Uzbekistan
Penniless in a Sandy Place
Another silent flight and gossamer landing finds us at Tashkent airport around
two in the morning and we are immediately reminded of Moscow and the passport
officials quota of one passport every three minutes. The only problem here
is that we have four passport officials to get past. We complete the usual
forms which asks us to declare any weapons or drugs we are carrying. Are they
serious? Yes they are very serious! Shut up Dave and fill in the form like
a good boy.
There is an ominously lengthy wait at the baggage carousel. The bundles of
all the locals are circulating but no suitcases appear. An enquiry reveals
that they are going straight on to Heathrow! Oh no they are not! Oh yes they
are! Oh no they are not! They didn't. But the delay gave us some time to find
out what was in the Uzbek's bundles. Half the plane had been occupied by locals
and they each carried a bundle made from sticky tape and about the size of
a very big holdall. We were just speculating whether it would disintegrate
if the customs officials asked for one to be opened when one did and it did.
Inside was an enormous amount of silk.
Firusa our guide assures us that we will be able to change travellers cheques
in the hotel in the morning before we leave for Samarkand. The hotel Tashkent
is stark and basic. Its
like stepping back into the 1940s or 1950s. Unscented soap, brown wall paper,
decorated glass lamp shades and youth hostel beds with rough sheets. It is
adequate, we sleep like logs. The contrast with Beijing is fascinating. Apart
from the Australian embassy, every new building in Beijing looks modern and
luxurious. Every building in Tashkent built in the last twenty years looks
as though it was built twenty years ago and has not had a right lot of maintenance.
The whole place is slowly reverting back to the desert because they have no
money for spares. Meg reminds me that we have no money for anything.
Breakfast is tasty but the banks do not open before we climb aboard the battered
coach for the five hour drive to Samarkand. There is sufficient leg room though
and Firuza starts by giving us a description of Tashkent, the squares and
the streets have all been renamed since independence. For instance Lenin Square
has become Tourmaline the Great square. The square of Friendship has a statue
of a large family commemorating a couple who lost their children then adopted
twelve Russian orphans then settled in Tashkent. Independence was achieved
peacefully because they have no oil, unlike Chechnia. Their flag is green
for fertility, white for peace and blue for the sky with twelve stars for
the twelve regions and a crescent moon because they are Moslem These facts
interest us because we will be spending no free time here. Because of their
lack of funds, the effects of the 1976 earthquake can still be seen. Keith,
who stayed in Tashkent rather than go to Samarkand reported later that the
architecture of the city could be classified as
1. Those buildings destroyed in the 'quake
2. Those buildings that should have been.
We pass a huge lively market as we leave the town, Firuza explains that the
site is to be cleared to make a stadium for the Asian Games. I bet that is
popular with the locals. She is disappointed that we do not know the name
of the President. We still do not know the name of the President. ( There
is a small prize for the first person who can tell me). She introduces our
two drivers as Russlyn and I cannot remember the other ones name because we
had to call him Ludmilla. We notice that as well as their lunch, they are
carrying a large tool kit and some spare parts.
Once past the market, the traffic thins out but the decrepit coach cannot
increase speed because of the state of the road. Russlyn and Ludmilla seem
to know the location of all the major potholes because they use both carriageways
to avoid them. We are passing through blackened cotton fields, mulberry bushes
for the silk worms and lush green rice fields which is something of a surprise
because from the air everywhere looked brown. Domestic animals graze on the
verges, horses, cows and tough looking sheep. Some are free to wander some
are tethered. Occasionally there is someone to keep an eye on them. The herder
may be of either sex and be aged between five and eighty five. Occasionally
Russlyn or Ludmilla will be confronted by an oncoming cow being chased by
an Uzbek on horseback but this seems less of a hazard than the potholes. It
is essential to sound your horn as an intention to overtake because although
there seems to be plenty of room, the driver ahead may be about to perform
a zig or zag. We see our first swallows of the summer and storks nesting on
the pylons as we near the Syrdaria, a river I remember from geography lessons.
I am better on rivers than on Presidents. Firuza explains about the immense
pollution problems they are having with the Aral sea. We cross the border
into Kazakstan, we did not know we had to do this but the road was here before
the borders were drawn. Petrol must be cheap in Kazakstan because the road
side is strewn with tankers that are dispensing all forms of benzene without
the intermediary of a filling station. Fifteen minutes later we swerve round
a chicane which marks the border back into Uzbekistan. Russlyn clearly distrusts
the Kazak petrol because we now take a fuel stop. The smokers gather in a
small sociable huddle, I suppose they spend most of their lives as social
outcasts. I watch a new bird that is perched on the roof. It resembles a wagtail
but is twice the normal size. Some people want a toilet. There are no toilets.
