Great Britain jostled for control of Central Asia, entire rooms were set aside for knotted rugs, carved wooden doors, filigreed screens, and jeweled daggers forged from layered Damascus steel. Afterward, our lunch likewise demonstrated the march of cultures across the region. Yunusov ordered a meat-filled pastry called somsa, which reminded him of Babur, the 16th-century conqueror descended from both Tamerlane and Genghis Khan. When Babur pushed into India to found the Mughal Empire, he left behind the pastry known there as the samosa.

LATER IN THE AFTERNOON, we returned to the airport for a hop to Khiva, the most remote of Uzbekistan’s Silk Road cities, once an important oasis in the desert Khorezm region. Archaeological evidence dates the settlement back to some 1,500 years ago, but nothing built of mud bricks and elm wood survives exposure to weather and termites. Khiva is being remade constantly. On top of the medieval walls, first laid in the 10th century and rising to 10 meters in some places, an elevated walkway was split by hand-width fissures where rainwater had found its way to the earthen interior. Without repair, in another century or so the city would be undone.

Coming back from the ramparts, I passed ongoing reconstruction work at the Amir Tura madrassa. Billboards gave a bilingual explanation of the project in Mandarin and, in a smaller type, Uzbek. But the meaning came through the pictures: a satellite photo of Central Asia overlaid with the Silk Road routes alongside a staged diplomatic handshake between Chinese president Xi Jinping and Islam Karimov, Uzbekistan’s president from independence in 1991 until his death in 2016. Eventually I found a terse English explanation: “Chinese government assistance to Uzbekistan world cultural heritage restoration project.”

Chinese money is again flowing to every city along the Silk Roads. In 2013, Xi announced his Belt and Road Initiative, an ambitious political and economic policy that sets out to do nothing less than build a new overland trade network from China to the Middle East and Europe. Xi has promised nearly $1 trillion in infrastructure investments to create new economic corridors along six of the ancient roads. In that context, the “Chinese government assistance” to restore the Amir Tura madrassa is a mere nicety of soft power, a ripple in a gulf stream of wealth.

China’s economic incursion into the region hasn’t gone uncontested. Turkey holds the honor of building Central Asia’s largest mosque, which opened in Bishkek in 2018. At the ribbon-cutting President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan expressed his hope that the investment would revive “the historic bonds between Anatolia and Central Asia.” The players have changed, but the Great Game continues.

FROM KHIVA, WE TRAVELED BY TRAIN across the Red Desert, a plain named for its springtime tulip bloom, to Bukhara. The city is famous for Po-i-Kalyan, a vast mosque complex pinned in place by the 46-mater Grand Minaret, but our first stop was a modest synagogue. The Jewish diaspora reached Bukhara as early as the eighth century, and more émigrés arrived in waves during the Crusades, after Spain’s Alhambra Decree of 1492, and in the 20th century. The flow reversed only in the 1970s, when the Soviet Union ended a ban on emigration and thousands left for Israel or the United States. Today Bukhara’s Jewish population has dwindled to around 100.

As in Khiva, the city’s historic core retains its medieval labyrinth of narrow alleys and blind passageways. But in busy neighborhoods, residents went about their lives among the monuments—a Rome to Khiva’s Venice. At Kalyan mosque, a young man rode his bicycle the length of an interior courtyard as large as a football field; vaulted galleries three or four coves deep framed its perimeter. Inside the courtyard, a group of bearded men gathered around a bench to pursue some serious discourse. Religious attendance has plummeted by 90 percent in the past century, Yunusov explained, and nowadays the only time Kalyan mosque fills to its capacity of 12,000 worshippers is on celebratory days such as Eid al-Fitr, the end of Ramadan.

At the adjacent Grand Minaret, Yunusov explained how those icons of Islamic architecture had, in fact, originated among Persia’s Zoroastrians, for whom fire was sacred. At the dawn of Islam, muezzins called the faithful to prayer from rooftops, he explained. After the religion overtook Persia, they began to climb spires formerly used as inland lighthouses for desert travelers and put them to new use, retaining only the memory of fire, nar, in the word minaret. “It’s hard to say where Islam finishes and traditional beliefs start,” he mused. “The beauty of Central Asia is that each people is melted into every other.”

