... said no one ever.
I can't even begin to describe some of the comical, if not rather embarrassing, questions I've received from family and friends alike pertaining to the destination of my upcoming travels. Some actual notable inquiries include:
Setting Off West: From Glitzy Seoul to Colorful Tashkent
Date: 22 July 2014
Location: Afrosiyab Train 762, Seat 8
Beginning a family adventure with a weekend in South Korea
proved to be the ideal opportunity for me to reconnect with my parents
after two years of traveling without them. Tales of their very first
trip to Seoul some thirty-odd years ago, of burning tongues from spicy
chili-flavored dishes and burning eyes from the tear gas of student
protests, dominated the dinner conversation at a quaint hot pot house in
the beachside suburb of Incheon. Sitting on the floor at a low wooden
table covered with an assortment of picked side dishes, I stirred a red
hot stew of unrecognizable shellfish gently simmering over a portable
gas burner. Intrigued, I asked my parents to recall every memory from
one of their earliest adventures together as a couple. Many things have
changed here in Korea since then, such as greater social stability,
increased prices, and a staggering rate of urban development. Other
things hadn't, including the very circumstances that defined our first
night's meal, a comical struggle to order in a local restaurant where no
one could speak English and none of us could read Hanguk. I stirred
once more the mystery stew that was brought to us and served myself, a
large chunk of brain plopping unceremoniously into my bowl. Though our
transit the following day was brief, we spent a delightful afternoon
frantically running through a maze of majestic halls in the Gyeongbokgung palace, the imperial seat of the Joseon emperors, before
hitting up a Buddhist temple and finishing the afternoon with a couple
of grilled octopus skewers in the bustling shopping district of
Insadong. Back at Incheon International Airport, we sat in patient
anticipation to board our second long haul flight to Tashkent, the
waiting room itself emulating the Silk Road in miniature as passengers
of varying ethnicities, ranging from East Asian to European and
everything in between, slowly congregated. The terminal was alive with
the sounds of Uzbek, Tajik, Russian, Chinese, and Korean.
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| Asian tourists on summer holiday overtaking the Gyeongbokgung Palace |
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| Devotees paying homage to the Buddha at a temple in downtown Seoul |
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| Life in the shopping district of Insadong |
Our arrival in Tashkent was met with the standard 1.5 hour
long bureaucratic nightmare of chaotic immigration and customs protocols
expected of any former Soviet state, as police took their time
meticulously ripping apart baggage in a nevertheless futile inspection.
As we entered the provincial-looking arrivals terminal, we suddenly discovered
that there was no place to exchange money and no open banks. Thankfully, a welcoming and
hilariously chatty taxi driver whisked us to a nearby parking lot where
we carried out a common black market transaction from the trunk of a
rusty Daewoo, exchanging a mere 300 dollars for a literal trash bag containing a
heaping stack of Uzbek Som a staggering 7 inches thick. Inflation in this developing Central Asian nation is so high that locals actually carry around bricks of cash in plastic sacks, propagating the illusion that everyone's a walking millionaire as they pull out massive rubber-banned wads to buy something as mundane as a curbside watermelon. Like banks, many stores and restaurants own electronic bill counters just to cope with the amount of paper circulating around for daily transactions. Nevertheless, the subsequent 15
minute taxi ride to our guesthouse was spent counting seven stacks of
bills in the backseat, our driver also helping partake in the count
while simultaneously driving with his elbows and weaving through an utter
mayhem of Daewoo Damas microbuses. After getting lost several times, we eventually
arrived at Mirzo's place in the heart of the
old town. Exhausted, we completely crashed for the evening, gently
lulled to sleep by Mirzo himself singing and strumming a traditional
tune on his two-stringed dutar out in the courtyard.
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| What a mere $300 US dollars looks like in Uzbek Som |
Our first days in Uzbekistan's mellow capital provided us
with an all-encompassing glimpse into the life of average Uzbeks from
all walks of life. Staying in the old part of town, a five minute walk
easily delivered us to the capital's mercantile center, the Chorsu
Bazaar. A haphazard and chaotic conglomeration of hundreds of
tarp-covered stalls overseen by colorfully robed women in headscarves,
overstocked tables displayed everything from baskets of fresh produce
and sacks of spices to colorful clothing hanging alongside handmade
tools and kitchenware. A giant blue dome at the center of the bustling
square covered a vast space dominated by butchers, working diligently
over whole lamb carcasses beside buckets of bloody entrails. While the
stench of meat in 95 degree weather bombarded the senses, a short stroll
over to the spice market provided an aromatic relief, the air wafting
with the sharp earthy fragrances of cumin seed, ground coriander, tumeric,
and dried chili. Reminiscent of a giant hive, vendors and shoppers alike
buzzed around in massive swarms, haggling and purchasing while overfilled
wagons hauled by young boys delivered goods all throughout the grounds.
Two dozen eggs could be bought for as little as 10 cents, while a
gram of the finest saffron would set one back a mere $2.50. Food in
general has been exceptionally cheap, with a breakfast for three
consisting of five, large lamb-filled samsas and a pot of green tea costing a
baffling $1.38. Splurging a little more for dinner, $28 bought a
veritable feast for the whole family, featuring specialties such as naryn (horse
meat sausage over cold noodle), beshbarmak (horse meat and vegetables
with noodle and broth), shorba (lamb in a tomato-based soup), a plate
of rice-stuffed peppers and tomatoes, a large water, and Russian beer.
The culinary scene of Uzbekistan is an ancient one whose attributes can
easily be seen as a product of centuries of cross cultural trade along
the ancient Silk Road. It is heavily meat based, a savory remnant of the
people's heritage as nomadic Turkic herders roaming the steppes, while
also infused with a complex spice spectrum absorbed from neighboring
cultures like India and Persia.
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| Spice vendors at the Chorsu Bazaar were ready to grant me a great deal on fine saffron |
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| Street-side bicycle repair shop outside the bazaar |
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| Mornings don't start without first heading down to the nearest chaikhana for a pot of green tea |
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| Uzbek national food: Plov, Shashlik, and Non |
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| Dishes of horse meat: Beshbarmak and Naryn |
As mixed as the flavor of its food are the actual people of
Uzbekistan. Everyone has treated us with the utmost hospitality,
partially out of good nature and partially out of downright curiosity at
the sight of an interracial family. Wedged dead-center between East and West, the hybrid
genetics of the people are physically written with their features in
nearly every possible combination of "Eurasian". Streetside chaikhanas
(tea houses) have been fantastic observation decks for people-watching, with passing individuals looking anything from Persian and
Turkish to Mongolian and South Asian, as well as everything in the middle. And quite frankly, I
doubt there is anywhere else on Earth where a majority of the populace looks uncannily like, well...
me! Given my mixed Asiatic heritage, I've oddly felt right at home in terms of physical appearance despite being lost in terms of language and mentality. That being
said, it's still thrown off quite a number of people, many of whom have
tried speaking to me in Uzbek then simply staring in humble
confusion when I cannot respond. Even as I compose this, a woman is asking me
something in Uzbek, to which
I'm now the one responding with humble
confusion. Further adding to the spectacle, my legal name just so happens to be an Uzbek name, an inadvertent attribute that consistently generates puzzlement every time I get stopped by police demanding to review my passport and documents.
