White Secret Realm Walking Guide

Drivers in Samarkand quote 25,000 soms, 50 minutes to Tajikistan; shared taxi drivers in Dushanbe ask for 200 somoni, the station shaded by green trees feels like home. Just got off at Kaftarxona bus station in Samarkand, and a driver approached: "Panjakent? 25,000 soms, 50 minutes to the border." Exiting Uzbekistan felt like fast-forwarding; they didn’t even mention the rumored "small white slip," and the stamping officer even smiled at me. [ThumbsUp][ThumbsUp][ThumbsUp] Entering Tajikistan slowed everything down: a system crash notice stood in the scorching open space, I squatted in the shade clutching my passport, watching officials run around with notebooks. Four hours later someone suddenly called out, "Tourists go first"—they had switched to handwritten registration, and on the ink-not-yet-dry form, my crookedly written name carried warmth. [ThumbsUp][ThumbsUp][Clapping][Clapping][Clapping] A shared taxi driver holding a "Dushanbe" sign approached, the 200 somoni fare wrapped in the smell of dust. Outside the window, barren mountains gradually gave way to green trees, and the blue sign of the northern city bus station suddenly came into view. Then I took a green trolleybus to the city center, the meter stopped at 40 somoni, and the driver pointed to the dashboard: "Tajik time, no cheating." [Clapping][Clapping][Clapping] The airport shuttle stopped on Vakhān Street, the route map’s lettering looked freshly painted: station names like "Bus Station, Market" were sealed under tape. Following the directions, I suddenly entered a colorful market. The three-story corrugated iron building was packed with fabrics, dried fruits, phone cases; girls wearing headscarves packed fruits and vegetables into baskets, men in tight pants drooled at the spices through their cameras—their eyes were more vivid than the vendors’: "There are many stories here." [Clapping][Clapping][Clapping] A red sign at the corner seemed to wave: the word "Alavi" was translated into English, Russian, and Uzbek—just like the ambitious world map at the door. The front desk guy asked for a long time before confirming I didn’t have a credit card: "Use cash then." Carrying my luggage up to the fifth floor, the air conditioner was blowing cold air fiercely—this country’s prices seem to have distinct seasons: "Cold air is free." [ThumbsUp][ThumbsUp][ThumbsUp] While climbing the hill, I suddenly saw a small tower: its ochre walls shone in the wind, pigeons circled low in flight—as if chasing the sunlight around. The entrance gate was tightly closed, the ground piled with grass and fallen leaves; nearby a small stall sold ice cream and sparkling water—ice cream came in strawberry and grape flavors, the sparkling water was clear—just like this city, transparent and straightforward: "Ice cream 25,000 soms, sparkling water 10,000 somoni." [Victory][Victory][Victory]