http://www.cs.bilkent.edu.tr/~pf/travel/uzbekistan.trip (PC Press Internet CD, 03/1996)
Uzbekistan - Turkmenistan Trip Report (July/August 1994)
Copyright Pierre Flener, February 1995
Introduction
This is a report of a solo-trip to Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan,
undertaken during July/August 1994.
I have compiled this from my travel notes, often omitting ir-
relevant details such as where I ate what, where I was sick with
what, and so on, but adding some afterthoughts and hindsight.
This journey was totally improvised, reservations -- except for
flights -- being a concept totally alien to me. Of course I did
some homework beforehand, so as to know the must-sees. Valuable
information sources were the Cadogan guide "Central Asia: The
Practical Handbook" (UK, 1993, by Giles Whittell: excellent
value), the Lonely Planet guide "USSR - A Travel Survival Kit"
(Australia, 1991, by John Noble and John King: a great book, but
it unfortunately came out as the Soviet Union was collapsing, and
is thus aging badly), and the "Blue Guide to the USSR" (an excel-
lent source of background knowledge). Descriptions are kept in-
formative enough so that those who have been there should recog-
nize the places, while those who would like to go there should be
able to locate them. This report is not intended to be a crash
course on Central Asian history.
This journey was on a shoestring budget, a mattress to crash on
and a shower being all that is needed when constantly on the
move. Round-trip flights, visas, inoculations, medicine, and
souvenirs excluded, I had a daily maintenance ratio of about $12,
covering accommodation, food, drinks, transportation, and en-
trance fees. This has to be relativized though, as Uzbekistan
was significantly more "expensive" than Turkmenistan.
All views expressed here are mine, and you are the judge whether
they are witty insights, total misunderstandings, or unspeakable
truths.
Comments are welcome. Enjoy,
--
Pierre Flener
Department of Computer Engineering Email: pf@bilkent.edu.tr
and Information Science http: //www.cs.bilkent.edu.tr/~pf/pf.html
Faculty of Engineering Voice: +90 / 312 / 266-4000 x1450
Bilkent University Fax: +90 / 312 / 266-4126
06533 Bilkent, Ankara, Turkey
Part I: UZBEKISTAN
Thursday/Friday 28/29 July 1994: Ankara --> istanbul --> Tashkent
We land at about 5:15am in Tashkent, the capital of Uzbekistan.
Only a bus-load of people actually get off the plane, which is
bound for Alma Ata, and the bus is incredibly decrepit, but
somehow operational. We are only a handful of foreigners, and I
seem to be the only back-packing traveler, all others having
suitcases and business visas or private invitations from Uzbek
citizens. I overhear a Turkish businessman explaining to some-
body that immigration is going to be unbelievably slow, so I
sprint forwards with them as soon as the bus makes it to the ter-
minal. And, indeed, the immigration officer, a Caucasian-looking
tall blonde with cold blue eyes, almost stares holes into every
page of every passport before stamping the Uzbek visa. He takes
about five minutes per person (!), and I'm glad to be second in
the queue and to have a brand-new passport with just visas for
Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan. So I'm soon able to whisk my back-
pack off the carrousel, to fill out two customs declarations and
undergo a minor luggage inspection, to change one dollar into Uz-
bek Sums (which is the new currency to be phased in tomorrow, in
replacement of the old Sum coupons, after slashing three zeros),
and to finally emerge into Tashkent, simultaneously with the
Turkish businessman.
He turns out to be a representative of the DoGan car factory,
which landed a deal to sell a thousand taxis to Uzbekistan. He
spends half of his time is Tashkent and is quite knowledgeable
about the place and about how to behave now. We are indeed "as-
saulted" by free-lance taxi-drivers who quote outrageous rates to
drive us to the city. Since we are both heading to the Chilonzar
suburb, I wisely shut up as he placates them in Turkish -- which
is quite mutually intelligible with Uzbek, both being of the
Turkic language family -- and expertly haggles one of them down
to a still cut-throat $3 each, cash of course. That's why I only
changed 1$ at the airport: this is a cash-only economy -- dollars
for foreigners -- and for small expenses I will definitely get a
better rate at the black market than the government-set 11 Sum to
the dollar. The taxi-driver and his friend actually tell us that
the police is cracking down on the black market now, and that few
people would dare offer more than 12 or 13 Sum to the dollar.
This seems to be a good sign for the Uzbek economy, as confidence
in the Sum is increasing. In the days to come, however, I manage
to exchange dollars at rates of 15 or 16, but never more.
So we cruise through the spacious, empty boulevards of Tashkent.
The city was leveled by a major earthquake in 1966, and has since
been reconstructed by legions of Soviet "volunteers." It is a
splendid showcase of Soviet urban planning, and everything is so
large that it seems to be able to easily cope with a tenfold po-
pulation and traffic increase, even though it already was the
USSR's fourth-largest city at 2.2 million people. It all looks
like a maze to me, and a huuuge one at that, and I'm very im-
pressed by the numerous trees that provide much-needed shadow in
what should be called Uz-bake-istan in the summer. From a bird's
view, Tashkent must look like a forest, with barely a building
lurking through its canopy. We reach the Turk's residence first,
and after getting me to my destination, the cabbie tries to rip
me off by suddenly rising the price. Nice try, but I don't ex-
actly come out of Sunday school.
So there I stand, with my backpack, at 6:30am, in a concrete maze
of apartment blocks of some nondescript Soviet suburbia, going to
meet somebody whom I don't even know. Indeed, as a preparation
for this trip, I had been surfing the Internet in search for in-
formation about Uzbekistan from travelers who had been there, and
from Uzbeks of course. A Russian-origins Uzbek, let's call him
Andrei, who is currently studying in the USA, had helped me a lot
and actually set me up to stay with his mother, let's call her
Elena. I was really looking forward to this, not for the money-
saver, but for the experience and for the smooth integration un-
til I was going to be able to move confidently by myself in this
alien civilization.
It's of course still too early, so I settle onto some bench in
front of her block. But Uzbeks are early risers (what with the
weather!), and some man asks me, at about 7:15am, what I am doing
there. "Oh," he says, "everybody is up, you sure may knock on
her door."
Elena doesn't know I'm coming, but the mere mention of her son
lights up her face and she waves me into her apartment. She
speaks halting English, so conversation is feasible. As she
serves me breakfast, her grand-daughter Sasha (the daughter of
Andrei's sister Yulya) comes in to see who's there. Yulya her-
self comes shortly afterwards, and there I am, with an adorable
trio of three generations of Russian-Uzbek women, who are going
to host me, feed me, guide me, and pamper me for the next 48
hours, as if I was their own son, brother, and uncle! It was an
unforgettable two days, and a lesson in hospitality and humility!
At 9am, Elena takes me on a first sight-seeing tour through Tash-
kent, the City of Stone. My first impressions of the capital be-
come more precise now: a grid of huge boulevards, intersecting on
large squares, provides access to numerous government buildings,
theaters, museums, shopping areas, a multi-starred Intourist
hotel, a 375m high radio-TV tower, well-shaded parks, and a
variety of monuments to the just recently bygone era of
socialist-heroic workers and peasants. Since independence in
1991, a host of statues and names are not politically correct any
more, so they have been toppled/replaced or renamed: for in-
stance, on former Revolution Square, instead of the Karl Marx
statue there now is a statue of Timur, better known in the West
as Tamerlane, the devastating successor of Kubilay Khan at the
reigns of the Mongol empire. Timur is kind of a local hero for
the Uzbeks, who are now searching their past for new icons. Oth-
er names are still acceptable, such as the Peoples' Friendship
Square, where a monument commemorates an Uzbek couple, who, after
World War II, adopted war orphans from 14 (19?) different Soviet
republics. Everything is very clean, and an unbelievable number
of non-stop sprinklers keeps everything green and fresh. This is
possible due to the considerable draining of the Amu Darya river
(the fabled Oxus), which of course goes at the expense of an eco-
logical disaster somewhere else (the shrinking of the Aral Sea,
in this case). The large streets are almost devoid of cars, ex-
cept for the occasional bus or tram plying its way between the
center and the suburbs. The few private cars, mostly Russian-
built Ladas and Volgas, are quite slow, so those taxi-drivers
with the new and fast DoGan cars from Turkey have a race-track of
their own here. But they are not the only potentially fast ones:
there also are the German luxury limousines of the local Mafia
bosses, and the brand-new Opel Vectras of the Uzbek police. In-
terestingly, hitching cars in the cities seems common practice
here, though at rates comparable (?) to those of taxis: this form
of improvised car pooling reduces traffic and pollution, but is
of course mostly a great means for car owners to actually afford
their car, especially in these times of economic hardship. I
must also mention the completely unexpected gem of Tashkent: its
subway system. Designed to be a showcase of Soviet engineering,
including earthquake resistance, it was built without regards to
the cost, prestige being priceless. And indeed, it's spotless,
efficient, cheap (for me, at $0.02 a ride), and practical in such
a large city, not to mention the wonderful subway stations that
are virtually like museum rooms.
