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Tuesday 2004-06-15 - Bukhara, Uzbekistan
Like coming home
A little virtual elastic band ties me to Uzbekistan and especially Bukhara. Last time, two years ago, I found coming here was like coming home. This time, my third in Bukhara, I wake up when we enter the city and it’s no different. When we get to the center of the old town, I recognize the women selling bread from my photographs: they’re still here! Only at the other side of the street, in the shade now. They have a surprise waiting for them.
Our hotel, “Lyabi House”, is quite close to the Laby Hauz complex with its centuries-old pond and trees and the three madrassahs. It’s one of the old Jewish merchant’s houses turned into a comfortable hotel, like many here in the old Jewish quarter. There are tapestries on the wall in each room, one of them in ours I immediately recognize as Turkmen. While I lay down to rest, Carla goes out to change money for both of us and brings back water, cola and cherry juice for me, to help bring back my inner plumbing under control. Later, we walk to Laby Hauz where we have a light meal at one of the restaurants near the pond: delicious and healthy yogurt for me!
Wednesday 2004-06-16 - Bukhara, Uzbekistan
Ouch!
First plan for today is to try and deliver the portraits I took of people here in Bukhara two years ago: the bread-selling women, and a family near Chor Minor. Carla and I go out before breakfast: last time I brought them photographs I was treated to a nice breakfast - and I don’t need two! When we arrive at the spot where they were yesterday afternoon, as usual, we see only the men though (it seems their sons and husbands sometimes take over). Since I’d rather give the pictures to the women, we walk back to the hotel and have a nice buffet breakfast there.
The women will probably be back later in the day, so our next target is Chor Minor: this building, of which the Tadjik name means “four minarets” is worth a look anyway. Its original function is not exactly clear: the four towers definitely aren’t minarets (no one can stand inside to call for prayer) and it’s too small for a mosque anyway; but it might have been a tomb, or maybe the entrance of a (now completely disappeared) caravanserai. Whatever it was, it’s a charming building, beautifully restored, and I’m looking forward to see it again.
On the way out, in the hotel lobby, I suddenly hear (feel?) a distinctive ‘crack!’ from inside my body somewhere and find myself rolling onto the floor… I must have missed the small step in the lobby. The ‘crack!’ was my right foot, I think - it hurts! A man from the hotel comes running and helps me up. At least I can stand on it, but it’s very painful. Quickly, he puts me in a chair and examines my foot. I can wiggle my toes, everything seems in the right place, I can stand on it. “OK!” he declares. Reasoning that it will probably get very thick if I don’t walk on it, I go out with Carla anyway, walking very slowly now.
Delivering photographs
On the way to Chor Minor we come past the bread sellers’ spot; the women are back now! My pictures are a great success, and very welcome. Carla takes a few pictures of the whole scene, and the oldest women poses together with me. We also get a delicious bread, still warm. Bukhara bread is the best in all of Central Asia!
On we go, very, very slowly, to Chor Minor. The woman who has a little souvenir shop in the building comes out to open the gate but we gesture we’re not interested and walk on. On the corner, where the family on my pictures (little girl, father the truck driver and grandma) lived, I don’t recognize the home, only the steps in front of where it was. Disappointed, we go to ask the shop lady who takes us back to the corner: the door to the house is now somewhere else, but the mother (the truck driver’s husband) lives there and is very happy with the pictures though a little shy. Carla and I go and sit on a little wall in the shade — mainly to rest my foot: it’s getting very thick now, swelling up over my sandal straps. Just when we decide to go back to the hotel, and maybe have my foot examined, mother comes out again, accompanied by an older girl. The girl turns out to speak English quite well; she is the small girl’s older sister, she explains, and invites us in again. This time, we get tea and delicious home-made sour cherries on syrup. The charming girl is 16, just finished secondary school, and will go to college (“the institute”) in September to become a teacher, she tells. Mathematics is her favorite subject.
