The Caucasus & Central Asia 3
A journal kept by Susan Hanes during a trip through the Caucasuses and Central Asia from September 4-October 16, 2016. Volume 3. Photos by Susan Hanes and George Leonard, c. 2016 Cover: Tillya-Kari Madrassa, Registan, Samarqand
The Caucasus & Central Asia September 26-October 6, 2016 A conInuaIon of our six-week trip to the countries of the South Caucasus and Central Asia. ALer transiIng through Istanbul, we spent three weeks in Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan. Sweet to ride forth at evening from the wells When shadows pass gigan?c on the sand, And soBly through the silence beat the bells Along the Golden Road to Samarkand. We travel not for trafficking alone; By hoKer winds our fiery hearts are fanned: For lust of knowing what should not be known, We take the Golden Road to Samarkand. —James Elroy Flecker, 1913
Volume 3 Central Asia
Monday, September 26
Tashkent, Uzbekistan
No alarm for us this morning; we woke on our own at 11:30 am; we both slept like rocks. Exploring the city on foot was in order today. First of all, we noted the architecture of the LoCe, the grand, Soviet-era hotel where we are staying. Across the street, the Alisher Navoi Opera and Ballet Theater was designed by Alexey Shchusev (who also designed Lenin’s Tomb) and completed in 1947 by Japanese prisoners of war. We took a long walk through the broad, landscaped park where Sayilgokh (Broadway) Street is primarily pedestrian, at the end of which is Amir Timur Square, where a statue of Tamerlane on horseback is only the latest of Uzbekistan’s poliVcal statements. Previously, statues of Czarist Governor General Kauffmann, a Bolshevik hammer and sickle, Lenin, Stalin, and Karl Marx held this place of
honor. Now it is Tamerlane who rides there, proudly labeled as a hero of Uzbekistan. We retreated through the park for a view of Independence Square, the largest in the former Soviet Union. Nearby stands the residence of Grand Duke Nicholas Romanoff, a first cousin of Czar Nicholas II, who was exiled there following exploits involving women and the crown jewels (pun intended). As we walked back to the hotel, we passed various imposing government buildings. Concrete decoraVve grilles used on the exterior of the Uzbekistan History Museum are based on a tradiVonal Uzbek design; the building is an example of Soviet architecture influenced by local culture. We had a simple dinner in the hotel lobby bar, sampling Uzbek beer and Russian vodka with our Mastava lamb and vegetable soup and plov, a local pilaf dish.
Romanoff Residence
Tuesday, September 27
Tashkent
At 9:00 am, Ramil met us in front of the hotel in his silver Daewoo sedan— unusual on two counts, because it was not white and was not a Chevrolet. However, he explained that the South Korean-Uzbek automaker was sold to General Motors in 2008 when GM Uzbekistan started producing Chevrolets. We had made arrangements for Ramil to take us to several places that we wanted see and he prepared a concise circuit for us. He first drove us to Hast Imam Square, at the heart of Muslim Tashkent in the pre-Soviet area northwest of the city center. The 160-foot minarets tower above the new Jone Masjid, Tashkent’s largest place of worship. (However, the tradiVonal Call to Worship is no longer allowed by the government.) Off to the side is the Barak
Khan Madrassa, founded in the 16th century by a descendent of Tamerlane. Just behind the mosque, we visited the Muyie Mubarak Library to see the Osman Koran, claimed to be the world’s largest and one of the oldest. It is stained with the blood of the third Caliph Osman who was murdered while reading it in 655. One of seven originals, the holy book came to Tashkent through a series of coincidences and accidents of history. It is wriCen in an ancient Kufic calligraphy. Other manuscripts in the small library include a number of unique manuscripts as well as Korans presented by presidents from all over the world, including Yitzhak Rabin of Israel and Iraq’s infamous Saddam Hussein (which was not labeled).
Hast Imam Square
We crossed the square to the Abu Bakr Mohammad Kaal Shashi mausoleum, the grave of a Muslim leader who lived in the 10th century; barren women come there to pray for ferVlity. Hidden on the grounds of Tashkent's new Islamic University are three mausoleums daVng back to the 15th century. They are the only survivors of a Muslim complex of mosques and madrassas founded in the 14th century with the burial of local saint
Sheikhantaur. Over his tomb, an ancient sandalwood tree sVll gives o its fragrance. The largest tomb is that of Yunus Khan, a descendent of Genghis Khan and one-Vme ruler of Tashkent. North of the Chorsu Bazaar is the recently renovated Jummi Mosque, built in the 15th century. Ramil and I climbed the steps to the mosque and the nearby 16th century Kukeldash Madrassa while Jake waited for us below.
We all visited the Chorsu Bazaar, starVng with the anVques area where we were shown some beauVful vintage suzani, a type of embroidered tribal texVle primarily made in Uzbekistan. The fun of anVques shopping was hindered, however, because the Uzbekistan government does not allow anything older than 50 years to be taken out of the country. We walked along a long aisle selling household goods, from kebab skewers to cradles, stopping to admire the beauVfully designed rolling pins and chekichs, or bread stamps. I would love to ďŹ nd an old one, but this might be a problem.
