I had yet to learn the knack of wandering through a labyrinth of dreams and memories and lazy half-thoughts, through the endless but sedately witching marching hours. The mingled ache and eagerness of final departure, mixed with the thrill of being free of houses and wheeled things, died slowly in me.
-The Desert Road to Turkestan, Owen Lattimore, 1928
I remember that moment too, leaving wheeled things behind when we saddled up at the Khileyu wells and started out for the north. My first days were anything but sedate, filled with Khawaja bravado and acts of derring-do with my whip hand. Only later came the endless witching marching hours and dreams of favorite foods and thoughts of being lazy again when I returned home.