Keeping it on ice
We walk back to the hotel, as much as possible along the main road because the better pavement is easier on my foot. In the hotel I find there’s a thick blue swelling on it now, and I hold the foot under the cold tap for a while, while Carla goes in search of help which appears in the form of Beatrice, an American staying and helping in the hotel who turns out to be a fully-qualified physician, working for the WHO. Her conclusion: is it’s not broken (it doesn’t “feel” broken to me), but probably a dislocated foot bone which simply snapped back into place. “It will stay stiff for seven weeks” is her verdict. Great. She also arranges to put ice on my foot: she “steals” some small water bottles from the freezer in the kitchen. I lie down with my foot up, an ice bottle held in place with a towel wrapped around it.
Around lunch time, she knocks on the door again, asking if “the patients” would like some soup and salad; a little later she appears with a tray with two bowls of soup and two carrot salads! The soup feels good in my still a bit wobbly insides — and the ice feels very good on my foot — but I’m worried it will get very stiff if I don’t exercise it. A short walk to the Synagogue nearby (we’re right in the middle of the old Jewish quarter of Bukhara) feels doable; I put on my good walking shoes now to support my foot, and take my monopod which doubles as a walking stick. On the way out I check with Beatrice: “You won’t hurt it,” she says, “and if it hurts, just come back.”
Jewish Quarter
When we arrive near the Synagogue, just one street further off Laby Hauz, a young man approaches us. It’s closed now, he explains (we can see the big lock on the door), but if we can wait a bit he’ll ask the rabbi to open up for us. While it’s new for Carla, I’d like to see it again: last time I was here they were busy restoring it so I’m curious what it’s like now. A few minutes later the young man comes back; the rabbi will be here in 20 minutes, he says, would we like to see the old synagogue in the mean time? I didn’t know there was another one here! So yes. On the way through the labyrinthine streets of the old Jewish quarter he tells us he’s a Jew himself and while his relatives would like to emigrate to the US (not Israel), he wants to stay here and work as a guide. We pass a small market (empty now) with stone benches to displaying the wares, where kosher meat is traded, and a small kindergarten where we’re allowed a peek inside. The children are just having a bite and a drink, and are quite curious to suddenly see a pair of strangers. The elementary school nearby is empty now (the kids have vacation from June through August) but we can have a look there, too: they’re busy restoring it but it will be ready for the new school year in September. 600 Jewish families still live in Bukhara, our guide tells us. He speaks Tadjik with friends he meets on the street, so he could be qualified as a ‘Jewish Tadjik Uzbek.’
At the Synagogue we can look inside; downstairs, there’s a row of chairs for older women, otherwise the men sit here; younger women sit upstairs om the balcony. There’s a homely atmosphere, it looks and feels very much like a religious home for a small close-knit community — an atmosphere very similar to the Armenian churches we’ve seen in Turkey and Iran. When, after a short visit to the young man’s home where we get a cup of tea and I buy an old book, we finally get back to the ‘new’ Synagogue, it’s closed again: the rabbi must have gotten tired of waiting since our tour (with me walking very slowly and much farther than I’d planned) took a lot longer than 20 minutes.
In the city, it’s hot (“it’s cool now,” says our guide) but the smell of hot dust is relieved here and there by the aroma of freshly baked bread — the best bread in all of Central Asia — somehow the combination is typical Bukhara. After a cool beer at Laby Hauz we go back to the hotel so I can rest my foot and put more ice on it. I’m a bit less worried about it now: it’ll be very uncomfortable for a while and I’ll be slow but at least I’m mobile. It’ll heal.
Thursday 2004-06-17 - Shakhrisabz, Uzbekistan
Healing water
After a night of tossing and turning (I keep losing my ice bottle when I turn around) we have to get up early for breakfast at six: president Karimov will visit Bukhara with other leaders from the region (among them president Putin of Russia) and the city will soon be hermetically closed: we have to be out before that! Although our target today is Samarkand, we won’t go straight there but via Shakhrisabz, another city that was once on one of the branches of the old Silk Road where there are some nice historical sites. The two-and-a-half hours we get for lunch and site seeing is too short to see everything (especially at my current snail’s pace) but it’s worth while.