Around the other side of the market is Milliy Taomlar, or “NaVonal Food”, an outdoor emporium of Uzbek specialVes, most of which were being cooked in steaming cauldrons. The people (mostly women) behind the counters were uniformly friendly, as we checked out various delicacies including soups, sausages, fish, and pastries. I enjoyed taking pictures, and everyone seemed happy to oblige, parVcularly a woman named Mirjam who insisted that I join her behind the counter while Ramil took a picture of us together. I was relieved that she did not ask me to sample whatever she was selling. We walked through the dried fruit area too, as Jake was hoping to find dried melon; unfortunately, it is too soon in the season for this treat.
For lunch, Ramil took us to the Central Asian Plov Center, a veritable factory for this naVonal dish, a kind of pilaf made of rice, vegetables, and bits of meat swimming in lamb fat and oil. Every day, five vats boil up half a ton of rice, which is gone in three hours. We watched a cook at his staVon outdoors, making “wedding” plov (svadebniy), which is supposed to have aphrodisiac properVes. There was a long line of men queued up, waiVng for their plates. We ate inside, in a large, somewhat characterless room filled with plov-eaVng men, women, and children. The only item on the menu is plov, with sides of salad or bread.
Jake and I wanted to experience the Tashkent metro, the first in Central Asia, and Ramil planned a route that included the three main lines and six staVons. We bought our blue plasVc tokens for 1,000 som each, put them in the turnsVle, and started down a lot of stairs. Each stop has a theme: at Pakhtakor, mosaics represent coCon picking; O’zbekiston has lamps that look like coCon bolls; Alisher Navoi has quotes and emblems illustraVng Uzbekistan’s most famous poet’s works; Kosmonavtlar features ceramic discs of cosmonauts floaVng in space. We climbed our way back up to street level near the Uzbekistan Hotel where we’d started, and Ramil drove us back to the hotel. I went across the street to the Kitoblar Books Center where I bought a small copy of Alisher Navoi’s Aphorisms, the only book they had in English (and four other languages too). No dinner for us tonight; we decided that we are plov-ed out.
Wednesday, September 28
Tashkent
Amer breakfast, we crossed the street to the History Museum of the Peoples of Uzbekistan, the grill-embellished white block built in 1970 that holds the collecVon of the now-defunct 1876 Aiybek Museum of Uzbek Heritage. As we ascended yet another sweeping staircase (elevators remain resolutely for sta only), we read the words of the late President Karimov that were inscribed in gold on both sides of the great hall:
The world is vast, there are many countries, but our Uzbekistan is unique. This wonderful and sacred land was created for us. This thought should inspire all our hearts and provide the reason for our lives. The exhibits on the third oor (the fourth was closed) feature the history of Turkistan from ancient Vmes to the present, with emphasis on Buddhist arVfacts from the southeast. There is also a small display of hand-embroidered tribal garments and jewelry from Tashkent, Khorzem, and Qaraqalpaqstan.
ConVnuing through the park on Rashidov Street, we visited the Art Gallery of Uzbekistan, opened in 2004 by order of President Karimov. It is located in another impressive building with an ornate dome, massive chandelier, more sweeping staircases, and a guard protecVng the elevator from unauthorized use. Most of the art is by Uzbekistan’s top contemporary arVsts; I took pictures of various scenes that we hope to duplicate with our own eyes as we conVnue our travels through Uzbekistan tomorrow.
We had an early dinner at Kafé Florya, sipng outside with kebabs and Czech beer and the waming smoke of shishas (water pipes) at the tables around us. The café is obviously a popular meeVng place for Girls’ Night Out and groups of young men who warmly greeted each other with hugs and air kisses. At 5:30, we crossed the street to the Navoi Opera Theater for the evening’s performance of Giselle. It was a beauVful ballet in a stunning venue. I remembered how much my father had loved classical ballet music, parVcularly Giselle. At the end of the performance, the audience rhythmically applauded as the principal dancers were presented with flowers and boxes of candy. We exited to a party scene, as the fountain had been turned on and colored lights played on the water and on the theater walls; disco music blasted from the roomop of our hotel across the street. Yup, it was Wednesday night in Tashkent, Uzbekistan.
Thursday, September 29
to Samarqand
Gepng up at 5:30 this morning, we were packed and ready early, as was Ramil, who drove us to the Tashkent Railway StaVon for the 8:00 am Afrosiyob high-speed train to Samarqand; we traveled the 344 kilometers in just over two hours. We were served tea and a surprisingly good cake, sharing the coach with a group of Indian men on holiday who talked on their cell phones incessantly and took endless “selfies.” The train passed through four Uzbek provinces, but the landscape remained preCy much the same: arid, flat, and scrubby, with a few hills along the way.
When the train pulled in at Samarqand, a porter helped us with our bags and we hailed a taxi to take us to the Jahongir Hotel, a liCle guesthouse tucked away on a side street in an old town neighborhood. We rang the bell and our host, Zafar, welcomed us into a series of vine-covered courtyards, seCling us at a table under the trees with hot cups of tea. When our room was ready, he led us up a narrow staircase to our room in the older secVon of the house; he said that parts of the walls are thousands of years old, and the newest are a hundred. Our room has a oor that slants and a rudimentary bathroom, but it has a funcVoning air condiVoner and lots of charm; suzani decorate the walls and there is an inviVng balcony out our door.
