In this final entry to ‘off the map’ experiences (for now), I travel to the world’s largest double land-locked country of Uzbekistan (the only other nation being the miniscule Liechtenstein in Europe).
My uncle worked here for a couple years after the collapse of the USSR. He came with a team of Indian engineers and architects to design some hotels throughout the country. He showed me pictures many times of a strange named far-away and forgotten land of mosques and madrassahs with big cupolas the colour of the planet Neptune. I never imagined I would have the chance to visit this place.
Uzbekistan twenty years on from the fall really hasn’t changed much. Power transitioned rather smoothly to a totalitarian police state of which it remains to this day, led by the ‘Great Leader’ Islam Karimov. Arriving in Tashkent, I received another dose of the time warp effect that hit me when I first arrived to Bishkek in Kyrgyzstan. The cars were even older here and the more modern ones were only (yes only!) white Daewoo matiz imported from South Korea. Huge 6 lane avenues interspersed with coal-burning smokestacks and towering identical Soviet tower blocks criss crossed this gargantuan city. Upon arrival, I took the bus going in the opposite direction of the city centre and found myself in a ‘micro-rayon’ (suburb) south of the city. I was about to get back onto the bus heading in the right direction when I noticed a giant ferris wheel in the middle of a forested area. I crossed the street and found my way through a rusty gate to discover an abandoned carnival. Inside was a large drained out concrete basin (of what used to be an artificial lake) and within it a concrete octopus-creature that was crumbling apart at each ‘tentacle’. I guess it must have been some kind of uncomfortable water slide when it was in use. A feeling of creepiness would have been an understatement to describe how I felt there.
I explored the city for two days, taking illegal photos of the super fabulous metro system complete with chandeliers and gorgeous marble columns. There were police absolutely everywhere and I was checked and questioned on repeated occasions, especially upon entering the metro. Money was another matter. The official exchange rate was quite poor compared to the ‘black market’ rate for a terribly inflated currency. The highest banknote is 1000 cym (soom) and 1 USD is equivalent to almost 3000 cym. I got money from a mumbling chap in the mammary gland shaped Chorsu Bazaar. He told me his black market rate and handed me a dozen stacks of 500 cym for the $150 I exchanged from him. It was quite a clandestine interaction and the weight of my satchel increased threefold.
On the second day after checking out a depot of old Soviet-era trains near the city’s train station, a tall old man dressed in dark clothes seemingly appeared out of nowhere and called out at me. I approached him and the first thing he told me was that Shah Jahan (who built the Taj Mahal) was not Indian, but Uzbek. Noted.
We spent the next few hours walking through the city together. He was quite a mysterious man- telling me he was a real estate broker but currently was out of commission and that he had separated from his wife and was living alone. As we walked, he seemed to be personally acquainted with every stranger on the street and for those he didn’t know, he started striking up conversations with them…including a 6 year old street girl who joined us on our walk.
We parted ways on the broad Navoi avenue in the early evening. I took the night train in the evening to the city of Bukhara, arriving at 5am and decidedly bent on walking from the train station to the city centre in the darkness only to find out 3km later that the city centre was 13km from the train station. I ended up hitching to the city to find myself in a half-deserted ancient town of mud-brick low rise buildings, blue-domed mosques and dusty lanes. I spent two days exploring the narrow alleys and daunting edifices…some of which had once stopped the marauding Genghis Khan in his tracks. He was so aghast by the impressive size of some of the Karakhanid era mosques and minarets that he spared them from being destroyed when he ransacked the city in the 13th century. One particularly noteworthy experience in Bukhara was the discovery of an 18th century madrassa (monestary) nestled in a derelict part of the old town maze. It was abandoned and locked at the main entrance, but I found a small entrance way surrounded by a tiny shantytown of makeshift homes on one end of the ruins. I left my bag containing my passport and other valuables behind a pile of stones and hurled myself through the crack in the rocks to enter the madrassa. Inside were hundreds of ‘student rooms’ with sunlight streaming through the broken ceiling. A giant courtyard was in the centre with a couple of bare sycamore trees and tall grass overgrown. Climbing a stone spiral staircase, I came across a couple other passages leading to the roof of the madrassa with impressive views over the city of Bukhara. It was definitely an adrenaline pumping moment…both because I was afraid my bag would be stolen and second because I was breaking into semi-ancient ruins in a police state. Frantically running through the different rooms and snapping photos, I found my way back out, crossed the street and took a bath at the public hamam. Heart still racing.
Heading to Samarkhand that evening, I arrived somewhat disoriented by the schizophrenia of Russian Soviet-style tower blocks and Islamic almost Middle-Eastern mosques around me and the odd combination of urban planning when you bring these two cultural forces together. I somehow found the guesthouse I was planning to spend the night at and in the process met two incredibly hospitable souls. I asked one man on the street where he could point me to a place that offers food ‘без мяса’ (without meat) and having no idea of such a concept invited me to his house for a meatless dinner he knew how to prepare. He was a Tajik man with gingery hair and green eyes. We spoke only in Russian and somehow found a way to communicate despite my complete lack of grammatical knowledge. He repaired clocks and TVs for a living and lived in a house near to his workshop where we had a dinner of salad, cheese, lepioshka (Russian bread), fruit and cake. We parted ways saying a prayer for good health, happiness and good education for our children (or potential children) and families.
A second guy had helped me with directions when I was walking through a side street and later bumped into me and invited me to his house for tea. He had lived in London for 10 years and spoke well in English. We chatted about travels and about life in Samarkand and he invited me for dinner the following evening to try the Uzbek version of the Indian ‘kichori’ which is also known as ‘mash’ in Uzbek (a conglomeration of mung beans, garlic, pureed tomatoes, and caramelized onions). The following day was spent exploring head-spinning blue and turquoise tiled mosques and a frenetic and colourful bazaar where I spent nearly 3 hours simply observing people. The ‘made for tourist’ approach of the Uzbek government for visiting the thousand year old sights of Samarkand was both disgusting and intriguing at the same time. I wasn’t quite sure who they were trying to kid by erecting artificial walls between the poorer old town of Samarkand and flashy shops and landscaped lawns surrounding the ruins for tourists to walk through. Even stranger was a government order to paint Christmas decorations on every shop front to indicate ‘Western friendly’ spirit for tourists visiting the sites. Given that no one celebrates Christmas and that pictures of Micky Mouse being pulled on a sleigh pulled by reindeer was totally out of the context seemed quite a bizarre display for me.
In wrapping up my reflection of my almost 4 months in Central Asia, I must say I have learned so much more about humanity, history, human relations and the connection with the natural world in these countries of great socio-political transition. In addition to getting a completely unexpected connection to Russian language, culture and history, I came to know of ancient nomadic and sedentary societies that have existed at the crossroads of eastern and western civilization for centuries; where each country's present borders marks daunting transitions in ethnicities that are probably unheard of anywhere else in the world; and where a history of repressive heavy-handed governments has left an indelible mark on the psyche of the people as they swirl in the vortex of a globalised world. Heading back to Bishkek across the snowy Kazakh steppe, I looked up at the fourth full moon I have seen since I arrived to Central Asia. I bid adieu to a land that has touched my soul with its hospitality and intrigue which has left me only more curious about this fascinating corner of the world.