As a city, Tashkent has been surprisingly delightful in spite of the plethora of decaying Soviet-esque apartment blocks. The area
around Amir Timur square houses elaborate colonial architecture and is
overrun with lush gardens and parks where excessively flowing sprinklers don't seem to concern anyone. Dotting the governmental district
are an impressive array of fountains and other beautifying waterworks
frequently used by young kids trying to escape the boiling weather
in light of the lack of public swimming pools. Exquisite Timurid tiled mosques coexist peacefully beside the gleaming onion domes of
Russian orthodox cathedrals. The city is aesthetically diverse, with some
areas looking like the peaceful parks of Madrid and others reminiscent
of the dusty back-alleys of Kabul. Nevertheless, broken sidewalks,
unfinished buildings, random piles of litter, and a police presence on nearly
every street corner help to remind one of the developing status of this
sleepy capital.
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| The national icon, Amir Timur, outside the Soviet era Hotel Uzbekistan |
Strolling the Ancient Capital of the Mighty Tamerlane
Date: 24 July 2014
Location: Beside a tomb door in the Shah-i-Zinda
The last thing that comes to mind when one thinks of a
place like Uzbekistan is a high speed rail, which is probably why I
chuckled to myself, half out of disbelief and half out of
disappointment that even my home state of California fails to live up
to my idea of progress. As an aficionado of transportation modes while
traveling, I naturally had to see what the Afrosiyob Line was all about. While nowhere
near as fast as the Japanese Shinkansen, I still have to give Uzbekistan credit. A journey that would normally
take four or five hours by slow train (or a week by camel
caravan) has now been reduced to merely two hours. Passing through a
flat and shrub-filled landscape, I couldn't resist envisioning
raiding nomadic warriors racing alongside with billows of dust trailing behind galloping cavalry.
Indeed, centuries of invasions under notorious leaders have left their mark in every crevice of
Uzbek history and culture. However, none have gone so far to permeate
the national psyche as intensely as the mighty Amir Timur, known
infamously in the west as Tamerlane. Remembered predominantly for his
merciless mien and a ruthless imperial conquest that nearly had Europe
at its knees, few people back home celebrate his remarkable
contributions to history, much less having even heard of him. While the
ancient city of Samarkand has been a crossroads of trade, ideas, and
civilizations long before his arrival, Timur was the man responsible for
giving it the status of "legendary". A beacon of Islamic renaissance
learning, Samarkand became an artistic and architectural masterpiece under his dynasty in
the 14th and 15th centuries, its epic mosques and madrassas (religious
colleges) glimmering from the millions of intricate tiles that cover
their facades in one immense floral-geometrical embrace.
We arrived at a quaint bed and breakfast nestled tightly
down a narrow alleyway in the old city, a diminutive door in the outer
wall opening into a large secluded courtyard graced by a grape arbor over a traditional tapchan. Dilshod graciously received us in
the family-run Emir B&B, a highly appropriate name given that their
home is humbly situated in the shadow of the Gur-i-Amir, the imposing mausoleum of Amir Timur himself. It's bulbous blue dome and towering minarets
could be seen right through the second floor window, separated only by a
single brick wall. My heart raced thinking about how my next four
nights would be spent literally sleeping beside a sleeping giant of
world history. I also quivered in thinking how 600 years ago, many
people wouldn't have been able to sleep out of fear for Timur's
approaching armies. After settling in, we set off to soak in the
stunning sights of Samarkand, whose long boulevards of lush gardens and
fountains served as a promenade for showcasing majestically tiled
monuments radiating hues of cerulean, turquoise, amber, and emerald.
Reaching the world-renowned Registan square, a sight that leaves all to
behold it in complete awe, I felt as if a lifelong travel goal had
finally been accomplished, a reward marked simply yet suitably by a dropped
jaw. The surrounding environs were refreshed by a desert breeze
as we slowly strolled along the main route that connects the 15th
century Ulugbek madrassas to the grand Bibi Khanym mosque, the site where
Timur supposedly threw his wife off its main minaret after discovering
her affair with the architect. The bustling Siyob Bazaar teamed with
mercantile activity that morning, keeping me on the balls of my feet and
my camera shutter perpetually snapping.
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| The famed Registan Square and its three monumental 15th-century madrassas at dusk |
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| Young Uzbek beauty in the Shah-i-Zinda |
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| Colorful textiles emulate colorful text and tiles |
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| Woman deep in prayer at the mausoleum of Kusam ibn Abbas, cousin of the prophet Muhammad |
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| An artist paints at the Ulugbek madrassa |
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| Monumental dome of the Bibi Khanym mosque |
As
Captain Matt once described, the driving force to
explore and see what lies "beyond the gate" may provide highly
surprising, if not the most rewarding, experiences of any given
adventure. That force literally took the form of passing through a small
hidden gate in a nondescript wall around the corner from Bibi Khanym, which
only locals seemed to be disappearing behind. Through the wall lay a literal labyrinth of narrow alleys that comprised the residential area of the
old city, a hotbed of local life from kids cruising home on rickety bicycles to women baking fresh samsas in tandir ovens. Having walked
only a block into the honeycomb of houses, we were instantly invited
to sit on a shaded tapchan by two elderly men who eagerly paused an
intense game of backgammom to chat. Neither spoke a word of
English, yet they both charismatically insisted on engaging in a comical
conversation with us. With one being Uzbek and the other an ethnic Afghan, I
somehow managed to communicate through whatever related languages I
could muster up on the spot. A haphazard combination of Turkish, Farsi,
and sign language remarkably got me through half an hour with the
delightful old-timers, talking about the absolutely essential topics of
family and food. Their greatest excitement lay in their perplexity of
how my parents could have possibly given birth to an "Uzbek" child,
further granting me a sense of welcome and acceptance out of mere
phenotypic coincidence. Before bidding us farewell, one of the men
quickly disappeared behind a door in the wall, later to reemerge with
two necklaces of linked copper coins as token gifts for my mother and myself.
The displays of renowned hospitality here in Uzbekistan
certainly did not end there during our stroll through the old city. My
father and I happened to come across a strange tree that bore a ripened
delight reminiscent of blackberries, our love of fruit and curiosity
stopping us in our tracks. A passing car made a sudden U-turn and came
to a halt at our heels, a middle-aged Tajik man emerging from it like an
overgrown child entering a candy shop. He motioned to us that it was
possible to eat the fruit then proceeded to pull the tree's branches
down within reach and pluck a handful for us. The mulberries
were sweeter and juicier than any berry I had ever tasted, their juice
staining my hands a shade of red bloodier than the ripest pomegranates. The man
further demonstrated a trick to removing the stains, using the juice of
the unripened berries to miraculously scrub them away. The entire gesture of stopping his car to purposely pick fruit for us completely blew me away and I asked him to take a photo with me. He called out to
his dusty vehicle where a bulbous wife holding a daughter suddenly emerged, after
ten minutes of patiently waiting for her husband to finish feeding a couple of foreigners. After a heartwarming group photo, the Tajik
family bid us farewell and drove off, but not before gifting us a bag of sweet buns
for the long walk home.
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| Spending the afternoon chatting with Afghan and Uzbek old-timers, using a haphazard mixture of languages |
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| Tajik family photo after picking mulberries |
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| Scene from an alleyway in the old city |
The day trip from Samarkand to Shakhrisabz, site of Amir
Timur's birth, had played out much better in my head than in reality.