A real benefit of the Jahongir is its proximity to Samarqand’s magnificent Registan, a short walk through the neighborhood and across a daunVng main road. Crossing the street, we followed a Vp we learned in India: when we were ready to cross, we waited for someone—or preferably a couple of people—who knew what they were doing, and troCed out into the speeding traffic with them, figuring that there was safety in numbers. Extolled by pioneers and poets for centuries, the Registan is a massive public square that is framed by three beauVful madrassas (Islamic schools), each with a disVncVve Islamic architecture. Together, they create one of the most magnificent sites in the Islamic world, and certainly the greatest in Central Asia. The complex has been almost completely restored, and work conVnues, making the Registan somewhat controversial, especially for those, like author Rose Macaulay, who love the romance of ruins. However, one could argue that the Registan looks much as it might have when it was constructed as early as the 15th century, when the oldest madrassa, built by Tamerlane’s grandson Ulugh Beg, was completed. As medieval Samarqand’s commercial center, it must have looked much as we saw it today. It’s soaring minarets and aqua domes are decorated with glazed mosaics in liquid shades of blue. Warrens of shops selling souvenirs, scarves, and suzani conVnue the same commercial enterprises that always existed. We walked through each building, trying to capture a magnificence that is really too grand to fit in a camera frame. We visited the Bibi Kahnym, a mosque of fantasVc scale that was completed in the 15th century, just before the death of Tamerlane. In the courtyard stands the giant Koran pedestal that was made to hold the three-foot square Osman Koran that we saw in Tashkent. Golf cart-type vehicles take visitors from the Registan to the mosque; we had quite a Vme figuring out the system, however. When we first got on one at the Registan, the driver made everyone get off for a reason we could not determine, and we had to hire a taxi. On the return trip, we were not aggressive enough and were pushed aside by others when we aCempted to board; but when the next cart arrived, we were ready. On our way back to the hotel, we decided to have an early dinner at the Old City Restaurant, recommended by Zafar. We were starVng to drag and did not want to stumble around the uneven streets amer dark. Choosing meats from the cooler, we had lamb lula shashlik and cold beer at a table in the concrete enclosure behind the building.
The Registan
Bibi Kahnym Mosque
Friday, September 30
Samarqand
We had a buckwheat and rice dish and ripe melon on the terrace this morning, but had to wear our jackets, as the temperature took a dive last night. At 9:00, Eldor, the young man who works for Zafar at the hotel, loaded us into his—what else—white Chevy Lacep for a tour of the sites we wanted to visit today. We started at the Ulugh Beg Observatory, considered by scholars to have been one of the finest in the Islamic world. It was built in the 1420s by Tamerlane’s grandson, Ulugh Beg, who was a great astronomer, but fanaVcs destroyed it in 1449. In 1908, the underground secVon of the original meridian arc was miraculously discovered in one of the great archeological finds of that century.
We stopped at the bread market, not so much for bread, but for a photo opportunity. I am so pleased that people are happy to pose for pictures. A woman with a wonderfully warm face agreed to let me take her photo, as did her two friends. We lem with a loaf of freshly baked bread, sVll warm from the oven.
Eldor drove us along the ruins of the Afrasiab, site of the ancient city of Samarqand, which existed as early as the 7th century BC. The thickness of the archaeological strata in this rich area reaches more than 40 feet, and encompasses eleven layers of civilizaVon. The earliest archaeological excavaVons were carried out in the late 19th century, and work conVnues to this day. The museum houses thousands of arVfacts found at the site, most signiďŹ cant of which are the Sogdian PainVngs, rare examples of ancient Indo-European art that were discovered in 1965 during a road construcVon project. The exquisite detail of the painVngs is sVll evident. RestoraVon work conVnues: we watched as a conservator painstakingly scraped ancient mud from one secVon.
Sogdian Paintings at Afrasiab
Tucked into the southern slope of the Afrasiab, the Shah-i-Zinda is an avenue of mausoleums that is considered to be the holiest site in Samarqand. This being a Friday, it was crowded with visitors. We joined them in climbing the daunVng brick steps to reach perhaps the most visually stunning site in the city. Each building is embellished with a breathtaking array of blue and gold mosaics, bas-reliefs, niches, enamels, and calligraphic carving. It is truly a wonder of Islamic ceramic art. We saw that many of the visitors were wearing their ďŹ nest clothes; some of the young women (new brides, as we learned) were wearing Varas and gowns that sparkled with sequins. We walked admiringly through this ancient street of the dead, exiVng through a modern cemetery.