The next day, our last, the national parade of monuments climaxed in Samarkand, where Tamerlane rests at Gur-e Amir, an ornate mausoleum that anticipated the Mughal splendor of the Taj Mahal. The heart of the old city was the Registan, a square framed by three great madrassas erected between the 15th and 17th centuries. Though built as a monument to faith and learning, what Registan Square really memorialized, like St. Peter’s Basilica, was wealth and might. I couldn’t imagine the creative ingenuity and sheer manpower required to construct such ornaments of empire. Harder still to imagine the bewildering effect on medieval eyes undimmed by a lifetime of staring at screens.

By chance, the night before I had enjoyed a few minutes’ visit to that remote past before electricity. There was a blackout in Bukhara. I had just come back to my hotel, a caravanserai-style inn built around a central courtyard, and darkness had already overtaken its corners. When the power failed, I sat outside my room and listened: the outrage of crows, a dog noisy for attention, and then approaching footsteps. A hotel attendant brought two candles on a brass tray.

He used the occasion to practice his English on me. His name was Islom, and he asked me where I’d been in Uzbekistan. I played him a snippet of an audio recording I had made in Khiva, of a street performance. The graying instrumentalists were all men, the joyous singers a group of grandmothers who danced with such freedom and exuberance that I was moved, as when watching people dance at a wedding. They must have been playing a song about happy times. I asked Islom if he knew it.

“Of course,” he said. “It is the second-most-famous song in Uzbekistan.” It was, he explained haltingly, a song young boys and girls would sing when they liked each other very much.

“But the performers I saw were very old,” I said, teasing him, seeing if he could find the words to explain.

“Okay,” he said, ready for the challenge. “They are old, but they…” and he faltered.

“They remember?” I suggested. “Yes!” Islom said. “They remember.”

Plan your Silk Road sojourn

GETTING THERE

There’s no shortcut to Central Asia. From most Southeast Asian major cities, you can connect to Bishkek or Tashkent via Dubai, Istanbul, Moscow or Seoul. For visa requirements for Kyrgyzstan, check evisa.e-gov.kg; for Uzbekistan, visit mfa.uz/en/consular/visa/. Getting cash can be a hassle, so bring crisp new bills, preferably U.S. dollars, to exchange.

KYRGYZSTAN

Start in Bishkek, the safe and orderly capital, where I explored Osh Bazaar (259 Toktogul St.) and the spectacular Central Mosque (53 Gogol St.). I stayed at the small, charming Navat Hotel (doubles from US$95), which serves a Turkish breakfast. Outside Bishkek, a car and driver are essential, and restaurants and guesthouses are modest. The ruins of the ancient city Balasaghun and the petroglyphs at Cholpon Ata are worth a visit en route to the lake resorts and nomadic communities around Issyk Kul. At the lake’s eastern end, we stayed at Reina Kench (doubles from US$62), a lodge set amid apple orchards. Nearby Karakol feels like an Idaho ranching town, only dustier, but it’s the jumping-off point to scenic Altyn Arashan Gorge, surrounded by a mountain preserve with snow leopards and summertime yurt camps. On our return to Bishkek through the Kongur-Olön Valley— down many kilometers of unpaved road—the scenery was epic.

UZBEKISTAN

You can’t miss the mosques, minarets and madrassas, but make time for the markets and museums. In Tashkent, Chorsu Bazaar (57 Tafakkur St.) supplies acres of halvah, kurt (air-dried cheese balls), and glorious melons; the State Museum of Applied Arts occupies a former ambassador’s mansion. I flew east from Tashkent to Urgench, the closest airport to Khiva, then worked my way back on the comfortable high-speed train. The mud-brick city of Khiva is best viewed from the top of the earthen ramparts; the comfortable hotel Malika Kheivak (doubles from US$85) is within the old city walls. Bukhara was a highlight: I loved the medieval streets, vast Po-i-Kalyan mosque complex, cooling network of canals, and my lodging in a repurposed former madrassa, Hotel Minzifa (doubles from US$55). Samarkand’s main sights, Registan Square and Gur-e Amir, rank among the world’s great monuments. Hotel Platan (doubles from US$85) and the adjoining restaurant are in a leafy Russian-style residential neighborhood.

TRAVEL ADVISOR

T+L A-List travel advisor Jonny Bealby (jonny.bealby@wildfrontiers.co.uk; 1-877/725-6674), who set up this trip, has been passionate about Central Asia for decades—he even wrote a book about his experience traveling the Silk Road on horseback. Similar itineraries from US$3,950 per person.