Together with Carla I go to one complex of mosques and tombs along the main road; when I was here three years ago. the buildings were closed while they were being restored and I could see only the outside; the restoration is finished now. The mosque (Ku’k Gumbaz Masjidi, built 1434-1435) is of a very special style: inside, there are only tiles on the lower walls, and above that all decoration on walls and ceilings is painted: mostly blue and white with gold accents (here and there replaced by yellow but the gold is real). The decorations are very refined and I’d never seen this style before. Across the beautiful courtyard are two tombs side-by-side; Gumbasi Saidon Maqbarasi, built in 1437, has the same type of decorations; the other tomb next to it is older (Shayx Sham Siddin Kulol Maqbarasi, 1373-1374) and has plain white walls. A friendly girl leads us around — not that she wants to be a guide or even earn anything: she studies philology but merely wants to practice her English a bit. One of the tomb stones in the Gumbasi Saidon mausoleum has a small depression in the top, highly polished by many hands since the water that’s standing in it is supposed to have healing qualities, she tells us. I take her at her word and put a few drops of it on my foot.
Behind this complex (where we also buy a few souvenirs at the stands in the courtyard) is another one, in rather worse repair but with a nice, shaded courtyard. A few men sit around in the shade; one of them, with a long white beard, deaf and nearly blind, is 120 years old, the others tell us. I can take a picture of him, he doesn’t mind; I doubt he’s really 120 years old (I doubt he quite understands my question), but he’s definitely very old. Then it’s time to (slowly, slowly) walk back to the bus.
Thursday 2004-06-17 - Samarkand, Uzbekistan
Evening light
At 4:30 we arrive in Samarkand, in Mr. Furkat’s pleasant family hotel: a shaded courtyard with fruit trees and seats with fresh fruit (small apples, apricots and prunes all from their own trees) and nuts on the tables — a real Uzbek tradition — and free coffee and tea. And it’s at a very short walking distance from the Registan complex making it an ideal location to stay in Samarkand. Carla and I first walk to the Chorsu cafe, on the corner of Tashkent street and just around the corner from the hotel, for a (draft) beer on the terrace: this is my favorite place to sit and watch people in Samarkand where mainly locals come to eat, drink and sometimes play a game of chess, and many people walk by on the way to and from the bazaar.
After that, we stroll to the Registan complex, just now basking in beautiful evening sunlight, where we enter (without buying a ticket) through one of the ‘secret’ back entrances to make pictures. A watchman approaches us — not to chase us away but to tell us we should climb the minaret (we decline) and feel free to take pictures now; and if we want, we can come back early in the morning (between 5 and 6) and will get in for free, too, he assures us, so we can take pictures in the morning light. Like last time, I take a lot of pictures, it’s very beautiful in this warm evening light.
Friday 2004-06-18 - Samarkand, Uzbekistan
Shaken awake
At 4:44 I wake up because my bed is gently, and quite regularly, shaking. Carla is still fast asleep — it’s not from her tossing around. I know immediately: this is an earthquake, but probably at a distance. Later, we hear others have felt it, too, and some of the men in the hotel confirm: yes there was an earthquake this morning; not an uncommon event here, as demonstrated by the cracks in the walls of some buildings (including the Registan and our hotel). They don’t know where exactly it was, but usually it’s earthquakes in Afghanistan that are felt here in Samarkand, they tell us.
Taking it easy
I want to give my foot some rest and Carla would like a day of rest as well so after our early-morning visit to the Registan for more pictures and an excellent breakfast at the hotel we install ourselves in the hotel courtyard and stay there most of the day. I’m catching up with my travel journal after getting behind as a result of the long travel days and my health problems. Meanwhile, my foot is turning all kinds of red and light and dark purple: my favorite colors but not under my skin! Every now and then I take a little walk around the courtyard to keep my foot exercised a bit while most of the day I just spend writing, drinking tea and (later) beer, and snacking on the fruit and nuts on the table. Every now and then there’s a loud ‘tock!’ when another ripe apricot falls off the tree onto the sunshade. Dinner is a portion of five delicious mantis (a kind of dumplings filled with finely chopped meat and onions) and a local Samarkand beer at the Chorsu cafe.