Despite not having had any health issues in almost a
decade while traveling, it seemed that time ultimately caught up with me in a truly
unfortunate way. Waking up lethargic and faintly nauseated,
something in the back of my mind told me that I wasn't right, although I insisted in pressing
forward with the two hour trip south
for the sake of my only chance being here. We caught a shared taxi with an
Uzbek woman and her toddler daughter, driving along the scorching hot
and pot-holed road over the Takhtakaracha Pass towards
Tajikistan, a lovely winding journey past rural village life. Well, lovely if one isn't on the verge of vomitting. By the time we were
dropped off at the Aksarai, I felt a dizziness that was becoming ever
more debilitating as I dragged myself out into the bleak environment. The town of Shakhrisabz looked as if it had just been
recently bombed, the sight of rubble-strewn roads, abandoned buildings,
and completely demolished edifices in a dusty windblown wasteland on par
with scenes from war-torn Afghanistan. Walking aimlessly in the
hundred-degree heat through a muddled street market with odorous sheep
carcasses ready for butchering, I quickly ran into a nearby mosque and
collapse into a motionless heap. My parents debated about whether or not to
break into the antibiotics, particularly given that we didn't know what
exactly my ailment was. Ultimately in desperation, I popped a Cipro and
managed to find enough energy to take refuge in an adjacent 15th century
mausoleum, away from the searing sun and chaos of the nearby market. Laying curled up on a wooden bench beside the grave's stone cenotaph, I almost wished
I was dead myself as I lay nearly passed out in an exquisitely painted tomb ironically befitting for a fan of Islamic architecture. As I stared up at the
geometric designs that graced the inner dome, I felt like I had entered a
Sufi trance gone terribly wrong, my head spinning and my limbs weak.
The only thing worse than getting ill was getting ill while stuck in dreary Shakhrisabz, a realization that gave me the
determination to make the quarter mile walk back to the shared taxi
site. But even as terrible as I felt, the sound of our comedic taxi
driver bellowing out loud along to the latest Uzbek hits seemed to help
lighten the moment. After reaching Samarkand that evening, I declined
dinner and crashed for 12 hours.
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| A juice vendor sells refreshments amidst searing heat and piles of rubble in Shakhrisabz |
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| Passed out in a 14th century tomb |
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| Rural family vehicle we passed on our way to Shakhrisabz |
I awoke the next morning feeling considerably better,
walking out to the central courtyard to discover that my parents had
made new friends during my absence the previous night. Whimsical Justin
and his loquacious wife, Jennifer, had recently driven into town in
their custom-built camper truck on one leg of their two-year,
tri-continental expedition from Russia to South Africa. Reminding me of
Brad and Sheena circumnavigating the world in their VW "Nacho", chatting
for hours with this pair of Aussies and hearing of their fascinating
adventures over breakfast was likely the best way to start my day.
Before their departure towards Kazakhstan, they graciously gave us a
tour of their camper and the compact amenities necessary for their
roadtrip of a lifetime, all designed and assembled by Justin himself.
The concept of international camper travel has always enticed me,
bringing back nostalgia for my camping days south of the border with
Captain Matt and the Orange Slug. Meeting this couple also served as a
reminder to me of how real travel isn't simply about seeing new places
and trying new things, but also about meeting new people - amazing people with their own awesome stories, I should add. In retrospect, some of the most
interesting characters I've ever come across throughout the course of my
life were all met while traveling, the spirit of exploration
transcending all nationalities and languages.
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| Jen and Justin on their 2-year, tri-continental roadtrip |
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| Their home on wheels |
Sending them off, we
likewise departed towards Urgut some 40 km south of Samarkand, a village
known only for the enormous bazaar to occupy a vast expanse of
grassland at the foot of the Hissor Mountains. Like a Silk Road Costco,
thousands of people flock to the bazaar from all over the region to
purchase and sell goods in bulk, tying down their acquisitions into towering piles atop the roofs of microbuses on the verge of tipping.
While the bazaar sold primarily everyday items, the highlight of the
experience was actually observing the people running their weekly
errands. Women in colorful textiles bartered over more colorful textiles
as men hauled wagons filled with various household products. In the
food sector, smoke billowed from searing coals as lamb shashlik grilled on skewers to
fatty perfection. Around the corner, a young boy scraped freshly baked
samsas off the walls of a clay tandir oven while an old woman fried up beef liver in a fire-heated wok. As much as the people
were a highlight for us, it ultimately turned out that we were the
highlight of market day for many of them. Being lone foreigners in a sea of
Central Asians, many would call out in excitement and ask to take
pictures with us, often using another bystander's mobile phone in a last
minute attempt to capture the strange faces passing through. Attempting
to order food in a place where absolutely no English is spoken was also
quite a spectacle, completely confusing for us while delightfully
hilarious to the local population. After 10 minutes of struggling to make sense of the food-induced mayhem,
I managed to leave the open air kitchen with a large plate of plov, the
national dish of Uzbekistan that consists of a bed of spiced rice pilaf
with carrots and chickpeas topped with savory grilled lamb - a meal for
three that, together with a large bottle of raspberry juice, came to only $6.
Aside from the dubious kitchen environment and questionable washing
standards, the market restaurant in all its bustle of sights, sounds,
and aromas was just the excitement I'd been longing for after living too
long in stark and subdued Irvine. Returning home to Samarkand, we spent
our remaining evening in quiet reflection at the Gur-i-Amir, paying our
respects to Amir Timur as the last order of business before departing
the bejeweled city for the rugged mountains of the north.
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| Pulling fresh samsas out of a tandir oven |
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| Cooking cow hooves and stuffed intestines |
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| Antique sewing machines for sale |
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| A young cook proud of his shashlik (lamb kebabs) |
Celebrating the End of Ramadan with Rural Tajik Villagers
Date: 27 July 2014
Location: A floor cushion under Rahima's ayvan
It had always been a wish of mine to experience Central
Asian life and culture at its purest, a mission that simply cannot be
accomplished so long as one remains in the city. A
little over a month before this trip, I happened to start conversing
with Sherzod, a coodinator for the Kyzylkum Biosphere Project in
Yangikishloq, promoting a relatively novel initiative here in Uzbekistan
to increase ecological and cultural tourism. Originally working with the UN,
the project he manages ultimately serves as a way of fundraising for
social service and educational projects for villagers in the Nurata
region. After talking and negotiating with him, I opted to have him hook
me up with a rural homestay far out in the Nuratau mountains some 5
hours northwest of Samarkand. What better way to experience authentic
life than with a traditional Tajik family in their humble country home?
We were picked up by Eldar, a husky and hairy Uzbek man that, despite
his initially intimidating countenance, was exceptionally considerate
and quite jovial. Listening to late 80's and early 90's American
classics, we cruised our way through miles of barren grasslands en route
to the secluded valley around Sentyab. We occasionally passed fields of
cotton where the Uzbek government controversially continues to draft a million people (even children as young as 10, until a law was
recently passed) every autumn to pick its harvest, in some sort of bizarre form of
modern day Confederate slavery.