The supposedly splendid Jewelry Museum and History Museum being
unfortunately closed for the summer, Elena takes me to the
Decorative and Applied Arts Museum ($0.10): it is set in the nice
mansion of some Russian prince and features an interesting col-
lection of Uzbek handicraft. Most things are typical for the
Islamic world, but some items are uniquely Uzbek, such as the
beautiful Suzanah stitch-work.
Afterwards, we return to the Chilonzar suburb, for a siesta (I
had little sleep at night, and am fighting against a three-hour-
jet-lag) and a late, but filling, lunch at Yulya's apartment a
few blocks down the road from Elena's. And then off to the city
again, but this time to the old town, or what's left of it since
the earthquake. One of the few surviving old buildings is the
Kukeldash Madrassa (a madrassa is a Qu'ranic school, and, in the
past, often actually a university): it is under heavy-duty res-
toration, and insignificant anyway in comparison to the splendid
madrassas that I will see in a few days, but we have a nice chat
with the international crew of volunteer (?) workers from all
over the Islamic world, and we may actually have a peek around.
Then we enter a multi-floor department store: it's pretty pale
compared to Western ones, with all these half-empty shelves and
the dim light. Eventually, we stroll "home" again, to Yulya's
place. Elena is tired and withdraws after dinner. My Russian
being non-existent, and Yulya's English and Uzbek being very res-
tricted, we however manage, with a lot of enthusiasm, to squeeze
out a meaningful conversation, huddled over a dictionary. Some
of her friends drop by, one of them, called Andrei, being fluent
in English. So this is an excellent opportunity for a jump-start
on Uzbek essentials that are in no guidebook yet.
The Russian "Minority" in Uzbekistan
------------------------------------
Under Soviet times, a lot of people (were) moved into Uzbekistan,
facing no linguistic or other problems, because Russian was the
unifying language of the "Brotherhood of Man" and because Moscow
controlled everything anyway. But since the collapse of the
USSR, every newly re-independent republic follows its own course
and rediscovers its history, its language, its cultural heritage,
and its religion. Uzbekistan, for example, now remembers the
Timurid dynasty and the poet Ali Sher Navoi, its Uzbek mother-
tongue, its folk-songs, and Islam. Its new (and old!) ruler
redefines the name of the game, and formerly despised men who
cheated on Moscow are elevated to heroes. All this doesn't go
without difficulties for the many non-Uzbeks, especially for
those who are second and third generation immigrants: suddenly
demoted from "ruling class" to "also-ran," they lose their jobs,
sometimes to less-qualified people, because they don't speak Uz-
bek. Even worse for them, the mandatory teaching of the Uzbek
language and of the new alphabet (an extension of the Turkish
Latin-based alphabet) are being phased in as of the fall 1994, so
as to become standards by the year 2000. All this being but jus-
tice after a long period of what effectively was colonization,
you can't help feeling sympathetic to these minorities who have
been trapped by History. Those who can afford it return to their
home-lands: Andrei estimates the departures from Tashkent to Rus-
sia at about one hundred per day. But what about those who don't
have anywhere to go, or who can't afford leaving (I met such a
destitute Russian family in Bukhara), or who are too old to learn
a new language and a new alphabet, not to mention the adaptation
to a market economy?
Saturday 30 July 1994: Tashkent
After a long night's sleep and a delicious pancake breakfast, I
go with Elena on a third sight-seeing tour through Tashkent. Our
first destination is the TACIS Business Communication Center,
where free email-access (for non-commercial purposes) is provided
from 10am to noon. This is how Elena keeps in touch with her son
Andrei, and she finds his message announcing my imminent visit.
I myself send off a few emails to provide some friends with brag-
ging rights for having received email from Uzbekistan. The so-
called "old" bazaar (Alaysky Bazaar) isn't exactly old, but it is
very lively and interesting. The State Art Museum features some
nice pre-Soviet exhibits.
The most interesting sight of the day is something I never ex-
pected to see outside movies or dreams: the streets are, believe
it or not, littered with money! The explanation is that, by the
end of today's working hours, the Sum coupon is totally phased
out and the new Sum currency the sole legal tender. But of
course nobody accepts coupons anymore, so the people who naively
hoped getting rid of them by a last-minute shopping spree often
express their disgust at the new economical phenomena by actually
throwing their money away.
Today, Yulya prepares "mantI" for lunch, an Uzbek specialty not
unlike the same-named Turkish one, except that the pieces are
much bigger here and not dipped into a yogurt sauce (but maybe
yogurt just wasn't available). At the end of the afternoon, Yu-
lya and I graduate with high honors in dictionary-assisted sign-
language.
For dinner, Elena and I go to visit Lena's parents, her son
Andrei's in-laws. Getting there is quite an odyssey through
suburbia, by means of buses, tramways, walking, and taxis. The
warm hospitality of these people is again a very humbling experi-
ence, and I will always fondly remember how they shared what lit-
tle they had. For dessert, we have a superb apple-pie. Back to
Chilonzar, I again spend the rest of the evening chatting with
Yulya and her friends.
The Soviet Legacy
-----------------
So what's left of Soviet times since the collapse of the USSR and
the independence of Uzbekistan? As hinted before, there is a
rather decent infrastructure, and a wealth of socialist-heroic
architecture and monuments. Tashkent having been a major hub of
Aeroflot, Uzbekistan was able to "confiscate" an enormous number
of aircraft and set up a domestic and international carrier,
called Uzbek Airways. The Soviets had bootstrapped the Uzbek in-
dustry and agriculture (cotton, tea, vegetables, and fruit),
though often with an absolute disrespect for Mother Nature, and
most of this seems still operational. It is not sure whether the
Uzbeks alone would have been able to achieve all this, not to
mention the weathering of disastrous earthquakes. But now the
"good times" are over and the Muscovite central command structure
is gone: minorities find themselves stranded in Uzbekistan, the
Russian language and Cyrillic alphabet are going to be phased out
(though I suspect they will still be useful for a long time,
especially if Uzbekistan has to call on Moscow for economic help
in case there is not enough Western investment to keep them
afloat), the shelves are half-empty, few people understand the
principles of a free-market economy, old disoriented men stroll
around with military decorations pinned to their plainclothes
shirts, and so on. Quite a few people told me that if they had
the choice, they would go back to communism: it was bad, but not
as bad as this. Soviet influence can also be observed in the
secular attitudes of the people: in what used to be a stronghold
of Islam, few people now seem to have a working knowledge of
their ancestors' religion. I have heard very, very few prayer-
calls from minarets, and seen even less people going to mosques
at prayer-times. I have seen very, very few veiled women: virtu-
ally all Uzbek women walk around in superb silk dresses that hide
little of their shapes.