As far as we can make out there are NO toilets. On the drive back, when someone
needs a toilet stop, the driver just stops the coach. We are on a flat plain
about 160 miles wide and there is not a tree in sight. As you do whatever
you have to do, someone with a good pair of binoculars could see you from
80 miles away. We have an hour for lunch in the hotel Samarkand. We spend
it trying to change money. No one will change travellers cheques or accept
credit cards. So here we are, rich western tourists willing to buy lots of
products, food and drink and we cannot afford a drink of water. The hotel
Samarknd reminds Meg a little of the Cosmos, very Intouristy, big lobby, a
bar that looks like the waiting room in a hospital, The rooms are guarded
by the same women as in Moscow but there are fewer prostitutes. Outside there
is less traffic and no bicycles. Eleanor comes to rescue us from our financial
crisis. Eleanor is a very interesting character, obviously much travelled
and from what we can make out a professional travel writer as well as being
a company secretary. She is carrying a fistfull of dollars and generously
comes to our aid. Firuza change some into soum for us then virtually instructs
the bank to change our cheques, the exchange rate is a bit variable but we
are not in a bargaining position. It may be the first time it has ever been
done so we have created history in an historic city.
Firuza hands us over to Sabira who is impatient to get the tour started. We
must reach the end by 6-00pm she explains, it is 2-10.
First stop the Registran....wow...my doubts about the sanity of taking two
extra five hour coach trips on our journey home vanish in an instant. This
is an amazing place. Three massive beautifully decorated buildings on three
sides of a square. the two that face each other are nearly mirror images,
the effect is amazing. The blue and gold tiles glitter in the spring sunshine
as Sabira waxes lyrical about the Moslamic basis for the decoration. She reminds
me of Mohammed our extremely knowledgeable guide in Egypt. Most of the patterns
including the swastikas are ways of writing the name of Allah. The tiger and
the flowers because they are Suni Moslems as opposed to Sheer Moslems who
are more rigid and fundamental. There appears to be a face above the tiger.
I ask her about it because I understood that Moslems never used images. Sabira
revels in answering questions like the true enthusiast she changes up a gear.
Samarkand was on the silk route and Mohammadism was spreading east. The locals
worshipped the Sun. They were Zarathustrans. The Registran is essentially
a Mosque, a place to trade and a religious school, with living accommodation
for the students. It was built in the 11th century and still used as a school
until 1930. The Moslem missionaries incorporated the sun, the face, into the
design to make it easier for the Zarathustrans to convert in the same way
that the early christians took the pagan festival on december 25th and called
it Christ's birthday. The mosque has two minarets, one of which started to
topple over. They tried putting wedges under it but that did not work so they
rotated it through 180 degrees so it would lean against the Mosque instead
of away from it. Bear in mind we are talking about something half the size
of Nelson's column.
The internal decoration of the Mosque is breathtaking but like the whole infrastructure
of the country is starting to disintegrate. They are getting international
assistance for repairs. The old students quarters are now rented to traders
with goods of the highest quality. Chess sets depict Tourmaline fighting the
Indians. There is more beautiful silk and some excellent ceramics. If they
had allowed us to access more of our money, we would gladly have parted with
it.
Sabira gives us a mean 20 minutes in each of the three buildings then takes
us to the mausoleum of the founder of Islam in Samarkand. The locals believe
it is a good thing to be buried as close to him as possible. They are a bit
dull after the Registran in spite of Sabira's fierce enthusiasm. A group of
colourfully dressed village women turn up to pay their respects to their departed
accompanied by their holy man. We feel we are intruding and try to slip away
but the women want their pictures taken in their finery and flash their gold
teeth and chuckle a lot. Outside in the warm afternoon sun the swallows have
been joined by swifts and a dark bird with a yellow beak and white under wings.
I enquire their name, "Mynahs", replies Sabira. " They never
stop chattering" she adds.
" A bit like tour guides" I respond. She sees the joke and hustles
us off to the observatory where we arrive at 6-10. It is shut but she persuades
the departing staff to re-open for us. A strange shaped building houses part
of the giant sextant which Kubla Khan's grandson plotted the position of the
stars to an accuracy not bettered until the 1930s and even then the correction
was minimal. He was pretty certain the world was round long before Copernicus
but recognised that the religious leaders of the time were not yet ready for
this information and so avoided the former's persecution. Inside the small
museum are some more surprises. In the 11th century alongside Kubla's grandson
were the guy who invented algebra. The guy who first came up with the concept
of zero, and Omar Kyam who was a geometrician who wrote the poetry for which
he is remembered, in his spare time. Instead of taking us back to the hotel,
Sabira drops those of us with the energy at the market and indicates the route
that will take us back to the Registran and the hotel. The market is terrific.
There are no shops on the town, everything you want is in the market. Most
of the stalls are closed but bread, fruit and veg and meat are plentiful as
are the spices. We are invited to sniff the most amazing smells only half
of which we can identify. We get to the Registran just as the sun is setting
and add this place to the Temple at Luxor, the Grand Canyon and the Mesquita.
In fact it has the additional attraction that Steve and Karen have not been
here.
We leg it back to our hotel with ten minutes to get ready for dinner. We are
served a light salad followed by haggis filled dumplings. They offer us Russian
'champagne'. We tried this in Moscow and it is a little sweet to accompany
food so I asked if there was a local red wine. There was for an additional
$6. No problem. I took a swig and remembered prossek which we ordered on our
honeymoon by mistake. I check with Sabria to ensure this is what I ordered.
Yes that is the local wine. Later Meg finds in her literature a severe warning
not to try the local wine. It is 17% rough and sweet.