Dust, and the smell of dust, is everywhere. It defines every crease and seam of my riding gear like a monochrome relief map of the mountains we are riding, my boots and gloves are white rimed with it and my face a grimy mask of the stuff.
Starting at the outflow into the remnants of the Aral Sea, a small group of hardy travellers followed this epic river thorugh Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Tajikistan and Afghanistan.
We did have a load of blog posts, covering all sorts of things and stretching back several years. But a glitch in the matrix has meant that everything got deleted by some horrid online gremlin, and so we are starting afresh.
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