Sunday 31 July 1994: Tashkent --> Samarkand
On this day of my departure, my adorable hosts tell me they want
me to stay longer and go with them to Chimgan, in the mountains.
But the Silk Road is still long from here to Turkey, so I stick
to my plan. Later, it turns out that I should have gone with
them. Elena and Yulya accompany me to the long-distance bus-
terminal. It's bedlam there, as nobody seems to know anything
about schedules, and nobody seems to sell any tickets. Even my
hosts are confused, but they take it with patience and humor.
Eventually, some lady in a ticket-office "decides" to sell tick-
ets to Samarkand ($2.50) and I board a Mercedes bus after saying
good-bye to gold-hearted Elena and Yulya.
I'm in for a five-hour-ride on a decent highway across fertile,
irrigated land. "Chaykhanas" (tea-houses) border the road, and
peasants sell their crops there. In Tashkent, they only sold as
many tickets as there were seats, but, of course, once outside
the terminal, the bus-driver starts free-lancing and picks up
every single peasant and drops them, wherever they want. So the
ride takes much longer than scheduled, and the bus gets very
full. Murphy's Law has it that the passengers in the middle of
the bus are always those who need to get off next. But it is all
fun to me (maybe because I have a seat!), and nothing new or
unexpected anyway. Eventually, we do reach Samarkand.
The bus-terminal is way out of town, so I hail a taxi to the
suburban address Elena had given me. Once there, the cabbie
tries to re-interpret the Sum-amount we had agreed upon as a
dollar-amount: why do all the most obnoxious and greedy people of
the world have to become taxi-drivers?
Ludmilla doesn't know that I am coming, because Elena hadn't suc-
ceeded in getting through to her friend on the phone. Moreover,
Ludmilla only speaks Russian, but when she reads the introductory
letter from Elena, she invites me in. Things are a bit awkward
for a while, because of the linguistic barrier, and I feel like
an intruder, but Ludmilla quickly warms up to her "imposed" task
of hosting me. She serves me the mandatory "chay" (tea) and some
food, and then takes me to the city proper for a quick primer on
transportation and orientation.
At Hotel Samarkand, she asks an Intourist agent to translate a
few things she wants to tell me. I do not wish, however, to "af-
ford" any of the cut-throat-priced activities offered by the In-
tourist agent (otherwise I'd be staying with them, no?) and con-
vey to Ludmilla that I'm not rich and would rather see things on
my own. Indeed, during the taxi-ride from the bus-terminal to
her apartment, and during the long tram-ride from there to down-
town, I had seen the skyline of the blue-tiled domes of
Samarkand's landmark mosques, mausolea, and madrassas, and I am
eager to finally see these fabled monuments of the city of which
Alexander the Great had said: "Everything I have heard about
Samarkand is true, except that it is more beautiful than I ever
imagined."
Ludmilla understands and takes me herself to the breathtaking Re-
gistan ensemble, definitely one the world's finest, but least-
known, squares: three perfectly proportioned madrassas delimit
three of its sides, and the intricate geometric mosaics covering
every square-inch of their walls glimmer in the waning sun-light.
It's absolutely awesome, and I need some time to take in the
beauty and majesty of this ensemble. This is low-season in terms
of tourism, and Samarkandians seem to take the square for grant-
ed, so I have it all "for myself."
Food
----
In these times of economic hardship, one shouldn't be capricious
in terms of what food is dished up in Uzbekistan. My Russian-
origins host-families couldn't afford more than staple-food (po-
tatoes, cabbage, rice, beans) with the occasional treat to some
of Uzbekistan's world-famous fruits, such as the superb sweet
melons: hmmm!
On the Uzbek side, the food is definitely linked to Turkish cu-
isine ("mantI", "shashlik" or "kebap", "kOfte", ...), but I spot-
ted a few Uzbek specialties: there is "plov" (an Uzbek variant of
the omnipresent rice-"pilaf" in Asian countries), "laghman" (noo-
dle and vegetable soup), the baked "samsa" sandwiches that you
can get at every "chaykhana" or nearby, "kaymak" (a fantastic
milk-based breakfast invented by the Uighur people, in present
day's China), etc.
Monday 1 August 1994: Samarkand
Shortly after opening time, I'm back to the Registan ensemble,
where they charge me a steep $1.50 for entrance with photo-rights
($1 without). Starting from the right-hand side, and proceeding
counter-clockwise, I first visit the most recent madrassa, called
the Sher Dor Madrassa (1636). It features distinctive tiger-
drawings and suns with Mongol faces, which is all definitely
Islam-flouting (the Qu'ran forbids the representation of living
beings, all creation being reserved to God). Ashur, an official
guide, proposes, in flawless German, to show me around for $1, an
amount for which I won't learn anything that's not already in my
books, but I'm craving for a meaningful conversation, so what the
heck. The interior courtyard of the madrassa has two levels of
student-cells, one being set up as an exhibit, another one being
occupied by a friendly carpet-dealer from Afghanistan (he runs a
carpet factory in the suburbs, though one of his employees is ac-
tually working on a carpet in the store), the other ones being
mostly occupied by souvenir stores, where the little pressure to
buy testifies to uninhibited spending of package tourists. Next
comes the Tilla Kari Madrassa (1660), well-known for its mosque,
which features gold-inlaid ceilings. A small museum of Islamic
art is in the right wing of the mosque. Finally, the Ulug Bek
Madrassa (1420), which is said to be the most perfect one. It
was built by Ulug Bek, the grandson of Timur and probably the
best astronomer of pre-optical astronomy (see below). The facade
of his madrassa is covered with stars, but unfortunately scaf-
folded for yet another restoration (the minarets are dangerously
leaning) and hence closed to visitors. I linger there for a
while, admiring the harmonious composition of these three master-
pieces of architecture.
I then walk past the Chorsu and the museum, through the pedestri-
an Tashkentskaya shopping street, to the Bibi Khanym Mosque (ear-
ly 15th century), which was commandeered by Timur's favorite wife
while he was on a military campaign. Every building in Samarkand
seems to come with a local legend or two, and this mosque has a
particularly nice one. The architect became quite enamored of
Bibi Khanym, and blackmailed her for a kiss, lest he wouldn't
continue the construction. Of course, she wouldn't let him, but
eventually conceded to a compromise: he could kiss her cheek
through a pillow. But his kiss was so ardent that it burned her
skin, despite the pillow. When Timur returned and saw the
treacherous mark on his wife's cheek, he of course soon pinpoint-
ed the guilty one. But the architect fled onto one of the
minarets of his mosque, ...and flew to Bukhara, or so they say!
Anyway, the mosque was so huuuge that it soon collapsed under its
own weight and because of several earthquakes: the $0.50 entrance
fee is a waste, as you can see everything worthwhile from the
outside.
On to the bazaar, a drab Soviet-style concrete affair, but
tremendously enlivened by the riot of colors of the silk-dresses
of the Uzbek and Tajik women, the smells of their fresh veget-
ables and fruits, the colored (!) "non" bread, the spices, the
"chaykhanas" and restaurants, and the general bustle inside. This
is a superb place for people-watching.
I have lunch across the street at the Shark Restaurant, and then
walk out, past the Afrasiab archaeological dig (where pre-Timurid
Samarkand lies), to the Ulug Bek Observatory (1429), or what's
left of it. The cashier thinks I am Turkish, and "imposes" a
guided tour on me ($1 total), not realizing that my frequent
lacks of understanding are more due to my restricted Turkish than
to the differences between Turkish and Uzbek. But he is very
friendly, and very enthusiastic about "his" Ulug Bek's scientific
achievements, so it is a lot of fun. A chart clearly shows that
Ulug Bek's astronomical computations were by far the most precise
of pre-optical astronomy: for the duration of the solar year, he
was only off by 61 seconds. Ulug Bek, who succeeded to his
grand-father Timur as Emir of Samarkand (his father preferring to
live in Herat), must have been one of the most enlightened rulers
this world has ever seen. Under his reign, Samarkand became one
of the world centers of science. My favorite quotes of his atti-
tude are "The acquisition of knowledge is the duty of every
Muslim man and every Muslim woman" (seen on his madrassa in Bu-
khara) and "Where science starts, religion stops." But such de-
clarations of progressiveness didn't go down well with his own
son, a fundamentalist, who had him executed for that.