Eldor
Shah-i-Zinda
Most of the gravestones bore photographic likeness of the deceased, many in tradiVonal Uzbek dress. Eldor pointed out the graves of the family of the late president, Islam Karimov. Just outside the cemetery, the 8th century HazratHizr Mosque sits on a hill overlooking the city. It was here that President Karimov was buried. His death was announced as occurring on September 3 (although unofficial reports cited 29 August as the date) and we could see that crowds of people were sVll streaming in to pay their respects. While Jake stayed below with my cameras, I donned my headscarf and joined them, walking up a steep ramp to an open courtyard in front of the mosque. There, under a mound of white roses, was Karimov’s tomb. On four sides of a large square around the mound, red and white roses were carefully arranged, at least a foot high. Beyond them, a profusion of basil plants provided a frame. SeaVng was set up on two sides, across from each other. On one side, there were two rows of padded chairs, and opposite, two rows of wooden benches. As a group entered the gravesite, the women went to the benches on the lem,
while the men were seated on the right. Many people came with bouquets of flowers, which they added to a large pile at the front. Once all the seats were filled, an imam quoted verses from the Koran. A second imam then cupped his hands and said a prayer and the people responded by cupping their hands. I heard the sound of sobbing. Amer the prayer, our group was signaled to leave; as we walked down the steep steps to the street, the next group of mourners was allowed to come up. Later, Eldor told me that people have been steadily coming to pay their respects since Karimov’s death, and will do so unVl a year has passed, at which Vme a monument will be placed over the tomb. He told us that “all the country loves him” and that Karimov “carefully chose” his successor, Prime Minister Shavgat Mirziyayev. Like Ramil, he does not seem concerned about the leadership of Uzbekistan, but just enjoys his life here. It was interesVng to us that he speaks Tajik and Russian as well as Uzbek; he said that actually, Tajik is the predominant language spoken in Samarqand and that many Tajik-speakers feel a greater idenVty with Tajikistan than Uzbekistan.
Islam Abduganiyevich Karimov President of Uzbekistan 1991-2016 I was unable to take my camera , but this scene is very much as I saw it.
There was one final site that we wanted to visit: Gur Emir, the great Tamerlane’s mausoleum. Between 1400 and 1401, his favorite grandson erected a madrassa complex, but his unVmely death two years later prompted Tamerlane to add a mausoleum. Although Tamerlane had wanted to be buried at his home of Shakhrizabz, south of Samarqand, he died unexpectedly and was laid to rest next to his grandson; succeeding generaVons have followed. We entered the exquisitely ornamented octagonal chamber where Tamerlane’s dark jade stone rests in the center, surrounded by those of his family. His actual crypt is in a chamber below. Outside, I was admiring the Gur Emir’s soaring blue-Vled portal when a group of Uzbek women gathered under it for a group portrait arranged by a photographer. When the women saw me watching, they gestured for me to come and join them. Of course, I was happy to do so, and they moVoned for me to squat down in the front. There is no way I could get my knees to do what theirs were doing, and I tried awkwardly to kneel. Someone found a liCle stool for me to sit on, and that solved the problem: pictures successfully taken among lots of nods and smiles. Later, as Jake and Eldor and I were walking back to the car, the ladies went by in a mini-bus, all smiling and waving copies of our picture.
Gur Emir
Our touring over, Eldor took us to the Samarqand Restaurant for a late lunch. What a scene: a huge, highly decorated room, predominately filled with women. Most were part of large groups sipng at long tables, celebraVng a new bride. There were at least four of these groups. Music—a kind of UzbekEuro-Bollywood style of music—was deafening. Then the dancing started. Women and girls of all ages, some holding babies, were all dancing together. Not a man in sight. Eldor looked like he would like to be just about anywhere else, but we were fascinated. Our kebabs, soup, and dumplings were great, and the whole experience was a treat. Ears ringing, we headed back to the Jahongir amer stopping to buy some Uzbek “Cognac” at a liquor store that also had a dizzying array of Russian vodka. Sipng out on the balcony, we sipped a liCle brandy and decided that it bore a marked resemblance to maple syrup.
Saturday, October 1
Samarqand
Our driver, Kamil from Salom Travel, met us at 9:00 for the drive 80 km south to Shakhrizabz, birthplace of Amir Timur, or Tamerlane, in 1336. Eldor offered to go with us, telling us he was happy to have the chance to pracVce his English. Although Jake tends to avoid guides, we both enjoy his company and Kamil spoke liCle English, so we agreed. The drive took us along orchards and vineyards where we saw workers harvesVng the grapes and vegetables that were for sale along the way. The road gradually ascended through the foothills of the Pamir range, in the direcVon of Termiz on the Afghan border.
At the pass (4,200 feet), we stopped to take pictures of the rugged golden vista before us. We also bought some treats from a cluster of vendors staVoned there. These were real country people, and although shy, broke out in smiles when we bought dried melon for Jake and some kind of reddish almonds. Eldor said that the nuts are boiled in salt water before they are dried; that is what makes them taste so good. He kept apologizing for the “dangerous road,” but to us, it seemed preCy good, compared to the roads we encountered in Armenia and Georgia.