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| Donkey carting hay on the way to the village |
Reaching the village after 50 km by a narrow two-lane road
and a further 8 km by a rocky Jeep trail, we were greeted by our host,
Gulmurod. Continuing the national trend of zero spoken English, our
communication with the family depended heavily on my haphazard mixture
of Turkish and Farsi, occasionally having to break into my reserve of
truly elementary Russian phrases. However, Google would be proud to know
that for conveying more complex ideas, the Russian translator app on
our tablet was an utter lifesaver, allowing the villagers to read
the general gist of whatever we hoped to express. The compound of houses owned by the Zarifullaev
family, all nestled in a walnut grove deep within the valley, was built
from local stones, tree trunks, and reeds entirely by the family
themselves. The setting was absolutely stunning, a lush gorge of walnut,
mulberry, and grape surrounding stone houses and wells reached by a
wooden bridge over a dry river bed. Rahima, Gulmurod's wife, had just
put some twigs and dried cow dung into the oven and was boiling rice for
plov in a cast iron wok. Lunch was served on the floor of the ayvan, a
traditional covered platform, consisting of plov with lamb, roasted
vegetable salads, yogurt with dillweed, freshly cut melons, and hot
green tea. It was a delectable spread prepared entirely from ingredients
grown on the property, served as a small banquet for welcomed
travelers. We dined in absolute serenity, a cool breeze wafting through
the plum orchard along with the distant hum of bees in the beds of wild
flowers. After the extraordinary meal, we lounged on the ayvan's
carpets and interacted with the local children. Gulmurod's 6-year-old
son, Shohjokhon, had his two girlfriends, Durdona and Sobrina, over to
play for that afternoon, the three of them ecstatic over our presence and anxiously leading us
through forested trails to pick plums, walnuts, and flowers. The
gracious and polite attitude of the rural children, second only to their
surprising sense of discipline and helpfulness, was quite a relief
given my experience with village youth in other countries. The
youngsters possessed an amazing sense of independence, often having to
look out for themselves in a potentially hazardous environment. The
adorable 2-year-old Qalbinur eventually came out to join the commotion, a feisty little doll running barefoot over the rocky garden. She ended up
becoming my favorite, her chubby little cheeks bouncing when she would
scream "Biyo!" ("Come on!") to get me to follow her around the forest.
The children fell in love with the camera and
playback option on my tablet, running around the property screaming
"videeyoo!" in an effort to have me record their delightfully crazy
antics. We later took a stroll along a rocky road that meanders
through the narrow valley, passing grazing goats and stone houses straddling jagged cliffs in an atmosphere reminiscent of a more placid time in
Afghanistan. The other villagers nearby were quite perplexed and
jubilant upon our passing, many of them coming out to greet us and even
take photos with us. Their surprise was amplified even greater when
discovering that we are Americans, a rather rare species of visitor to
these distant parts. Crossing paths with overloaded donkeys, we returned
home that evening to take in more of the slow-paced ambiance. Rahima
sat on the dusty ground bucket-washing the family laundry while her
daughter rolled lamb-filled dumplings from scratch behind her, both
eventually moving on to chop wood in nearly utter darkness. For country
women here, a day's work is never finished. My admiration for Rahima
continued throughout the night, watching this mother of six perfect
the art of cooking, cleaning, and child-rearing in a state of perpetual
motion, a tedious lifestyle that would make the chores of the average
American housewife seem basic and trivial. Dinner of lamb dumplings in a
tomato broth and an assortment of pickled salads was spent under the
ayvan's single 15 watt bulb, an array of clicking beetles and moths
crawling about in the dim light with one occasionally meeting its fate
in my soup bowl.
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| Rahima cooking plov over the fire |
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| The Zarifullaev family ayvan, where meals and tea are taken |
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| Baby Qalbinur |
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| From left to right: Sobrina, Shohjohon, and Durdona |
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| Durdona |
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| Village girls from down the road |
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| Baby Mohinur and her sister |
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| Donkeys are the "bikes" of children in the Sentyab valley |
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| Neighbors were anxious to welcome us to the village |
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| Gulmurod with the children |
Monday just happened to mark the end of the Islamic holy
month of Ramadan and Gulmurod graciously invited me to morning prayers
at the village mosque perched high on a rocky ridge overlooking the
valley. There was a slight miscommunication in timing, as I learned from
Gulmurod surprising me in the shower with a series of taps followed by a "
Alo? Masjid? Alooo?". I frantically put on my
clothes while still dripping wet and rushed to catch up with him and the
other men making their way up the side of the mountain. At the top,
the men had already begun salaat (prayers), followed by melodious recitations from
the Quran. As a non-Muslim, I patiently sat on a carpet in the grass
with Gulmurod outside the small building, observing the congregation
perform their rituals through the open door. I couldn't help but feel as
if I were actually in a more preferable place for prayers, surrounded by
imposing cliffs and panoramic views of the fertile Sentyab valley
rather than crammed in a tiny dark room with a bunch of guys. I was surprised
to hear the sermon being conducted in Arabic rather than local Tajik,
but it was nice to be able to understand something for once, especially
given the daily communication challenges while traveling here in
Uzbekistan. The day's topic was naturally about the end of the spiritual fasting
season and community blessings for Eid el-Fitr. Following the takbeer
("
Allahu akbar!"), dopi-headed men emptied out into the courtyard to
conduct the standard social hour, a moment on this trip where I genuinely
felt out of place. It was like freshman year of high school all over again,
particularly given the bombardment of curious stares and excessive
gossiping over the random foreigner crashing their religious service.
 |
| Men walking back home after Ramadan prayers at a mountain-top mosque |
Returning home, I met up with my parents and Sobit, the
donkey herder, to set off on a 6-hour trek into the mountains for lunch.
Following the dirt path deeper into the gorge, we slowly made our
way forward into this mystical realm, a veritable garden of Eden, that even my
own command of diction can't suffice in describing. Soaring walls of
sharp stone peaks shot high into the cloudy sky, narrowing in on rocky ravines
filled with lush forests and babbling creeks. The trail gradually
twisted upwards and entered another secluded valley, filled with
cascading waterfalls over slate boulders emptying into crystal clear
pools of emerald and lapis colored water. The elixir of life freely flowed down
natural terraces into stone canals that inundated personal vegetable
gardens for stone houses secretly tucked into the surrounding cliffs. The trail
eventually passed through the remnants of a prehistoric petrified
forest, its fossilized logs perfectly suited for the stone fences and
animal pens constructed by the valley's inhabitants. As we hugged
precarious edges on our way further up the mountain, the rocky terrain
became dry and dustier, abandoned stone and adobe structures nestled in niches dotting the landscape in a scene uncannily similar to the Anasazi
cliff dwellings of the American Southwest. We eventually reached a grotto where a
stone reservoir formed a reflective pool at the foot of a sheer rock face
exhibiting ancient Arabic inscriptions etched high above. A picnic lunch was taken under a large tree, a crepe
with hard-boiled eggs, ripe tomatoes, and hot green tea that Rahima
graciously packed and stuffed into the donkey's saddle bag. Riding a
donkey was an interesting endeavor that had an awkward beginning. Unlike
camels, I didn't have the luxury of being able to cross my leg, making
the crotch-stretching sitting position the only position available during a
3 hour struggle of maintaining balance. My donkey initially guided
itself, often taking me directly into the path of low hanging branches
and off the trail through dense shrubs towards water despite my persistent reprimands. Sobit would occasionally have to run and bring
me back before being helplessly carried off by a beast with a mind of
its own. I eventually learned the proper commands and places to beat the
animal for good steering, giving me a better, though certainly not
expert, sense of control. My mother said she preferred riding camels and after 15
minutes of putting up with an "ass", decided she'd rather walk the 6.5
miles in flimsy sandals. There was only one donkey to share amongst the three of us, but
following lunch we all felt that walking was perhaps the most enjoyable
way to take in the natural wonders of Sentyab. I let Sobit take the reins, giving him my iPod so that he could bounce down the mountain to
his favorite Tajik tunes. Music is hard to come by out in the remote
countryside, and he was both excited and perplexed that a
foreigner possessed a greater collection of Central Asian pop anthems
than himself.