Back to the bazaar area by collective taxi, in which all the kids
stare at me as if I were a space invader, I head out to the
Shakh-i-Zinda ensemble. This is actually a narrow street lined
by mausoleums of the Timurid dynasty (14-15th centuries) ($0.50
entrance), some of which feature dazzling blue ceramics and ma-
jolica tile-work.
But enough of visits for today. The rest of the afternoon, I
laze over a teapot at a "chaykhana", and then return to the Re-
gistan to gaze again at its quiet perfection as the sunlight
wanes.
A long trolley-bus later, I make it back to Ludmilla's apartment
for dinner, "chay", a shave, and a shower.
A Turkic Future?
---------------
As Uzbekistan and its neighboring Central Asian republics became
independent, a "cold war" was waged between Turkey and Iran in
order to see who would take over as the
financial/cultural/spiritual mentor of these republics. The
predictable result was that Turkey seems to make closer links
with the Turkic republics (Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan,
and Kazakhstan), while Iran seems to have closer ties with the
Farsi population of Tajikistan. The former phase in an extension
of the Turkish alphabet (a variant of the Latin one) in lieu of
the Cyrillic one, legalize their Turkic languages, and revive
their Turkic past. There are thus huge untapped markets for
Turkish industrialists (I already mentioned the DoGan taxis, but
I saw various other Turkish products as well), and for Turkish
Sunni Muslim influence (the fundamentalist "Zaman Gazeti" already
runs a Turkmen edition). Thousands of Uzbek youths study in Tur-
key. In return, Turkey hopes for natural gas and oil pipelines
(across the Caspian Sea, Azerbaijan, and Armenia, if only the
latter would stop their war!), which would then provide Turkey
with a much-wanted energy-independence from its Middle-Eastern
neighbors.
Tuesday 2 August 1994: Samarkand
I spend the entire morning hanging around the bazaar area: as
usual, I can't get around to disturbing people by asking them if
I can take photos of them. I'm also hunting for souvenirs,
though nothing really inspires me, and souvenir vendors usually
price themselves out of the market, spoiled as they are by In-
tourist bus-loads of naive Westerners. Good postcards are hard
to come by as well: they are from Soviet times, and must be
bought in pricey stacks of twenty, of which you'll discard fif-
teen, and be embarrassed about the artistic quality of the five
you plan to actually send home. After a fun hands-and-feet dis-
cussion with a group of young Tajiks (their language is of the
Farsi family, and completely unrelated to Turkish), I have a
basic "shashlik" and "chay" lunch at a "chaykhana" in the bazaar.
I then set out, in a most extreme heat, on a tour to various
monuments in the southern suburbs: the Ishrat Khana Mausoleum
(1464) and Khodja Abdi Darun Mausoleum (also fifteenth century).
The latter features a typical Central Asian composition, namely a
pleasant square "khauz" (pool) with venerable old trees at its
corners and surrounded by nice buildings: the mausoleum, a mosque
with brightly painted wooden pillars outside, and a madrassa.
While I linger in this shaded haven of peace, some Tajik students
of the madrassa come out for a chat. Next, the Gur Emir (Timur's
makeshift mausoleum: he died unexpectedly in 1405) turns out
closed because of heavy-duty restoration: it seems to be the
highest-priority restoration, judging from the impressive deploy-
ment of machines and manpower. So I can't visit Timur's legen-
dary tomb, although I did try, in vain, to sneak past the work-
ers. I then laze the remaining part of the afternoon at or near-
by the unforgettable Registan. I daydream of Omar Khayyam, the
Persian mathematician and poet (author of the "Rubayat") who
lived here for a while.
Uzbekitudes
-----------
There were quite a few novel things for me in Uzbekistan. For
instance, it took me some time to realize that certain shop in-
scriptions were not written in the Arabic alphabet: the Uzbeks
have devised a very ornate "font" for the Cyrillic alphabet that
makes the letters look like Arabic ones. Also, many men con-
stantly chew the so-called Bukhara tobacco, which makes for very
a difficult understanding when they talk to you: the vowels be-
come completely inaudible. All people constantly spit their
saliva on the ground, just about anywhere, though no offense
seems to be intended when they (accidentally) do so in front of
your feet. Otherwise healthy teeth are often plated with gold or
whatever yellowish material can be afforded, and this seems to be
a sign of beauty (I couldn't agree less) and a measure of wealth,
if not savings? For women, joined eyebrows (via makeup, if
necessary) are another canon of beauty. One says "rakhmat"
(thank-you) by putting one's right hand over one's (left) heart
and gently bowing forward. In stores, age-old abaci are in use
next to plugged-off calculators.
Wednesday 3 August 1994: Samarkand --> Bukhara
After breakfast, Ludmilla sees me off at the bus-stop. From now
on, I'll be completely on my own, but I feel confident I that I
know enough to get around cheap. At the long-distance bus-
station I purchase a ticket to Bukhara ($2.50) and am immediately
whisked onto an incredibly decrepit bus that is about to leave.
I should have waited for the next one, as I get the last seat,
well, make that a spot on the metal box at the rear of the bus,
the actual seat having been torn off. Anyway, at least I sit,
because the ride becomes a tour through hell when the driver
starts free-lancing outside town and filling the bus to intoler-
able capacity. Though it must be said that older women, pregnant
ones, and young mothers enjoy extreme courtesy. The waits during
"(un)loading" of passengers and their bulky luggage, which is
about every two kilometers, turn the bus into a "hamam"-on-wheels
on this 45C day. Everybody is sweating profusely and greets the
short surges of actual movement with great relief. It's hard to
believe and enjoy the fact that I'm actually traveling on the
Silk Road. The last two hours of the seven-hour-journey are much
better though, and the open windows somewhat compensate for the
lack of A/C. Eventually, we do pull into Bukhara's long-distance
bus-station.
Bus #7 takes me downtown, where astonished construction workers
delight in giving me directions, in Uzbek, to the Varakshah
Hotel. But then the big disappointment: non-CIS citizens are now
charged a hefty $15 a night, nothing short of a 700% increase
since the October'93 printing of my guidebook! After a brief
round, it turns out that this still is the cheapest and sleaziest
hotel in town, and they have the nerve to charge you nearly the
equivalent of an average monthly salary! Trained in middle-
eastern ways, I do my best to haggle them down to a reasonable
amount, such as the one paid by CIS citizens, but years of Soviet
command economy (it's a Sputnik joint) make them about as
cooperative and open-minded as prison doors. Since they have
nothing else to do, I pull them aside to a restaurant table
(where the bar-man offers me a soda), and teach them "Capitalism
100" on a paper napkin: concepts such as market economy, buyers'
market in low season, and sellers' market in high season meet
mostly unbelieving blank faces. So I prove, by a few elementary
computations, that this system would bring them more money (using
$5 in low-season and $20 in high season), but all I reap is "But
Moscow says we have to charge you $15, any time of the year."
"Forget Moscow," I nearly scream in despair, "you are indepen-
dent!" The bar-man seems to have grasped though, and reduces his
earlier offer of a bed in a private flat in the distant southern
suburbs from $10 to $7. I accept, but then he can't get hold of
the owner on the phone, and asks me to wait for an hour, which
could be anything up to six hours, time being nonexistent in Cen-
tral Asia. As I'm hungry and reeking of travel-grit, I lose my
nerve and tell him "yarIn" (tomorrow) before reluctantly checking
in for $15 at the hotel. The elevators don't work, the recep-
tionist has trouble finding matching keys for the rooms, and
after rejecting several rooms, I accept the one that seems least
neglected: tired dusty furniture, curtains, and sheets; the
wall-paper peels off when you just stare at it; the promised hot
water never shows up; I can flush the toilet exactly once as it
goes into infinity after the first usage; and I have to actually
hold the plumbing with one hand while taking a much-needed,
though cold, shower.