We reached Shakhrizabz (meaning “Green Town”) at 11:00, leaving Kamil with the car while the three of us walked the wide pedestrian expanse, once a warren of ruins and crooked streets. There was a massive demoliVon to create this area that is at least 1.5 km long and 300 meters wide and lined by shops, apartments, and restaurants that are totally out of context with the ancient sites. Much as in Samarqand, extensive restoraVons of the mosques, madrassas, and mausoleums, and the creaVon of open parks and wide walkways—intended to enhance tourism—have shown liCle sensiVvity to a sense of history that should be elicited by the ancient sites. Eldor was obviously very much in favor of what has been done and proudly showed us what remains of Timur’s magnificent city in its new context. We started with the remains of the Ak Saray, or White Palace, the ruined entrance towers that stand in monumental tesVmony to the power of Tamerlane. Built in 1379, it was his greatest palace, unparalleled in size and decoraVon. It would have dwarfed anything in Samarqand or Bukhara. Its remaining blue, green, and gold mosaics sVll overwhelm the upward gaze. We walked along the basil-lined paths to the KhazraV-Imam
Complex in its sepng of 300-year-old chinar trees. Behind the crumbling Jahangir Mausoleum is a bunker that leads down steep stone steps to what was to have been the Crypt of Timur. The small room is almost filled by a single stone casket. When the crypt was discovered in 1963, the inscripVons on the casket indicated that the simple tomb was intended for Timur; however, he did not make it home, and was buried in Samarqand’s Gur Emir, that we visited yesterday. Across the park, the Kok-Gumbaz is a large Friday mosque built in 1437 by Ulugh Beg to honor his father, Timur’s son. With its two accompanying mausoleums, they were a striking sight: the three turquoise domes shining against a gold-hued sky. By 1:00, we were ready to start the drive home. Eldor suggested that we stop for lunch in the mountains at a popular summerVme restaurant, Ming Chinar (“1000 Chinar Trees”). As it was chilly, we sat in the dim interior and ordered shashlik, the Russianstyle minced meat kebabs, and lagman, a local noodle soup. On the drive back, we passed a large funeral procession (men only), followed by a lively wedding celebraVon that spilled into the street.
Shakhrizabz
Ak Saray, The White Palace
Sunday, October 2
Samarqand
Kamil picked us up at 9:00, and with Eldor along for the ride (and again proving himself invaluable), we set off for the Urgut Sunday Bazaar. We lem the city by the same highway we’d followed yesterday, turning off at a worn sign for Urgut and traveling another 20 km on a potholed, dusty road. In order to get to the secVon that sold older things, we walked through the enVre market, most of which is covered, passing Sunday crowds negoVaVng for everything from bras to bathtubs. At the rear of the market, Eldor led us to an open space where women selling old suzani and jewelry had their wares carefully laid out on blankets or displayed in simple stalls. As soon as we walked into the area, we were assaulted by smiling female faces, all holding
suzani and other handmade items for us to admire—and hopefully buy. The women did not seem to mind as I took pictures of them and their colorful texVles. Although somewhat aggressive, they were uniformly friendly, and if I looked at something that one woman was selling, the others backed off unVl they could resume vying for my aCenVon. It was not only a fun experience, but we went away with several treasures. Jake found a colorful old suzani that was covered with red pomegranates, and I bought an interesVng necklace of bronze and silver and beads of red stone—and earrings, too. We made our way back through the market and the packed parking lot an hour and a half later, somehow finding Kamil in the riot of cars and taxis.
Seven kilometers outside of Samarqand, we visited the Handmade Paper Center in the village of Koni Gil. In Tamerlane’s day, Samarqand was famous for its mulberry paper, due to its durability and imperviousness to insects, but the industry died out in the 18th century. Now, this UNESCO-backed project, located in a peaceful, shady oasis, is aCempVng to revive the 2000-year old tradiVon. The manager took us through the process, demonstraVng the water mill that pounds the mulberry pulp to rough paper and explaining the drying and polishing process (done with an agate stone or a seashell).
Amerwards, we had lunch with Eldor at the Platan, where we ordered dolmas (stuffed grape leaves), binzhak (pita filled with cheese and herbs), and mantas (my favorite dumplings). Amer dropping Jake off at the hotel, Kamil took Eldor and me to the foot of the pedestrian walkway near the Bibi Khanum. From there, we walked a short distance to the bouVque of fashion designer Nargis Bekmuhamedova, whose love of vintage fabrics and design sense has resulted in elegant Uzbekistan-inspired jackets, gowns, and robes. Eldor was at his most paVent as I tried on a number of interesVng jackets, each a work of art. When I did not find exactly what I was looking for, Nargis uncovered and opened a wooden chest, pulling out a beauVful jacket made of ikat texVle woven by fourth-generaVon master weaver Fazlitdin Dadajanov, who uses 18th and 19th century techniques to create his tradiVonal designs. The jacket had been constructed and hand-quilted in her studio. It is really gorgeous, and Jake was favorably impressed when I modeled it for him. This evening is our last in Samarqand, and we spent the evening sipping Uzbek vodka and organizing our belongings for our departure to Bukhara in the morning.