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| Hiking up the forested gorge of the Sentyab valley |
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| The trickling water of multiple creeks |
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| Rock walls over pools of water |
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| Traditional stone and wood houses hug the steep mountain side |
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| Sobit, the donkey herder |
That night was Eid, or Bayram as it is known in Uzbek, one
of the two major feasting holidays in Islam. Village life was slightly
more upbeat that evening, as friends and neighbors made their rounds
visiting each other, women preparing delectable dishes while men
socialized over tea (and to my shock, shots of grade-A Russian vodka).
Gulmurod spent nearly the entire day making the long journey by autobus
to the bazaar in Jizzakh to get special groceries and supplies for the family. He folded a wad of money into his pocket then kindly handed me a giant round of fresh Uzbek bread with a smile.
Rahima worked over her wood fire stove, frying up lamb, tomatoes, and
onions for the laghman that I partially helped prepare, sending little Shohjokhon down the road to another house for
the noodles. Dinner under the ayvan was the most elaborate we'd had since
arriving in Uzbekistan, the variety of delicacies outnumbered only by
the sparkling tapestry of stars overhead. After the feast, everyone in the family crashed
rather early that night following a busy day of social, commercial,
and gustatory activity. When the single bulb in our guestroom switched off, the only motion that could be detected was the scurrying
pitter-patter of the household roof rat making its nocturnal rounds.
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| Setting the kitchen ablaze with pre-Eid cooking |
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| I also got to do my share of frying lamb for laghman |
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| A small celebratory feast for Eid el-Fitr |
Bukhara: Buying and Bouncing Around a Caravan Capital
Date: 2 August 2014
Locaton: Backseat of a car in the middle of the Karakum desert
Saying farewell to the Zarifullaev family was difficult,
particularly for the children, as we sipped our last cup of tea under
the family ayvan. Gulmurod picked up a whimpering Qalbinur and walked us back across the bridge to where Eldar was waiting with his car. Giving
our salams, we made our way back down the mountain to the small highway
that follows the length of Aydarkul, over whose distant waters Kazakhstan could faintly be
seen in the distance. Driving through empty grasslands that eventually
transformed into the flat expanse of the Kyzylkum desert, we made our
way five hours south toward the mighty Silk Road trading hub of Bukhara.
Eldar dropped us off at Rustam and Zukhra's, a family-owned hotel
occupying a traditional building in the heart of the historic city, one block down from the famed Lyab-i-Hauz plaza. Bukhara, though
not as well known internationally as Samarkand, is actually considered
by historians to have been an even mightier Silk Road city, certainly
evidenced by the vast number of ancient edifices dedicated to trade and
commerce that still stand. Whereas Samarkand possessed only a handful of
the grand imperial structures from the era, with large parts of the city
deriving from more recent Soviet times, nearly every building in Bukhara
is a UNESCO protected world heritage site. Built from mud bricks and
colorful Persian tile work, the entire old town felt like stepping back
into the 15th century, its maze of alleys winding their way past
majestic mosques and plazas where traders would take refuge, as well as
covered bazaars filled with shops where craftsmen still practice their
arts. The Uzbek government invested a considerable amount of funds into
the restoration and development of the old city's center, filling many of its
historical buildings with boutique hotels, folkloric restaurants, and
overpriced handicraft shops. The overall ambiance
is loosely comparable to an "Arabian Nights"-themed Disneyland, which I still have
mixed feelings about. Nevertheless, the old city still retains a
delightfully cozy and exotic flair that is magical for both foreign
and local visitors alike.
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| One of several covered bazaars, a former hotbed of silk merchants and traveling caravans |
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| Entrance to the Taqi Sarafan Bazaar at dusk |
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| Renowned Bukharan carpets for sale |
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| Art shops inside a medieval "trading dome" |
Arriving in Bukhara, our very first order of business was
to purchase a train ticket to the remote western town of Khiva on the
border with Turkmenistan. Prior to our travels in Uzbekistan, a great deal
of research was spent trying to figure out the convoluted and
ever-changing rail schedule that unreliably crisscrosses this country.
Back at home, I had already driven myself into madness looking at time
tables and schedules from four supposedly current sources, each
conveying slightly different information about the operation dates for
the train that we needed. We came to the conclusion that the train we
needed to take from Bukhara to Khiva runs only once a week and the entire trip was planned with that limiting factor in
mind. Getting to the rail office, we were suddenly told that there was
no longer a direct train bound for Khiva at all. Getting there would ultimately
require taking the next train out of Bukhara to Navoi (also only once a
week, and it would've departed the very next day), arriving at Navoi at
10pm, spending the night on the train platform until 3am, then catching
another train to Urgench, finally arriving in Khiva late evening. The entire idea sounded asinine and we opted to catch a domestic
flight. Around the corner from the train office, we discovered that the air
office was mysteriously closed, which wouldn't have worked in any case
as we later learned that domestic flights could only be purchased directly at an airport. We decided to return to our hotel, where the owner
graciously called the airport for us with our inquiry. After a short
conversation in Tajik, followed by a couple of disconcerting frowns, she told us that
there were no flights going in that direction. With no trains or planes
heading to our final Silk Road city, we inquired about the local bus.
That option apparently would have required us to walk to a nondescript corner on
the edge of town and wait to flag down a bus bound for Urgench,
contingent entirely upon whether there were enough people going out
there to warrant a bus. The hotel owner kindly made a few more calls and
eventually found a shared taxi that would be willing to make the 6 hour
drive across the bleak Karakum desert. Transportation in Uzbekistan
can be quite a complicated matter and frustratingly inconsistent, but it
never ceases to amaze me how things can somehow work themselves out with just a
few quick phone calls around the neighborhood.
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| Handicraft and refreshment stalls in the old quarter |
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| Bridal shoot at the Nadir Devonbegi madrassa |
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| Weaving fine Bukharan carpets to pop music |
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| Spices, teas, and tools for stamping designs into Uzbek bread |
Our time in Bukhara was an enchanted one. Spending the past four
days here (two days longer than the average visitor), we've truly gotten
to know the small city well, as locals in the restaurants and markets
have come to remember us and grow accustomed to our presence. The best way
of seeing the innumerable Islamic monuments of the old quarter was
certainly by bicycle, with Bukhara likely being the only bike-friendly
city in the country (though still lacking any kind of bike
infrastructure). My father and I rented a pair for less than $2 an hour,
cruising past medieval madrassas and regal mosques radiating blue and
turquoise from floral Persian tiles. Towering above the flat landscape, the 150 foot Kalyan minaret helped serve as our marker while navigating the labyrinth of dusty streets. With a refreshing desert breeze to counter the baking 100
degree sun, we rode through the mud brick maze until arriving awestruck at the
foot of a colossal fortress whose ramparts dwarfed the surrounding
ramshackle homes. As nearly all of the bikes in the city are janky
single speeds on the verge of crumpling, most of our later exploration was
done on foot. Taking our time strolling through the winding backstreets of the silk trading hub, we passed through a series of small covered
bazaars selling everything from colorful textiles and acclaimed Bukharan
carpets to antique brassware and exquisite ceramics. Outside their shops,
young boys hand etched arabesque patterns into metal plates while older
men forged red hot steel daggers over their anvils. Further down the cobblestone road,
a spice shop welcomed visitors to sample an array of teas, its herbal
delights delicately displayed in rows of colorful heaping sacks. The
sights, sounds, and scents of the bazaar sparked my roaring imagination
of what life must have been like back in the days of the great Silk
Road trade, as trains of overloaded camels en route from China to Italy
would pass through the markets and caravansarais to take refuge and
exchange both material goods and intellectual ideas. In spite of
traveling nearly three weeks in this country and hardly seeing any other
foreigners, coming across small groups of Italians, French, Koreans,
and Japanese roaming the alleys and bartering for souvenirs reminded me
of how Bukhara still maintains its legacy as a cultural and commercial melting pot.