At 6pm, in a total state of fury, I set out north into the city
proper. With every step, my anger evaporates a little bit more,
as I walk through a time warp from a drab contemporary Soviet
suburbia into an intact, inhabited, medieval city-core! I in-
stantly fall in love with Bukhara, and it is indeed going to be
the absolute highlight of my trip. Whereas Samarkand is exhibi-
tionist in all its splendor, Bukhara has secret charm! I settle
at the "chaykhana" of the sensationally beautiful Lyab-i-Khauz
pool (1620), feast on "samsa" sandwiches, and happily chat with
the gossipy old men. They look sort-of like dervishes, and I
later learn that it was them who kept Islam alive in Uzbekistan.
The pool is flanked by the Divanbegi Madrassa (1623), Divanbegi
Khanaka (1620), and Kukeldash Madrassa (1569). The chaykhana is
well-shaded, and has a small adjacent park with a statue of Khod-
ja Nasreddin and his donkey: so add Bukhara to the long list of
cities and countries who claim this semi-mythical wandering derv-
ish to be their own.
Then Mr. Salvation comes: Mohammed is one of those new-
generation English-speaking hustlers who prey on innocent tour-
ists for a quick carpet sale. In a good mood now, I treat him
politely and tell him that I will go to Ashkhabad, where the so-
called Bukhara rugs are actually made, so no need to try further.
He understands and switches to mentioning T-shirts and other col-
lectibles that can be admired, and bought!, at his father's shop
(where else?). I tell him that I don't plan on buying anything
as my budget is going to take a huge blow with these ridiculous
price increases in hotels. He answers that there is a possibili-
ty of sleeping in a private house, just three minutes away, in
the city center, for $10. Hmmm, I open my ears, but don't show
too much interest yet, because I am wary of baits. Over the next
hour or so, the discussion gets back several times to that offer,
so I finally decide to have a look. And I land in heaven!
Mobinjon runs a pension (or B&B, although nobody seems to know
the terminology for what they are doing) in the beautifully re-
stored house of his grandmother. You'd walk past this house, but
it's a gem inside: an inner courtyard with trees, the museum-like
rooms with a traditional Uzbek decoration (I lack the words to
describe the place, you have to see it to believe it), and a car-
peted wooden "chaykhana" dais on a terrace, where his wife serves
us "chay", while his young daughter, nicknamed Bibi Khanym, mills
about. There also is a big, friendly dog, and dozens of domestic
pigeons cooing on the roofs. I think it took me half a second to
decide that I'd check in here the day after, the hotel of course
wouldn't return my pre-paid $15. Mobinjon is a former 100m-
sprint champion from Tajikistan (10.4" or so, in the 1960s), and
obviously better-off. He speaks no English, but Uzbek (like all
Tajiks in Bukhara, and unlike the Tajiks in Samarkand), so we can
sort-of converse. He opened the place a few months ago to tour-
ism, and it seems to be part of a chain: he will introduce me to
the organizer, Raisa, one day, so that she set me up with the
branch in Urgench. The $10 price is confirmed, and for an addi-
tional $4 I'd get breakfast and home-cooking dinner. Short of
sleeping in the large city-parks on the outskirts, this is an
offer I'm not likely to beat (although it still is shockingly ex-
pensive for local salary standards), so I promise him to be back
tomorrow. On the way back to the hotel, I (have to) tip off
Mohammed, who turns sour at what he considers a meager reward.
Uzbeks yet have to wake up to the fact that not all foreigners
are walking dollar-bags, and that a new breed of travelers is go-
ing to come to their country.
Intourist
---------
The world's biggest rip-off (read: company with the highest bene-
fit margin) was run by the Soviets, right throughout communist
times! Intourist was the state travel agency (with an absolute
monopoly) one had to deal with in order to travel in the USSR, or
better, in order to be shown what was deemed interesting to tour-
ists, at cash dollar prices that were in complete disproportion
to the actual (low) cost of the tour. The bad news is that In-
tourist is still active, and so are its "babies" in the newly
re-independent republics. As my friend Hany keeps saying, In-
tourist should be re-named "Out-tourist," because it is actually
very successful in keeping potential visitors outside these
republics!
I told the Uzbek ambassador in Ankara that I was not willing to
dance to the Intourist tune, and once he understood that I really
meant it, he got me in touch with an Uzbek company that has a
branch in istanbul. For a handy $15 "bribe," they "sold" me a
business invitation, for which the ambassador eventually
delivered me a tourist visa, but without the otherwise mandatory
Intourist package tour (minimum three nights in Intourist hotels,
at about $85 each), and hence absolute freedom to move around at
my whim. See my file "uzbekistan.misc" (in the directory where
this trip report is stored) for further information about visa
"support" and other tricks for avoiding Intourist.
For museums, accommodation, and domestic flights, the rip-off
continues, though. Price-lists for these services have two
columns, one for CIS citizens and one for non-CIS citizens. The
former pay normal rates in local currency, while the latter have
to shell out about 70 times as much, in cash dollars, for exactly
the same things! This is all highly official, so you can't real-
ly fight it, except by not visiting museums, sleeping in the
parks, and traveling overland only.
I'm afraid there is an ethics issue for tourists and travelers
here as well: considering the huge benefit margin of Intourist,
which even comes handily in cash dollars, what did the Soviet
governments do with this money? I'm surprised that I have never
seen the following connection made before: this money might actu-
ally have been used to pay for spies and moles in Western coun-
tries, as well as for Western technology!? So the "millionaires"
who afforded package-tours in the USSR, for bragging rights and
snob credit, maybe unwittingly prolonged the so-called Cold War,
further delaying the long overdue collapse of the Soviet empire!
Thursday 4 August 1994: Bukhara
In the early morning, I check out of the hotel and move to
Mobinjon's pension. He dishes up a wonderful breakfast, includ-
ing a protein-rich Bukharan "kaymak". Thus fortified, I start
visiting Bukhara. First the "kosh" ensemble of the facing Abdul-
lah Khan Madrassa (1590) and Madari Khan Madrassa (1567), then
the very old Ismail Samani Mausoleum (905) with its superb
brick-work. It was only rediscovered by the Soviets, otherwise
the Mongols would probably have razed it. While doing three
tours around the mausoleum so that, according to local legend, a
wish of mine come true, I pass three students with their history
teacher, doing their tours in the opposite direction: does that
mean my wish will not come true? The two girls giggle each time
we cross, and when we are all done, they seek me out with a timid
"Do you speak English?" It turns out that tomorrow they will
take an entrance exam at Bukhara University, so as to study En-
glish, hence the reason for their tours. So a last-minute revi-
sion with a foreigner comes in handy. The boy and the teacher
don't seem to understand the conversation, and (therefore?) the
girls ask quite personal questions, about my age, marital status,
etc. I have no clue about the extent to which single Uzbek women
can be seen in the company of single (foreign) men at a "chaykha-
na", so I decide to play it safe, especially that they reach the
same conclusion and bid me good-bye. At the Chashma Ayub (the
Spring of Job, which is mentioned in the Bible), we meet again.
Inside the 12th century building, the prettier girl actually
fills the metal cup for me from the source: I'm not aware though
of local legends about the virtues of that water, nor of any sym-
bolism when it is offered to a man by a woman. As an aside,
there was (is?) a custom in Samarkand that a pregnant woman steal
food from a handsome male passersby, so that her baby be as hand-
some as her victim.
I then have a look around the bazaar, the old city walls (gone
and going with the wind), and the Bolo Khauz Mosque (1712), which
features the only other remaining "khauz" of Bukhara, besides the
inimitable Lyab-i-Khauz, which embodies the very soul of Bukhara.