Monday, October 3
to Bukhara
It was a liCle like leaving old friends when we checked out of the Jahongir Hotel and said good-by to Zafar and Eldor. Before we lem, however, Zafar offered us several kitchen pieces from his family home. We chose two old chekichs (bread stamps) and a metal pumpkin-scraper, paying him a small fee. They loaded us in the car, this Vme a Chevrolet Orlando van, and introduced us to our driver, Zokir. By 9:30 we were on the Shokh Rokh, or Royal Road, heading west to Bukhara, for the 270-km drive through the Zerafshan Valley. At one Vme, this was a major Silk Road thoroughfare, and it sVll unites the foremost Transoxiana ciVes of Samarqand and Bukhara. The road was excellent, but the wind had really kicked up and the air was full of dust. I felt sorry for the people walking along the roadside or working in the coCon fields
that we passed. We asked Zokir to stop so that we could take pictures of the pickers, dressed in their bright colors, as they worked the fields, filling large white bags and loading them onto wagons. We were somewhat surprised at first when he told us that the government would not allow him to stop, as it was illegal to take such pictures. But as we considered it further, it made sense. Since the breakup of the Soviet Union, Uzbekistan has conVnued to be a significant exporter of coCon. In order to maximize its main cash crop, coCon is grown on government-controlled farms, which has led to the use of forced labor for harvesVng. So, we understood why we would not be allowed to take pictures of what, at first, seemed like a colorful scene of people at work. There is a naVonal sensiVvity to what is going on in those endless fields.
By noon, we reached the old Silk Road town of Karmana, where we visited two sites that we had totally to ourselves. The ďŹ rst, Mir Said Bakhrom Mausoleum, has an 11th century ornamental portal that is constructed solely of brick. It is one of the earliest surviving burial structures in the area.
The second, the Kasim Sheikh Khanagha, was a hostel for traveling holy men. Beneath its blue dome, a high drum was built, where dervishes once joined in services of religious fervor. Today, the mosque was silent, and as I slipped o my shoes and entered, I found myself surrounded by an eerie quiet where I felt I did not belong.
Sixteen kilometers beyond Karmana, we stopped to admire the impressive portal of the Rabat-i-Malik, a royal caravanserai that once welcomed weary travelers as they made their way through the steppe. Today, the highway runs close by, and as we entered the gate, the traďŹƒc that roared past us was suddenly silenced as we stood among the remaining ruins. How I love visiVng these places alone.
We passed two checkpoints as we lem one region and entered another, surrendering our passports at the region of Bukhara. In Gijduvan, we visited the well-regarded poCery workshop of the Narzullaev family. Now represenVng the seventh generaVon of poCers, Olimjon Narzullaev greeted us and invited us to have lunch at his café before he gave us a tour of the operaVon. We enjoyed one of the tasVest meals we’ve had in Uzbekistan in the company of a large group of beauVfully dressed older couples from Ürümqi in the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region of Western China; they too, were touring the Silk Road. Amer lunch, Olimjon showed us the tradiVonal methods and natural materials that his family has used for generaVons to create Gijduvan poCery.
Crossing the street, we braved the blowing dust to visit Ulugh Beg Madrassa, although we hurried through the gardens, ignoring their profusion of rose bushes. The madrassa, completed in 1433, was Ulugh Beg’s third, and even today, oers shelter to pilgrims who come to pay homage and receive blessings.
Before reaching Bukhara, we stopped to admire the thin and fragile Vabkent Minaret. Built in 1196 and gracefully standing 128 feet high, it is decorated with bands of brick and calligraphic inscripVons. I Ved my scarf on Vghtly and squinted through the viewďŹ nder as Jake waited in the car.
By 4:30, we reached Bukhara—the Holy, the Noble, the Dome of Islam, the Beauty of the Spirit—and today, the Very Dusty. Zokir found a place to park and carried our bags down a narrow lane in the old Jewish Quarter to the Salom Inn, housed in the courtyard of an old mansion. Our room is their best, with ikatstyled bedding and a tradiVonally carved-ceiling. We met the owner, Raisa Gareevam, as well as Azat, with whom Jake has been corresponding for months concerning various aspects of the Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan part of our trip. Tomorrow we will start exploring Central Asia’s holiest city.
Tuesday, October 4
Bukhara
Samarqand is the beauty of the earth, but Bukhara is the beauty of the spirit.
At 8:30 am, we were served breakfast in the inn’s courtyard. The morning was clear, and yesterday’s grey and dusty sky had become a cloudless blue. Today we would begin to explore Bukhara, Central Asia’s holiest city, with its buildings that span a thousand years. Most of the town’s center is in an architectural preserve and we found ourselves engulfed in the magic of ancient Asia. Government restoraVon efforts are far subtler in Bukhara than in Samarqand or Shakhrizabz, and we felt that we were now experiencing the world we had read
about in preparing for our trip. The Lonely Planet warns the tourist not to miss out on the atmosphere that the city conveys in the compulsion to see as many of the 140 protected buildings as possible. Bukhara’s cultural roots go back to the 9th century, when it was designated the capital of the Samanid state. The Salom Hotel is well situated near Lyabi-Hauz, a 17th century mulberry-tree shaded oasis, so we began there, seeing the Nadir Divanbegi Madrassa and Kukeldash Madrassa (16th and 17th centuries) that flank it.