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| Biking around this old Silk Road city was beyond phenomenal! |
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| The medieval 150 foot Kalyan minaret dominates Bukhara's skyline |
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| The 15th century Kalyan mosque can hold up to 10 thousand people |
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| Five hundred years later, Mir-i-Arab madrassa still functions as a theological college |
Our time in Bukhara was also met with some rather serendipitous
moments. Walking through Sarafan alley, we accidentally stumbled across
one of the last remaining ancient synagogues in Central Asia. Despite its hand-carved wooden doors being closed, an urge of curiosity beckoned
me to push them open and walk inside. Expecting to be immediately booted out, I was
actually met by a kind-hearted and garrulous Bukharan Jew, one of the
last of his kind, who invited me into the inner courtyard where the
walls were covered in murals of menorahs, stars of David, and Hebrew
texts. In the inner sanctum, the keeper pulled back an embroidered
curtain to reveal two massive cylinders containing 700 year old scrolls
of the Torah. Explaining to him in broken Russian that some of my
dearest friends are Jewish, he excitedly welcomed me to photograph and
film the quiet interior of the study. It was a pleasurable moment that I
will always remember as being my first time ever entering a synagogue. While shopping in the 15th century Nadir Devonbegi madrassa, I noticed a traditional orchestra setting up at one end of
the courtyard. Upon inquiring, I learned that a special, one night only
folkloric dance performance and ethnic fashion show was soon to take place. We
reserved a table on the spot, graced by the entrancing whirls and hypnotic hip movements of Scheherazade-like
beauties decked in elaborate costumes and clinking jewelry. The
experience was further heightened by the mesmerizing strum from a
symphony of lutes and the rhythmic rolls of frame drums echoing off of
ancient walls. My mother was particularly enticed by the accompanying
fashion show, her only experience on any form of runway, as contemporary
designed apparel based on traditional styles and motifs waltzed their
ways around the courtyard on the backs of slender Russian models. With a
pot of green tea and bottle of local (though rather terrible) red wine, we
thoroughly enjoyed the early evening before heading across the plaza to
Bukhara's prime outdoor eatery, the bustling Lyab-i-Hauz Restaurant, which sits amongst illuminated age-old trees and an ancient pool where
caravan traders once quenched their thirst. These days, far more than
thirst quenching occurs, as scores of foreign and local visitors gorge
on 1.5 foot long skewers of grilled lamb while downing chilled beers,
all to the musical stylings of a nightly karaoke singer covering all
of your favorite Uzbek, Tajik, and Russian hits.
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| A glimpse into a Bukharan synagogue |
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| Traditional Uzbek dancing |
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| A traditional Shashmaqam orchestra performs in the courtyard of the 15th century Nadir Devonbegi madrassa |
While the sleepy city was virtually vacant during the
napping hours of 1 to 5 in the evening, the nights came alive with music
and chatter as families flooded the central plaza to dine and play, a
scene emulating the feel of a small town carnival. As the temperature
dropped by about 20 degrees, nothing could be more pleasant than people-watching from a cafe that had only two things available on the menu that
day. On the topic of food, eating here in Bukhara has been a challenge
all on its own, with most restaurants having few dishes in stock
despite lengthy menus and other establishments not open at all
during day hours. On one occasion after eventually finding a place that
offered pizza, we sat for 10 minutes in a small dark room after
ordering, only to have our waiter casually return from down the street to tell us there was no pizza that day, come back tomorrow. The lack of
food and erratic hours of many businesses made me question if this was
some recurring remnant of life back under Soviet occupation, when supplies were rather scarce and people were raised with a sense of indifference to inconsistency.
Nevertheless, ultimately taking refuge from the afternoon heat with a
pot of saffron tea and sweet halva in a Oriental rug-draped chaikhana helped us to temporarily forget our hunger.
The Journey to Khorezm & Camping in Karakalpakstan
Date: 7 August 2014
Location: Inside a Kazakh yurt at the base of the Ayaz Kala fortress
Crammed into a shared taxi with an Italian traveler who also found
himself in the same problematic transportation predicament, we set off
early from Bukhara following the Silk Route toward the remote city of Khiva. A 6 hour journey through some of the
harshest terrain I've ever witnessed, we sped nauseatingly along a
small two-lane road through the flat and formidable Karakum desert,
maniacally swerving to avoid pot holes and sand dunes slowly consuming
the broken asphalt, as well as the occasional car driving down the wrong side of the road. Nothing living could be spotted in any direction
until suddenly coming across the mighty Amu Darya river separating
Uzbekistan from Turkmenistan, a blue snake slowly slithering its way
through a sea of sand. Approaching the oasis, enormous fortified walls and ramparts surrounding a rugged sand-colored city rose impressively out of the arid terrain. Far out in
the western oasis of Khorezm, rustic Khiva stood at a timeless
standstill, a small enclosure of mud brick
houses stacked tightly amongst each other and navigated by a web-like network of sand-swept cobblestone streets worn down over the centuries. Rolling
along through the gigantic carved wooden doors of the northern gate, our driver pulled up alongside a mud and straw house
wedged into a corner between the city's western wall and a wall of the
Kuhna Ark, the abode of the former khan. We were greeted by
Jaloladdin, whose family transformed their spacious traditional house
into a quaint bed and breakfast of 6 folk-style rooms and a palatial
dining room sporting a long Victorian table and elaborate arabesque
ceiling. My favorite part of the rather large residence was its rooftop,
accessed by a series of wooden staircases climbing up to a large flat
terrace overlooking the entire city. A 360 degree panorama of ancient mosques
and madrassas, complete with their shimmering tiled facades and towering
minarets, could be seen while sipping chilled apricot juice at a table set over a dirt floor.
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| Ancient Khiva from the top of a minaret, with neighboring Turkmenistan in the distance |
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| Fortified walls that surround the small city |
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| The Kalta Minar at dusk |
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| The city's main boulevard |
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| Walking the top of the western wall alongside Jalol's house, the Meros B&B |
Khiva is consistently described by all to visit it as a
"museum city", which even in itself is an understatement given that 95%
of the buildings are protected historical monuments, each containing a
small museum dedicated to some fraction of the city's 2500 year history.
