I traivelled alang the Silk Road for seven days an fund that Marco Polo left oot a wheen o things

The Registan Square (Registan) in Samarkand (Samarkand) turns intae a kind o gowd ye've never seen afore at a quarter tae seven in the gloamin. The blue tiles o the three madrasas wauken frae the caum o Islamic geometry an start tae soak up the last heat o the sun. A auld man sellin pomegranate juice telt me in his broken English: 'This place wis a debate ground sax hunder year syne—students frae the three madrasas wud argue in the square, aboot theology, astronomy, mathematics, onything.' Then he pit saut in my cup an said: 'Drink it. Pomegranate juice wi nae sugar, that's hou ye taste the Silk Road.'

He wis richt. The pomegranate juice wi nae sugar haes a sharp sourness, like the eftertaste o aw the things that's dwinin awa in this land. An my question is: Whit's left o the Silk Road?

Uzbekistan (Uzbekistan) haes mair nor 36 million fowk, makkin it the maist populous kintra in Central Asia, an ane o the warld's anely twa double-landlocked kintras (the ither bein Liechtenstein). For a kintra that's fair scugged by land, the Silk Road isna juist history—it's the loodest proof o its existence in the warld. In 2026, the White Wolves (Uzbekistan (Uzbekistan) naitional team) will appear on the Warld Cup stage for the first time. For mony fans, this is the first time they've searched 'Whaur's Uzbekistan (Uzbekistan)?'

The first day belangs tae Tashkent (Tashkent). The Tashkent (Tashkent) subway isna juist a set o transport—it's the maist unco legacy the Soviet Union left in Uzbekistan (Uzbekistan). Ilka station is a separate wark o airt: the dome o Alisher Navoi Station (Alisher Navoi) haes portraits o Central Asian poets, an the waws o Kosmonavtlar Station (Kosmonavtlar) pay homage tae aw the spacemen frae Gagarin tae Uzbekistan (Uzbekistan)'s ain space heroes. A subway security guard saw my foreign face, cocked his eyebrow, an then waved his haun—locals use their cairds, foreigners gang free, that's the unwritten rule o Tashkent (Tashkent).

The second day I wis on the heich-speed train tae Samarkand (Samarkand). The scenery ootside the windae gaed frae the grey o the city tae the white o the cotton fields, an then tae the broun o the edge o the Karakum Desert. A young lad wis sittin next tae me, usin a translation app tae ask whaur I cam frae, an then shawed me a news screenshot on his phone aboot the Uzbekistan (Uzbekistan) team qualifyin for the Warld Cup, like he wis showin aff. 'Abdukodir Khusanov (Abdukodir Khusanov),' he said, pyntin at the twenty-year-auld defender on the screen, 'He plays for Lens. The French noo ken Tashkent (Tashkent).'

The third an fowert days wis Samarkand (Samarkand) an Bukhara (Bukhara). The blue tiles o Samarkand (Samarkand) are deeper nor in the picturs—that blue looks like it wis fished up frae the bottom o the Mediterranean, but dried oot by the Central Asian sun. In the auld toun o Bukhara (Bukhara), I wis lost for three oors. No because the city's ower big, but because ilka open widden door seemed tae lead tae anither age. A silk merchant sat in his shop—real silk, brocht frae the Fergana Valley, dyed red wi madder root—an when he saw me glowerin at that roll o red silk for a lang time, he said: 'Dae ye ken, Marco Polo didna write aboot this colour. He said Uzbekistan (Uzbekistan)'s silk wis cheap, but he didna write aboot the red.'

Khiva (Khiva) wis the fift day. This auld toun, scugged by yella-mud waws, wis near empty in the midday sun. I sat in the shade o the Kalta Minor Minaret (Kalta Minor), an a auld man cam ower slow an sat doon aside me. 'The tourists come at fower in the efternuin,' he said, 'The forenuin is Khiva (Khiva)'s ain time.' We wis quiet for a lang while. Then he pyntit at a Uzbekistan (Uzbekistan) banner flappin in the distance an said: 'See that fitba pitch. It wis a stable ance. In the Silk Road days, merchants changed their horses there. Noo the young yins play fitba there. The thing that's swapped is different, but the road's still the same road.'

The saxt day I spent on the nicht train—frae Khiva (Khiva) back tae Tashkent (Tashkent), gaun through the edge o the desert. The radio in the carriage made a scratchy soond, playin auld Russian sangs wi a Central Asian accent. Ootside the windae, there wis the occasional glisk o camel herds an scattert lichts. I minded on whit the silk merchant in Bukhara (Bukhara) said, minded on the gowd o Samarkand (Samarkand), minded on the security guard's cocked eyebrow in the Tashkent (Tashkent) subway. Then I poued oot the match heichlights o Abdukodir Khusanov (Abdukodir Khusanov) in Ligue 1 on my phone—a twenty-ane-year-auld Uzbekistan (Uzbekistan) lad slidin, chasin back, an makin lang passes on a French pitch.

The seivent day, I wis back in Tashkent (Tashkent). The sun wis as dry an het as it wis seven days syne. But whit I brocht back wisna juist picturs an souvenirs, but the answer tae a question: The Silk Road didna 'leave' onything—it juist changed its form. Spices turned intae the fitba economy, caravan stops turned intae heich-speed train stations, an silk turned intae player transfer contracts. Marco Polo didna juist miss oot the colour o that red silk—he missed oot that the fowk on this road never really leave. They juist swapped camels for trains, an spices for fitba.