A freight train's horn carries over the flat fields from the line that runs north to Turkmenistan, and closer in you hear the soft thud of a comb packing wool on a carpet loom. In the carpet market, traders unroll hand-knotted rugs one after another, and the talk around them moves between Uzbek, Turkmen and Dari.
Beyond the bazaar, farmland thins into the sandy edge of the Karakum, and caravans once gathered here before heading north toward Bukhara. Summers are hot and dry, while winter brings chilly nights and most of the year's rain. A Local Friend can open a door you would not have knocked on, like a family workshop with a rug half done.