Saturday 2004-06-19 - Samarkand, Uzbekistan
Catching up
We’ll be leaving for Tashkent only after noon, so I have time to try out an Internet cafe in Samarkand; there’s one on Tashkent street just around the corner from the Chorsu cafe. Many young boys sit around here and play games (suggesting they have fast and modern machines). Access speed is reasonable — I don’t need much for my travel blog email anyway: most of the time I’m just typing. One of the young boys seems to be managing the place, redialing the modem when necessary, and taking in payments, although an older man is around who seems to be the boss. I manage to catch up with my blog until arrival on the Turkmen border; for the 1:45 hours I pay only 900 so’m: less than a dollar.
Saturday 2004-06-19 - Tashkent, Uzbekistan
More catching up
I’m puzzled that the road to Tashkent looks unfamiliar — it takes a while before I realize I’ve never been here: both times before in Uzbekistan I’ve flown to and from Tashkent. Along the first stretch the landscape is pleasant to the eyes: rolling hills and low mountains with a wide plain in-between covered with fields where mainly grain is grown. Lots of small farms, with low walls up and down the hills all around their property. Later, we see a lot of beehives along the road where farmers are selling honey. When we get somewhat higher, we can see the Shardara reservoir in the distance before us but the road doesn’t pass along the lake; far to the right we see the snow-capped mountains of what must be Tajikistan, but apart from that the landscape isn’t as beautiful any more.
In Tashkent we’re staying at the Orzu hotel, a familiar place to me. After a nice dinner outside (I have a delicious “Lens soup” and a Kazakh beer) I walk 50 m, back down the road where there is what they call here an “Internet Club”, one of very many in this city. Their connection here is very fast (supposedly they have an ADSL contract with a Chinese provider). When I arrive at 8:15, it’s still very quiet but by 9 the place is packed with all machines in use, sometimes two to a machine. While game-playing costs 400 so’m per hour, Internet access is 800; after I explain I’ll be online only part of the time, the price becomes 600 per hour! After two hours of fast typing to update the travel blog I need to pay only 900 so’m though — and all of Turkmenistan is up-to-date now.
Back in the hotel I treat myself to a nice beer paid with my last so’ms: all that typing made me quite thirsty!
Sunday 2004-06-20 - Tashkent, Uzbekistan
My name is Johan
Our driver, Vladimir, has gone to the office to pick up our plane tickets. When they arrive at seven this morning, just before we are to leave for the Tashkent airport, we find all our names have changed! Instead of a group of 9 women and 3 men, our tickets claim we’re all men now and though most (not all) have kept their last names, all of us have new first names… My name is Johan Katsma now. Our guess is someone, somewhere, seems to have mixed up two spreadsheets in their computer, and ordered the tickets in the wrong names (some other group must have tickets in the wrong name, too!). Will we be able to fly?
After a phone call to the local agent, they promise a representative will be waiting for us at the airport to sort things out. Someone is there, indeed, but we don’t get new tickets (they can’t print tickets at the airport); the situation is accepted though, and we’re entered in the computer — and the agent’s representative leaves again … too soon, since we still have to check in. Luckily, the airline official who’s to check us in has a sense of humor: for starters, our luggage is far too heavy for the small plane according to the rules but he accepts it because the plane isn’t fully booked. “Bring me a present next time,” he says, and proceeds to literally walk us through the rest of the check-in procedure, first keeping all tickets and boarding cards and taking care they are stamped, until we get onto the bus that takes us to the tiny Yak-4 plane.
It’s like a bus, with at most 40 seats, some of them at the back taken up by our luggage. On the 50-minute flight to Fergana we even get a drink but the seats have no head rests and no folding tables, so a meal is out of the question. We get beautiful views from the windows: plains, gradually changing into the mountainous area of the Fergana valley. Touching down at Fergana airport, we see scarecrows in the sparse grass along the landing strip, obviously meant to keep birds away but I doubt they’re very successful. A bus is waiting to take us via Andijan to the border crossing near Osh. Along the road friendly villages with light-blue washed walls and sidewalks and front gardens shaded with grape vines: I’d like to see more of this area some time!
We have an easy border crossing, and on the Kirghiz side our ‘team’ is waiting for us with the truck bus that will take us across yet another country.
