The day before arriving in Tajikistan I had found a shaded area on the side of the road and had lied down on the grass to beat the heat.
There is rustling behind me, near the concrete drainage ditch running parallel to the road. I’m looking for the source of the noise…I sit up from the puddle of sweat that’s on top of my tent’s ground covering. I look into the drainage ditch, there is a bit of water and I see a baby bird thrashing around.
Of course, I must save this little thing. It barely has any feathers on it and I’m sure it fell out of a nest somewhere. I look above me, I go through the trees surrounding me, looking up…trying to spot a nest or it’s mother while listening for chirps of the brothers and sisters. I’m really not sure what do. As a kid that grew up in the mountains of Virginia, I had encountered enough baby birds and our family either took them to sanctuaries or tried to plop them back in their nest. My parents always reminding me, “don’t touch them, their mother will smell you on them and reject the baby bird”.
So hearing my parents in my head, I find a small branch and fish the baby bird out of the ditch. Be careful not to let it drop from a higher point, I would be devastated if I were to break it’s neck. I’m not sure if there are enough Om Mani Pad Me Hum’s to relinquish me from that.
I successfully get the baby out and set it near a tree trunk. Listening to it squeak from my nap area, I pass out from the mid-afternoon heat. I awake a half an hour later, no squeaking, no bird.
Also, during this time, I am led to believe a bug crawled into my ear. Well, I’m sure there was an insect at my ear and now every time it hurts or itches…I swear it must be an Uzbek insect headed to my brain.
That is all, for now.