The number of old madrassas that dot the dense urban landscape is
innumerable, their Mugal archways and honeycomb dormitories
silently echoing a bygone era when Khiva was essentially a city-size
15th century Islamic university featuring the intellectual
discoveries of scholars like Ibn Sina, Al-Khwarizmi, and Al-Beruni. Their
empty halls have all been converted into haphazard collections of
miscellaneous artifacts and exhibits, all displayed in darkness with
virtually nothing labeled in English. The main street that winds its way
across the city between the east and west gates serves as a boulevard for a plethora of shops and carts selling local crafts and
cheap trinkets, popular among Uzbek tourists taking family
roadtrips out to their equivalent of the "Wild West". Away from the
grandiose religious and imperial structures, small alleys lead past historic brick villas whose rooms encircle private courtyards where
craftsmen still practice their trades. As a major trading hub
controlling the Southern Silk Route between Bukhara and Merv, Khiva has
always prided itself on its number of guilds, which still produce by
hand exquisite works of carved wood, brassware, carpets, and
ceramics. Woodcarving is by far a Khivan specialty, with nearly every
door and column in town painstakingly chiseled out with complex geometric
and floral patterns. In a setting as beautiful, mystical, ancient, and
romantic as Khiva, it was no surprise that we were able to catch no less
than 5 wedding entourages, slowly making their rounds to all of the
city's sacred sites and receiving the blessings of town elders. Even
I ended up finding myself dancing in the streets amongst groups of
ecstatic Uzbek party-goers, the pulsating rhythms of Khorezmian drums
blasting from staticky speakers projecting out of a bazaar shop.
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| Silk worm cocoons and natural dyes |
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| Young wood-carvers |
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| Courtyard of a silk weaving guild |
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| A bride removes her shoes |
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| Wedding ceremony inside the Pahlavan Mahmoud mosque |
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| Dancing in the streets: a typical Khorezmian pastime that I thoroughly enjoyed |
I want
to highlight a few more episodes of unprecedented hospitality while
traveling through this country. On one occasion while I was laying in a
park bench out of exhaustion from the heat, a woman and her two
daughters randomly approached me and began chatting away excitedly. The
mother reached into her grocery bag and pulled out a large round slab of
Uzbek bread, voraciously ripping it in half and handing a portion to
me. Finishing with the universal hand gesture denoting "
It's all good",
the three of them walked off giggling. On a second occasion, while
walking through the bazaar, an enthusiastic melon vendor beckoned to me
and began slicing off chunks of sweet, juicy honeydew. He insisted I
wasn't finished, continuing to slice off more and more of his delectable crop as I tried to keep up by stuffing myself. The man seemed so thrilled to share with me his fruits,
laughing and making lip smacking noises in reference to the pure organic
sugar dripping from my mouth. A classic thirst quencher in the deserts
of Central Asia, I ultimately bought one he had hand-chosen specifically for extra
sweetness, a 10 pound melon for exactly one dollar.
Life in Khiva is slow paced and leisurely. Time means
nothing here and we often found ourselves easily losing track of it.
Getting up around 8, we'd have a lengthy brunch from 9 to 10:30 in
Jalol's dining room, sightseeing from around 11 until 1 in the
afternoon. A light lunch of kebab and goshtli-non would keep us out of
the sun until about 2:30, when we'd make our way back to the guesthouse
to sit on the balcony or nap until 7, escaping the triple digit heat
that makes everything in town close down for four to five hours. Dinner
is eaten late in the summertime when the air reaches a pleasant 78
degrees, with restaurants beginning to fill around 9:30 in the evening. As previously mentioned, food
in Uzbekistan has been a significant challenge as
restaurants typically have only a few dishes in stock and frequently run
out of ingredients before the dinner rush is over. Coupled with a
lackadaisical sense of service that always results in one's drinks,
meal, and bill arriving 30 minutes after requesting them, I once again couldn't help
but wonder how life and access to food might have been under Soviet
occupation. Nevertheless, what food we eventually were able to acquire
was nothing short of scrumptious, including manti (pumpkin and lamb
dumplings in a yogurt sauce), shuvit oshi (dill noodles with a meat and
vegetable bullion), and mampar (the Khivan variation of laghman).
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| Messing around with a rawap on the roof of the guesthouse |
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| Sunset over the city walls |
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| Full moon over a warm summer night |
After three days exploring Khiva, we set off northbound to
spend a day and night like nomads in the Republic of Karakalpakstan, an internationally unrecognized and
obscure autonomous region in northwestern Uzbekistan still longing for full independence. Quite frankly, I had
never heard of the place until just a month ago, giving me an even
greater anticipation to see what lies in the far western corner of the
country. Alisher drove us across the mighty Amu Darya, this time
separating the Uzbek province of Khorezm from the Karakalpak territory. As
with every transition between regions within Uzbekistan, multiple
police checkpoints had to be crossed, a constant reminder of the
government's strict policies on monitoring the movement of its people.
Driving out into the absolute nothingness of the Karakum, we stopped to
climb and explore around a series of two thousand year old "kalas", the
fortresses of ancient Zoroastrian kingdoms that
dominated the landscape around the time of the Romans. In a state of
relative neglect, many of the forts have been reduced to solitary heaps
of decaying brick walls and ramparts, the only structures of height
towering over a otherwise flat terrain. It was sweltering
in the noonday sun, heat rising off the sand dunes in rippling evanescent waves
that blurred the horizon. We took refuge in the shade of one of the
fort's crumbling arched chambers, frightening birds and lizards out of
holes where the ceiling had collapsed. Strong desert winds generated
whirling dirt devils in the distance, like malevolent genies battling
each other with a gale force of sand and dust. The greatest pervading
feeling was one of complete isolation and emptiness, not a single soul
nor creature detected for miles around outside of the shade of windswept
ruins. It certainly was one of only a handful of places I've traveled
to where I literally stopped to question myself, "How the hell did I end
up here?".
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| A yurt camp is dwarfed by the vastness of the formidable Karakum desert |
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| Camels looking out over the semi-autonomous Karakalpakstan Republic |
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| Panorama of the desert and an ancient fortress, taken from the top of Ayaz Kala |
Driving along a sandy road, Alisher gradually made his way
up to a low lying plateau where a collection of Kazakh yurts were
grouped together, springing out of the flat dune-covered earth like enormous
white and brown mushrooms. Seeing them instantly revived a sense of nostalgia for
my trip to Mongolia, where I quickly learned that people who live in yurts tend to be some of the kindest and most gentle people on the planet. We were instantly greeted by Ranod, perhaps
the second most charismatic and whimsical personality (behind Captain
Matt) I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. A Gypsy-looking woman of
merely 40 that looked at least a decade older, Ranod had a surprisingly
youthful energy about her that was absolutely magnetic, as well as a
comedic personality that was always cracking jokes and making flamboyant gestures. Living with only a few others out in the vast
desert, Ranod was essentially a one-woman show, serving as the manager,
chef, and camel master of a yurt camp at the base of the looming Ayaz
Kala fortress. One would think upon first impressions that the woman had
gone mad afters years of such lonesome living, but Ranod expressed an eccentric
hospitality that proved otherwise. She welcomed us into the communal
dining yurt, a massive felt and wood structure whose interior was decked
out in vibrant Kazakh weavings and tribal tapestries. Sitting at
traditional floor tables amongst colorful carpets and cushions, we beat
the 110 degree heat with two pots of black tea and a perplexing
conversation about how Uzbek I apparently look, giving Ranod and Alisher
much to discuss as they stared at me from head to toe. Since then, she
often referred to me as "
bebeh" or "
Jakhan-bek", and I jokingly called
her "
O'zbek Mama", a title that she accepted with a quirky head tilt and
blush. In the late afternoon as the camp slept, my father and I
crossed the dunes and up the rocky outcropping to the lonely fortress. We
scaled the walls of the crumbling giant and crossed the
massive courtyard to an opening where the entire desert panned out
before us. As the sun began to set, we made our way back towards the
dining yurt, where Ranod had whipped up a chicken and potato dinner with
eggplant salad and a savory soup, spread lavishly on the floor table.