All the other pools have been destroyed by the Soviets, which act
single-handedly resulted in doubling the life expectation of Bu-
kharans! Talking about worms and other vermin in stagnant water:
I saw gory photos of quack doctors extracting long worms from
holes at the ankles of human beings. The mosque features a nice
porch (1917) with colorful wooden pillars with stalactites at
their tops, a sensational ceiling and frieze, and an unattached
minaret that rather looks like a clock-tower. Little boys play
around, swim in, and jump into the pool all day long, just like
at the other pool. Except that here there also is a working ma-
drassa, and that other little boys with white skull-caps study on
the balconies of their rooms, or at least they are supposed to
study, because most of the time they longingly gaze at their
friends playing outside.
At the Ark (16th century), the fortress-like emir's palace within
the city-walls (Uzbek emirs seemed to fear their own people as
much as their outside enemies), the ticket man thinks I'm Turk-
ish, and with an exclamation of "ArkadaSIm!" (my friend) lets me
pay the Uzbek price, rather than the tourist one. Luckily, be-
cause there isn't much worth the detour, except for the fine view
over the Bukharan medieval skyline, which you can have for free
by climbing onto the Ark from behind, where it has collapsed.
It is very, very hot by now, and I stroll back towards the
center, on Registan street. This takes me to another of
Bukhara's gems, the Poi Kalyan square with its "kosh" ensemble of
the Kalyan Mosque (16th century) and the Mir-i-Arab Madrassa
(1536, the only one never closed by the Soviets). Not being a
Muslim, I can't get into the latter, although I get a peek into
the magnificent interior. But I can visit the former, an open-
air mosque, and gaze in awe at its imposing Kalyan Minaret (47m
high, built in 1127), the only local building not razed by the
invading Mongols, because its sheer size over-awed Jenghiz Khan
in 1220.
The sweltering heat becomes oppressive, so I head for the "chay-
khana" at the Lyab-i-Khauz, through the multi-domed bazaars of
Taq-i-Zargaran (jewelers), Abdullah Khan (silk), Taq-i-Furushan
(cap-makers), and Taq-i-Sarrafan (money-changers). These are
mostly the ancient purposes of this bazaars, which are situated
only at intersections, and they are not nearly as lively as you
would expect them to be in this part of the world. Over tea and
a lunch snack, I make friends with Vassili, a Russian ex-math-
teacher from the south Ural who has been stranded in Bukhara for
two weeks now, waiting for spare-parts for the merchandise train
on which he now is a mechanic. He speaks halting German, so I
can again actually converse meaningfully with somebody. Around
4pm, as the blazing sunlight somehow diminishes, we head back to
the point where I interrupted my visit. In the string of ba-
zaars, he asks for the "Russian" prices of the items I'm in-
terested in, while we pretend not being together. But damn again
Intourist and its big spenders: even for Vassili, the merchants
are not willing to part with their trinkets for even remotely
reasonable prices. Why should they, as in a day or so, somebody
is going to happily pay them mega-bucks for $1 items and even
think s/he got a deal. (Eventually, I bought most of my Uzbek
souvenirs from the "Russian bazaar" in ...Ankara!, at a fraction
of the Uzbek prices.) We then visit the "kosh" ensemble of the
Abdulaziz Madrassa (1652) and Ulug Bek Madrassa (1417, the oldest
in Central Asia), climb onto the back side of the Ark for another
fine view over old Bukhara, and return to the center. We split
up for today, but promise to meet again tomorrow.
For dinner, I eat my way through a mountain of "plov", with the
united Mobinjon family, on the carpeted dais on the now cool ter-
race. The life of a "pasha".
Fashion
-------
After decades of Soviet influence, and with significant Russian
minorities, there is not much distinctive fashion among Uzbek and
Turkmen men, compared to the Russians, at least in the cities.
Only older locals and villagers stick to their traditional dress.
A common feature of Muslim men is the black pillbox-shaped "tu-
beteyka" skullcap with embroidered white flowery motives. More
colorful versions thereof exist, and seem to be a fashion more
than a religious statement, especially among young women. But
Muslim men rarely are colorful dressers.
Regarding the women now, there is a big difference in fashion
between the locals and the immigrants. The latter wear plain
western clothes, but Uzbek and Tajik women like to wear one-piece
ankle-length silk dresses sporting an explosion of colors (some
would say garish colors), with pajama-like trousers underneath.
Together with their sensational average looks (imagine a combina-
tion of the best features of Turkish women and Chinese women:
tall, proud, high cheekbones, slightly slanted eyes, etc.), they
continuously make your day and actually bring the streets to
life.
Friday 5 August 1994: Bukhara
For some reason, Vassili doesn't show up at our scheduled meeting
point. So I visit by myself the major omissions of yesterday,
including the Magok-i-Attari Mosque (12th century, the oldest
surviving mosque in Central Asia, but actually built on top of a
Zoroastrian temple, itself on top of a Buddhist one), various
other madrassas, and the Zindan, the infamous "bug-pit," or
private prison of the emir, where flesh-eating insects kept the
prisoners company; two British officers died there as recently as
late last century.
I have lunch at the Lyab-i-Khauz again ("tukhum laghman": egg,
noodles, and meat-balls) and laze at the "chaykhana" the entire
afternoon. I'm just busy doing nothing, chatting every now and
then with the men, writing parts of this diary and some
postcards, conversing with a Kazakh oil engineer, meditating on
Bukhara having once been the Pillar of Islam, with, among others,
the physician ibn-Sina (Avicenna) and the mathematician and ency-
clopedist al-Beruni studying here. Today's flocks of Intourist
package-tourists must have cursed me for spoiling their idyllic
photos of life at a Central Asian "chaykhana" with my Western
presence.
In the late afternoon, I set out, on public transportation, to
the Makhosa (the nickname for the last emirs' tacky summer
palace). It takes me too long to get there, and the ticket ven-
dor says he must close fifteen minutes after my arrival and yet
charge me an unbecoming amount of money. Negotiation for res-
tricted access to the gardens and exteriors for a mightily re-
duced fee is once again fruitless, because "Moscow says..." For-
tunately, a friendly "yahudi" (Jewish) souvenir seller offers me
a ride back to town.
Dinner in Mobinjon's family circle consists of an excellent
"laghman", and Mobinjon even gets some home-made red wine so that
we toast to Omar Khayyam. Unforgettable moments.
Drinks
------
Besides the ubiquitous "chay" (green tea), which is the national
drink and is offered on all occasions and can be had in the
numerous "chaykhanas" ($0.03 for an entire pot), Uzbekistan has
excellent fruit juices. Bottled mineral water is hard to come
by, but a slightly sparkling water can be found everywhere. It
is often mixed into some fruit syrup at street-side stalls. In
Uzbekistan, there also is a (very bad) beer (it tastes like
soap), which is sold from huge containers-on-wheels at the curb-
side. Turkmen beer (sold in bottles) is decent, however. There
is no need to discuss here the full arsenal of Russian and im-
ported alcoholic drinks.
Western (soft-)drinks of course make it to Uzbekistan, but at
prices that are even higher than in the West: they are imports
after all. It was sad to see people lining up in huge queues
(especially in Ashkhabad) in order to have a glass of Pepsi from
a barrel: it wasn't expensive, at least for me, but I suspect the
people didn't know they only got a heavily diluted version of
Pepsi, hence the comparatively low price. Worse, people would
spend considerable percentages of their salaries for a can or
bottle of Cola. However, this irresistible temptation of Central
Asians to have a piece of the (formerly despised?) West, and the
ingrained reflex/need of Western visitors to go for these cold
products, make all these people play bad tricks on their bodies:
in the intense heat of an Uzbek summer, only hot drinks are easy
on your heart and actually quench your thirst.