A taxi took us on a circuitous route to the Ark, stopping to pick up a woman and drop her o with no acknowledgement by anyone; shared taxis are the norm. We planned to start at the Ark and work our way back to the hotel. Home to rulers of Bukhara for over a millennium, the Ark was the core around which the medieval town of Bukhara developed. The ďŹ rst mosque was built at the site in 713 on the ashes of a Zoroastrian temple. Over Vme, the fortress was constructed and destroyed numerous Vmes; what remains
today began to take form in the 16th century under the Uzbek Shaybanids. At that Vme, over 3,000 people were living in the complex along with the emir and his reVnue.Only a small part remains today, as the Ark was 80 per cent destroyed in 1920, probably by the Bolsheviks. A steep stone ramp took us through the forbidding gateway. We climbed up and down steps and peeked around corners. Several areas have been turned into small museums of varying interest.
The Ark
In bright sunlight, we walked the dusty paths through the old town, stopping at virtually all of the mosques and madrassas listed in our guidebooks. Most have been turned into markets, where suzani, hats, carpets, jewelry, and souvenirs are laid out in colorful profusion. Cramsmen create their art in public view, hoping to enVce tourists. We saw miniature painters and wood carvers and metalsmiths working in front of their shops. It is interesVng that
one buys Vckets for the opportunity to shop inside many of the madrassas and mosques. The Poi Kalon (“Pedestal of the Great�) is at the heart of holy Bukhara, separaVng the Mir-i-Arab Madrassa from the Kalon Juma Mosque. In front of the mosque, a 93-year-old man was selling chekichs with the assistance of his grandsons. Amer agreeing to allow me to take his picture, there was no way I was leaving without buying something from him.
The Kalon Minaret (aka the “Tower of Death”) stands nearby. Since 1127 is has been one of the defining symbols of Bukhara. It towers 155 feet over the city, and has dominated the skyline for nine centuries. Our route brought us to the Magok-i-ACari Mosque, one of the oldest in Bukhara; the present building dates from the 12th century. Its absorbing portal displays many decoraVve techniques, from ganch carving (in damp plaster with metal chisels), to polished brick, terracoCa, and glazed Vles. We thought it very handsome and we loved the fact that it has not been overly restored. The museum held examples of Uzbek, Turkmen, Iranian, Kazakh, and Afghani rugs, but it was a small collecVon and the rugs were not in parVcularly good condiVon. As we neared our hotel, we stopped for an early dinner at Minzifa Restaurant, sipng on the dusty balcony where we ordered many of the same Uzbek dishes, including manV and somsa, that we have had since coming to Uzbekistan. We are finding the naVonal cuisine to be fairly bland; most dishes taste the same wherever we have them, even from region to region. It was late amernoon when we returned to Salom Inn. We watched night approach in the courtyard on this pleasant evening, reading, wriVng, and sipping Uzbek vodka.
Magok-i-Attari Mosque
Wednesday, October 5
Bukhara
Diana, the Salom Inn’s administraVve assistant, met us amer breakfast and accompanied us to several sites that are further afield than the concentrated area we toured on our own yesterday. We took a taxi to the Emir’s Summer Palace (Sitorai Makhi Khosa), 5 km across town. Diana arranged for the driver to wait for us while we visited the walled compound built by the Russians in 1911 for the last Emir, Alim Khan. We walked through gardens where roses grew and peacocks struCed, visiVng several buildings that reflect the uneasy mix of Russian and Central Asian culture that the Emir was obliged to
embrace. The White Hall, part of the public recepVon complex, is an ornamented wedding cake of a room with ornate white ganch work and mirrored glass. The decoraVon of the Emir’s game room, banquet hall, and tearoom offers a quirky mixture of colors and styles. The original guest suites now house the Museum of NaVonal Costume, where heavily embroidered royal robes are displayed in cases lining the walls. The harem’s quarters are located at the south end of the complex, near a pool and a viewing plaworm where the Emir would enjoy watching his naked concubines.
Sitorai Makhi Khosa Harem’s Quarters
Museum of National Costume
The taxi took us to Bolo Hauz Mosque, daVng from 1712 and now across a busy street from the Ark. The mosque is remarkable for its elegant wooden pillars and the riot of colors in its ornate outer ceiling. We were disappointed that the Zindan, or prison, was closed today; we tried unsuccessfully to ďŹ nd it yesterday but we do have one more day to see where Colonel Charles Stoddart and Captain Arthur Conolly were imprisoned before they were executed by the Emir on the Registan in 1842. The story of those brave men is one of the most capVvaVng in Peter Hopkirk’s The Great Game.
From the Bolo Hauz, we walked to Samani Park, passing the Chashma Ayub Mausoleum, built from the 12th to the 16th centuries over a spring that, according to legend, appeared when the prophet Job struck his staff on the ground there. Today, it is a water museum. The mesmerizing tomb of Ismael Samani stands nearby. It is the oldest, best preserved, and the most beauVful building in Bukhara. The almost perfect brick cube was built in the early 10th century and consists of four idenVcal facades that slope slightly inward, supporVng a cupola ringed with four small domes. The brick decoraVon—enVrely devoid of color—is spectacular. The cube
references the sacred Kaaba stone at Mecca and symbolizes the earth, while the dome symbolizes the heavens, creaVng a metaphor of the universe. We conVnued through the park to the facing Modar-i-Khan and Abdullah Khan madrassas, built in the 16th century during the reign of Abdullah Shaybani Khan. The first honored his mother; the second, built 23 years later, is a far more refined tribute to himself. The taxi took us down a maze of alleys to the appealing Chor Minor, the compact gatehouse of a long-gone madrassa with its four gleaming blue towers, before dropping us back at Lyabi-Hauz.