Despite being Muslim, pre-dinner prayers were casually
replaced with shots of Russian vodka, which Ranod downed in a single-second gulp while shaking her head and letting out a satisfying gasp.
"
Chai? Nah, nah, nah... Vodka good!" Ranod caught me trying to toast
with tea and persistently filled my cup, swearing that only vodka would make
the dinner celebration legitimate. Like a sip of laboratory grade ethanol, I
coughed out a scratchy toast to Uzbekistan and quickly soothed my throat with a
juicy watermelon slice. The cool evening was spent in the radiant light
of a full moon, sitting on the ayvan with a pot of tea and a
two-stringed dutar upon which I managed to roughly churn out a few Eastern
tunes on. Strumming my lute and walking off alone into the darkness of a
silent desert, I felt as liberated as a traveling Sufi under a
bejeweled sky, Rumi's poetry reciting itself in my head while pondering
the wanderings of past mystics. I thought of memories made over the past
several years with
I-Crew, wondering where my friends could be and what
they could be doing at that very moment. Every part of me wished that
they could be present to share such a beautifully transcendental
experience with me, out in the open sands where the worries of the
future seemed to carelessly blow away with the breeze. My deepest thoughts
were suddenly interrupted by a loose camel that came crashing through
the camp, Ranod running frantically after it, laughing. Snuggled on the floor of
the yurt, I had no problems falling asleep after a day filled with such
rapturous emotions.
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| Me and Mama Ranod outside her humble home |
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| Got to be a Kazakh nomad for the day |
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| Sunset over the camp's communal yurt for dining and receiving guests |
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| My yurt in the moon light |
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| The Big Dipper hovers over the camp around midnight |
Struggles Turned Into Stories: Crazy Departure Shenanigans
Date: 13 August 2014
Location: Baggage Claim, San Francisco International
Saying goodbye to Ranod was somewhat disheartening, like
biding farewell to someone I felt as if I'd known for years, someone I
knew that I'd likely never cross paths with again. Driving off back into
Uzbekistan, the yurts gradually faded into the dust, taking with them that
wonderful feeling of freedom. What eventually awaited us was an 18 hour
train ride on Uzbekistan Railways, a journey that would prove to be the
roughest of the trip and quite frankly, one of the most hellish train
rides I've ever endured in 26 years of travel. Crammed into the tiny
sleeper cabin of a dilapidated Soviet dinosaur, the lack of proper
window ventilation meant struggling to sleep in a 95 degree sauna,
sweat dripping from my naked limbs onto musty bed coverings likely still in
use since the 60's. Salt stains gradually formed on my shirt as the afternoon
passed, the train painfully meandering through a barren desert landscape
that didn't change for nearly the entire duration of the overnight
journey. In the dead of night, something could be felt crawling across our legs, although switching on the cabin's single dim bulb never
seemed to reveal anything. Like the Burmese, the Uzbeks managed to
successfully turn a relatively short journey into a long drawn out
affair of going and stopping, sometimes sitting motionless out in the
middle of the baking desert for up to half an hour at a time for no apparent
reason. The final return to Tashkent was viewed as a welcoming return
to a green heaven, where the national lack of ice cubes and constant police
checks suddenly no longer mattered. Our last five days in this sleepy
capital (an already acknowledged poor choice in planning) was spent
truly diverging from the tourist trail and becoming recognized locals
in every sense of the word. Hitting up every bazaar, shopping mall,
amusement park, and even the city zoo (famished animals in what's likely the only zoo in Central
Asia), we can proudly call ourselves honorary Tashkenites.
Uzbekistan has been an absolute treat even in light of the
crazy travel regulations and paranoid government mandated protocols that
foreign visitors are expected to follow. Diligently collecting our
registration slips documenting our every movement within the country
over the past month, we honestly thought that we were in the
bureaucratic clear. But given my family's history for generating absurd
travel stories, Uzbekistan certainly had one last surprise in store for
us before we left. Having a large excess of local currency at the end of our
trip, we made our way to the airport in the hopes of exchanging our
remaining 200 thousand Uzbek Som, a wad of cash 200 notes thick, back
into 75 dollars. At Tashkent International, we were faced with the problem
of being unable to exchange them, as the government
regulated money changers refused to conduct the transaction without us
possessing a certificate from a national bank. Since we conducted all our
exchanges on the black market to benefit from the far better rate, we
lacked the required proof and were suddenly left with a stack of unexchangeable bills. With few shops in the provincial airport lobby, we
opted to go on a massive souvenir shopping binge in the departures
terminal. Trying to leave the country was actually a longer and more painfully
inefficient process than entering it. Simply getting into the airport
required a police check and baggage X-ray. This was followed by customs
control, which involved presenting a customs form originally filled out upon
arrival as well as an updated version filled out just prior to
departure. Our luggage was X-rayed a second time, some bags carelessly
torn apart and searched before receiving a minute's worth of document
stamping and signing. Following customs was passport control, where our
luggage was X-rayed for a third time and our registration slips were
collected and reviewed. After such scrutiny, our passports were
stamped, permitting us to leave the country. Much to our great dismay,
there were fewer shops in the departures terminal and, to our ultimate
bafflement and horror, none of them would even accept local Uzbek currency.
Possessing a brick of truly worthless paper that can''t be exchanged
anywhere outside of Uzbekistan, our hearts sunk at the huge financial loss.
We originally contemplated giving the money to some young shopkeeper,
hoping that someone would at least be able to use it, until we finally came
across an airport cafe that would accept the cash. Desperation to spend
as much of the money as possible resulted in the absurd purchase of two large fruit tarts, a
pastry, and $36 worth of Russian chocolate bars (a stack of 12 full-size bars in 9
different flavors). This was followed by a large water and $19 dollars
worth of fried drumsticks, whose lengthy preparation nearly made us miss
our flight. The giant tub of drumsticks is still with us, having flown from Uzbekistan to Korea, clearing TSA checks at LAX, and successfully arriving in SFO two days later. In spite of the initial frustrations, nothing could be more
comical and unforgettable than boarding a plane with heaping
bags of chocolate and chicken.
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| Torts, chocolates, and left over money (before the mega chicken purchase) |
Uzbekistan has certainly been the adventure of a lifetime,
savoring the awe inspiring history and heritage of a stunningly
beautiful and gracious people in a part of the world that simply
doesn't receive enough positive credit. While the country is far from perfect, first hand experiences with local life in "the middle" have revealed to me several important realizations, things the developing world can teach to us in a supposedly "progressive" nation. As completely liberated as we may think we are, we're easily oblivious to a lack of "freedom" in daily life resulting from excessive legislation and regulation. From camping anywhere and lighting fires without permits to dancing in city parks after sundown without police interference, the price of our speech and voting rights sadly comes at the cost of others. And while a constant police presence would easily be disconcerting for a society raised with the ideology of "people before the state", I honestly felt safer walking the dimly-lit streets of Bukhara than I do in my own parents' neighborhood. Maybe it was the reassuring illegality of firearms, something the US will likely and sadly never know. However, something we could all agree upon is that our materialistic culture can often be detrimentally time- and money-oriented. While the average Uzbek is far from being a millionaire, neither are any of us, and yet they still manage to make time for tea socials with friends and healthy recreation with family. Slower and simpler living sometimes makes for happier and more sustainable living. In the end, while there is much potential for
improvement and development given its proud assets, something
inside me hopes that the Uzbek people will never change as noble and hospitable keepers of
the great Silk Road, the world's original melting pot and superhighway.
Get a taste of Uzbekistan through my video!