Saturday 6 August 1994: Bukhara
As I linger over breakfast, Raisa drops by. She is an Intourist
renegade who has just started her own company (currently called
"Salom") aiming at business and tourism assistance services. See
my file "uzbekistan.misc" (in the directory where this trip re-
port is stored) for further information on her services. She is
fluent in English and very helpful. Mobinjon is one of her
partners, and she sets me up on the phone with her partners in
Urgench, my next destination. When I tell her that I am on a
shoestring budget, and what that means, and that many more people
will come to Uzbekistan as individual travelers rather than as
consumerist tourists, she decides not to register me with whomev-
er she would have to register me (OVIR?), which supposedly saves
me quite a chunk of money (I forgot the amount, but it was unmen-
tionable). The rule always is that if you look for bureaucracy,
you will find it.
She picks me up shortly after lunch to give me a ride to the
long-distance bus-station, but it turns out that no bus will
leave for Urgench today, because there were not enough people
willing to travel from Urgench to Bukhara the night before. "Ex-
pect the unexpected" is another motto here. So back to
Mobinjon's palace for another 24 hours in delightful Bukhara.
After a long siesta, I head out to see the Char Minar Madrassa
(1807), one of the few remaining buildings inside town I haven't
visited yet. It is somewhere in the maze of back-streets behind
the Kukeldash Madrassa, and most people give me directions reach-
ing about as far as the tips of their noses, but eventually I do
reach this charming madrassa, or at least the gate with four
minarets that is left of it.
I then make my daily pilgrimage to the magnetic Lyab-i-Khauz and
its "chaykhana", and guess who's there, Vassili! His train had a
leak yesterday, so he had to work on it all day long, he ex-
plains. One of our tea drinking partners of the day (you just
sit down wherever there is space) turns out to be Arif Alimov,
apparently a very famous opera singer (a native of Bukhara), and
Vassili nearly drops off the dais for having the honor to meet
him! We are having a good time together, actually conversing in
a triangle: Vassili and Arif in Russian, Vassili and I in German,
Arif and I in Turkish/Uzbek. Shortly before dusk, Arif asks us
to come along with him towards the suburbs. Suddenly, he asks if
somebody has a bottle, and Vassili hands him his water-bottle.
Arif opens it, pours it out onto the street, and motions us to
wait for him as he disappears into an apartment block. Minutes
later, he returns with a shopping bag, takes us to a "samsa" ven-
dor to buy half a dozen of these delicious spicy sandwiches, and
we settle down on some bench in an empty city park. Seconds
later, we toast to friendship on the red wine he just acquired!
The wine is rather strong, and we turn quite tipsy over it. Omar
Khayyam of course gets a toast as well. The whole scene, in its
improbability, was one of the priceless moments of my life.
After dinner with the Mobinjon family, and even more house-wine,
the discussion turns to the hard transition period from communism
to capitalism. But I give them solace with the facts that Uzbek-
istan at least doesn't have a civil war (unlike many nearby coun-
tries) and that it has a lot of potential and infrastructure
left, if only natural gas and tourism. Moreover, as a former
athlete, he always was better off anyway, and he seems to have
understood how to keep afloat by starting his pension.
Sunday 7 August 1994: Bukhara --> Urgench
After breakfast, I meet Vassili and Arif again, for the last time
though, at the Lyab-i-Khauz "chaykhana", and we have more tea
...and wine, when nobody looks. Then it's time for good-byes, as
after lunch I will make my second attempt to reach Urgench.
Raisa's husband and son pick me up for a ride to the bus-station.
Everything seems terribly unorganized again, but eventually a bus
does leave town for Urgench ($4). Today is a rather "cool" day
compared to the previous ones, and the bus is not too crowded, so
it could be a pleasant ride, although we will cross the Kizil Kum
(red sand) desert. I choose to sit on the middle seat, or what's
left of it, of the back-bench so as to have more leg-space and to
avoid the punishing sunshine. While we first cross monotonous
farmlands (it looks a lot like Flanders), the usual cavalcade of
Lada taxis and private cars swarms like flies around the bus so
as to stop it and have passengers and/or luggage transferred.
But it never becomes intolerably crowded.
Then we enter the desert proper, a reddish brown sandy expanse
overgrown by small shrubs. Somewhere halfway, at dusk, we stop
at a small roadside cafeteria. The little Kazakh boy on my side
has purchased a plastic bag with mutton pieces, which he proceeds
to eat on the bus. He especially seems to delight on the parts
that most Western people would throw away, namely the greasy
ones. The grease actually drips down his chin, and as he is
sometimes reaching for balance with his now greasy fingers, I
slightly edge away from him. Unbelievably, although everything
looks the same to me, people always know where they have to get
off, even as it turns dark. The bus-driver fails to see a sheep
on the road, and with a loud bang knocks it out. Luckily no dam-
age to the bus, as I'd hate to be stranded here, where so few
cars pass.
The word was spread by my bench neighbors that I speak some Turk-
ish, so when the corridor becomes empty of standing people and
when my neighboring seat becomes vacant after the Kazakh boy left
with his father in the middle of nowhere, some men come, one by
one, to join me for a small chat. They are intrigued because I
don't travel with Intourist, or at least in a group. And they
all want to know the standard things such as my name, age, pro-
fession, salary ($500 a month seems to be about as far as their
imagination goes, and must be an unbelievable amount of money for
them, so there is no pressure to tell them my real salary),
number of children (being single and childless seems inconceiv-
able to them, and this admission of mine always results in great
amusement), and so on, but also more bizarre things such as
whether it is true that Christians are not circumcised. As it
becomes dark and the procession of interviewers ebbs down, I
can't read anymore, so I take out my walk-man. From then on, at
least half the people on the bus travel with their heads turned
180 degrees, and stare at me with tennis-ball eyes. So I have to
give a new series of audiences, because more men gather their
courage to come to talk to me and they invariably eventually
point at the walk-man because they want to listen to it. It's
all a lot of fun.
Finally, at 11pm, we pull into Urgench, where Raisa's contacts
Smetlana and Vakhat are very efficient. They whisk me and my
backpack into Vakhat's Lada (he is an Uzbek Airways pilot, so
sort-of better-off), and drive me to some flat in the suburbs: I
guess that just one visitor ($10) per month gets them way beyond
the break-even point in terms of renting that flat. Smetlana
dishes up a huge dinner, and then they leave me alone for the
night.
Monday 8 August 1994: Urgench <--> Khiva
They show up again at 8:30am to serve me an excellent breakfast,
and bring along Gula as an interpreter, because she speaks a lit-
tle English. Smetlana only speaks Russian, and Vakhat's Uzbek
seems to be sometimes incompatible with my Turkish. There seems
to have been a misunderstanding with Raisa, or her still unbri-
dled Intourist taking-care-of-helpless-tourists skills have gal-
loped away with her again, as the purpose of Gula's presence
seems to be that she serve as my guide in nearby Khiva. I
wouldn't mind having a stroll and conversation in Khiva with
good-looking Gula, but this being a payable add-on service, rath-
er than a courtesy of my hosts, and little enthusiasm about the
task emanating from Gula's cold eyes, I politely decline, espe-
cially that I wonder what she, as an untrained guide, could pos-
sibly tell me that is not in one of my excellent books. They
wince slightly, but take it with good grace, especially when I
tell them that I will stay over for another night and only try to
reach Ashkhabad the day after, so that I have more time to enjoy
Khiva. In that case, they say, we should have a big barbecue to-
gether in the evening.