Ismael Samani Mausoleum
Chor Minor
Abdullah Khan Madrassa
While Jake relaxed with sweet lemon tea at an outdoor café, Diana and I went shopping for earrings at the Jewelry Bazaar; she helped me pick out gims for the women in our family. At 5:00, award-winning miniaturist Toshev Davlat met us at the hotel and escorted us to his calligraphy shop in the nearby Trade Bazaar. In a frustrated English, he tried to explain the inspiraVon behind his intricate calligraphic miniature painVngs. Descending from a family of miniaturists, he learned his cram from his father, and creates his beauVful art using Vny brushes, some with only a single hair. We found him far easier to understand than he realized, for his earnestness spoke as clearly as words. He writes 12 Arabic scripts, and paints scenes from Scheherazade and Firdausi’s Shahnameh with inspired imaginaVon. He
drove us to his home, down a back street, where he showed us rooms of framed art and a painVng of his beloved father, from whom he learned his cram. We walked around the corner for dinner at Saroy Restaurant. It was the first meal we’d had since arriving in Uzbekistan that didn’t include plov, manV, or kebab. A boCle of Uzbek red wine, which the waiter delicately wrapped in a paper napkin, accompanied our beef dish. Jake noted that paper napkins are ubiquitous, no maCer how upscale the restaurant. We enjoyed watching a group of Uzbek men dining together amer warmly greeVng each other with double cheek touches. Several were wearing the chapan, a quilted robe, and the tradiVonal tubeteika black cap with white embroidery. We returned to the Salom Inn to strains of Uzbek music from the Lyabi-Hauz.
Thursday, October 6
Bukhara
Today we kept a slower pace, since it is our last day in Bukhara and we needed to prepare for our drive to Turkmenistan in the morning. As we were having a late breakfast on the terrace, I looked up and saw a Vny old woman, dressed enVrely in white. I noVced that her face was absolutely radiant. Raisa came out of the office and embraced her warmly and they disappeared inside. Amer I’d finished my tea, I went into the office to ask Raisa a quesVon and she introduced me to the woman, telling me that she had just returned from Mecca. Raisa’s financial support had enabled her to go and the woman had come to thank her. Our eyes met, and the woman reached for me and gently ran her hands over my face and arms. Raisa explained that she was blessing me, and that I should return the blessing by touching her face and shoulders
as she had touched mine. I found this moment deeply moving. In the late morning, we took a taxi to the Zindan, a forbidding building hidden behind the Ark at the top of a series of stone steps. The notorious prison, now euphemisVcally called the Museum of Law and LegislaVon, was the place where Emir Nasrullah held BriVsh Emissary Colonel Charles Stoddart and later, his would-be savior, Captain Arthur Conolly, in a 20-foot deep vermin-infested hole, known as the Bug Pit. The two were subjected to its horrors for over three years before they were tortured and beheaded in 1841. Peering down into the black depths, it was hard to imagine what they must have suffered. We found no reference to the men in the displays or in the adjoining museum.
Zindan
A talkaVve young taxi driver drove us back to Lyabi-Hauz and we walked to Davlat’s workshop to look at the painVngs that we had seen last night. Amer Jake and Davlat engaged in some negoVaVons, we agreed on a price for the two painVngs from The Shahnameh that we had admired yesterday. (The book was wriCen by the Persian poet Firdausi in the late 10th century and is considered the naVonal epic of greater Iran.) Then Davlat said that he wanted to present me with a gim. He asked if I would like a small watercolor, and I said that what I would really like is a piece of Arabic calligraphy. He offered me a choice of any of the pieces he had on display. I saw a calligraphic heart, and naturally, was drawn to choose it. I asked Davlat to tell me about it, and once again, I understood him perfectly in spite of his very limited English. The calligraphy was: La ilaha illallah Muhammadur Rasulullah (which means, “There is no God but Allah Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah.”) He explained that the repeVVon of those words in Arabic resembles a heartbeat. When I lived in Karachi, we were taught to say that essenVal mantra of the Islamic faith in Arabic and I have never forgoCen it; I recited it to Davlat, much to his surprise. As we lem the shop with our treasures, I was not sure which I was more taken with: the painVngs that we had purchased, or his gim of the heart.
Amer spending several hours organizing and repacking, we were able to fit all we’d need for the remainder of our trip in our carryon bags. With border crossings and internal flights to deal with, not having any checked luggage or customs complicaVons should be a big advantage. Raisa offered to send our bags to Tashkent, and Ramil will bring them to us when he meets us at the airport to take us from one terminal to another for our flight home. I hope this works out as well as it sounds. We crossed the Lyabi-Hauz for our last dinner in Bukhara at the Old City Restaurant. In spite of the large number of tour groups there (mainly German), we enjoyed the atmosphere and our dinner choices, having avoided kebabs and manV again.
A journal kept by Susan Hanes during a trip through the Caucasuses and Central Asia from September 4-October 16, 2016. Volume 3. Photos by Susan Hanes and George Leonard, c. 2016