They give me a lift to the railway station, where I get onto a
micro-bus "dolmuS" to Khiva (32km away). In the center of modern
Khiva is the intact old Khiva, about a square kilometer encircled
by high pise walls. It's a superb time capsule, and I get a
first overview from the bastion to the left of the Ata Darvaza
(West Gate): madrassas, mosques, minarets, tombs, mausolea,
palaces, bazaars, caravanserais, hamams galore, but something is
missing. Yes, there are no people! I'd be the last one to com-
plain about the absence of tourists, but without the locals it
looks too good to be true, almost like a stage set. The Soviets
have moved most locals out of the old walls, so what is left is
the obligatory old crone at every door to sell you dubious en-
trance tickets at scandalous prices, the restoration workers, and
a few souvenir sellers. This sterile, utterly commercial open-
air museum has a lot to offer, though, making it well worth the
detour, but not for a whole day. There is the unfinished color-
ful Kalta Minar(et) (which looks a lot like a nuclear tower, and
would probably have been the highest minaret in the world if the
architect hadn't died after building 26m high at a diameter of
14m) in front of the Muhammad Amin Khan Madrassa (both 1855, the
only madrassa to function as a hotel, well, as an Intourist rip-
off), the Kunya Ark citadel (12th century) with another gory Zin-
dan (khan's jail), the Tash Khauli Palace (1838) with its stun-
ning ceilings, the Djuma Mosque (1788, but with 10th century
columns inside) and Islam Khodja Mosque (1910) with their color-
ful minarets, the Pakhlavan Makhmud Mausoleum (1326) with its
splendid interior courtyard, and another fifteen madrassas. Near
the Bakhcha Darvaza (North Gate) is a well discovered by a son of
Noah.
I have three interesting conversations during the day. At the
reception court of the Ark, a young construction worker strikes
up a discussion in fluent English. Aga is an English-language
student earning his living by helping restore Khiva. And he is
unbelievably knowledgeable about Luxembourg! As it happens,
three backpackers from Luxembourg started a Silk Road trip from
here to China a few weeks ago, hence doing the complementary part
to my own project, only the Uzbek stretch being in common. This
is the first time in my life that somebody outside Europe tells
me I'm not the first Luxembourger s/he sees, let alone the
fourth.
At the Islam Khodja Mosque, a cashier woman takes me across the
street to "her" madrassa-museum, and treats me to "chay" and some
broth with bread. Minutes later, she similarly "picks up" the
only backpacker I was to meet during the entire trip. Kumiko is
a Japanese girl on a journey similar to the one of my three coun-
trymen, hence also traveling in the opposite direction to mine.
She's grateful when I give her Mobinjon's address for Bukhara,
because she doesn't like Intourist's rip-offs either. The old
lady seems to be a matchmaker at heart, as she tries to set us
up, seeing us easily converse in English and exchange travel
hints.
Having seen all I wanted to visit by 3pm, but having until 6pm to
be picked up in Urgench by Vakhat and company, I hang around in
the shadow of the Kalta Minar, writing postcards and parts of
this diary. A German-speaking guy joins me, and strikes up an
initially friendly conversation. But then:
- Aaah, you are *not* staying at the Hotel Khiva [the madrassa]
here!?
- No, I stay in Urgench.
- So you *must* be staying at the Intourist Hotel in Urgench?
- No.
- So where *are* you staying?
Not sensing the trouble, I say:
- With locals, in a pension.
Suddenly, things go fast. He whips out a card identifying him as
an Intourist guide (OVIR?), pretends having certain police powers
(this is the first time I see a tourist police cracking down on
visitors, rather than protecting them against overzealous lo-
cals!), and asks to see my passport, lest he would have to arrest
me and take me to the police station. Knowing what had happened
to a friend in Bukhara the year before, I try to placate him
first. Indeed, I am in deep trouble: in Tashkent and Samarkand,
I had stayed for free with locals; for the night in Hotel
Varakshah in Bukhara, the receptionist had simply pocketed the
$15 cash and not declared me to the police; in Bukhara and Ur-
gench, my pension hosts had not declared me either, because of my
declaration of being on a shoestring budget. Imagining the huge
fine that all this would incur, and not willing to endanger my
various hosts, I have no choice but to pretend:
- I don't have my passport with me!
In fact, it's in a hidden spot of my day-pack, but I'm confident
he wouldn't find it upon cursory search. He becomes quite irate,
and repeats his request, adding an ominous:
- Hurry up, I have little patience.
- But it's in Urgench.
- Then let's get it from there.
Back on the path of truth, I declare:
- But I don't know where the pension is.
- What!? You don't know where you slept last night!?
Am I digging my grave now?
- Honestly. I arrived at 11pm, and my hosts picked me up at the
bus-station and as we drove through the dark, I lost my sense
of orientation.
There is a loophole in my reasoning, and I just pray he doesn't
see it: obviously, in that case, my hosts must pick me up later
today. In that case I would pretend having left my backpack at
the left luggage of the railway station, and hope to lose him
somewhere until we get there. Before he can think that far, I
continue:
- But don't worry. Everything is regular, the pension is legal.
Blah blah blah. (He doesn't seem to understand what a pension
is.)
Unfortunately, he has not woken up yet to the fact that things
are changing and that Intourist is losing its monopoly. Luckily,
he hasn't seen my notebook yet, with all the compromising evi-
dence and addresses. By now a plan has taken shape in my mind.
Sending a prayer to Nevin hanIm, my Turkish teacher in Ankara, I
switch from German to Turkish. I obviously catch him off-
balance, and while he stares bewildered at me, I compose the
highest praise of Uzbekistan, its culture, and its people, that I
can dish up without blushing and without fighting for words
within my limited vocabulary. It turns into a polite conversa-
tion again, and when I have him glowing with pride and obviously
far from his recent purpose of arresting me, I decide to employ
the crowning piece of my bluff. I look at the descending sun,
take my camera out of my day-pack, get up, and shake his hand:
- The sunlight is perfect for pictures now. Nice talking to
you...
I'm five paces away before he comes to his senses and reacts:
- Hey!
It's a friendly "hey," so no reason to run. I turn around and
see him wink an eye at me:
- Seni gOrmedim! [I didn't see you!]
- SaGol. HoSCakal. [Thanks. Take care.]
Needless to say, I took the first "dolmuS" out of Khiva, lest he
change his mind.
Back in Urgench, my hosts take me to Smetlana's mother's house,
where we feast on a huge barbecue in the garden. I breathe dee-
ply, and fully enjoy my last night in Uzbekistan, knowing that I
escaped major hassle today by means of sheer bull-shitting.
There is a daughter, but I don't know whose. In fact, I never
figured out what relationships (friendship, marriage, mistress)
bond the triangle of my hosts. Smetlana is her subservient self,
like her mother. Gula just parades around and helps out with
cooking and serving. Vakhat wants to get me into a vodka drink-
ing contest, but I'd of course stand no chance against the
seasoned drinker he probably is.
Tuesday 9 August 1994: Urgench --> Tashauz (Turkmenistan)
After breakfast, my hosts give me a ride to the bus-station and
help me purchase a ticket ($0.30) to Tashauz, 80km away in nearby
Turkmenistan. My plan is to get as close to Ashkhabad as possi-
ble on this transition day, as there is nothing to do in Tashauz
proper, and the two cities are separated by 500km of the Kara Kum
(black sand) desert, one of the hottest places in the world,
especially in August. My guidebook mentions a long-haul railway
connection (around the desert, that is via Bukhara and Chardzou),
a flight connection, and a road plied by the occasional bus
(demand-driven, according to Vakhat). The book challenges my
sense of adventure by stating that "taking such a bus would be a
pioneering feat." So far for my plan.
At the border, the Uzbeks make some fuss about my presence, and
actually order me and my backpack out for an inspection. Their
attitude, especially when snapping, with dollars in their eyes,
at me "Are you American?", and their subsequent disappointment,
make me feel that they are not just in for a chat, but rather
want to play the petty bureaucrat game. Once again, my rudimen-
tary Turkish comes in handy and over-awes them sufficiently to
wave me through, before they have too close a look at my
passport.
(End-of-Part-I)
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Part II (Turkmenistan) of this travelogue is available as:
http://www.digimark.net/rec-travel/asia/turkmenistan/trip.flener
http://www.cs.bilkent.edu.tr/~pf/travel/turkmenistan.trip
The *entire* text is available from the author in various other forms
(ASCII, PostScript), as *unique* files.
========================================================================