Colonial Williamsburg: Uzbek Branch

           

9 June 2009

From the Aral Sea we had a truck day, through what in the UK would be a desert and here is apparently a fertile plain. Orchards and fields of cotton, the occasional mysterious rectangular pond evaporating precipitously. Destination Khiva, the prettiest little slave market you ever did see. Famous from the 17^th century for the quality of their slaves (Russians, Kazakhs, etc.), it thrived despite being slightly off the main silk route. The Soviets in a rare moment of benevolence restored the walls and buildings and basically kicked all life out of the Old Town to create what is now a sort of Uzbek Colonial Williamsburg. Because it's fairly empty of other than some gorgeous medressahs and palaces, it's a brilliant way to get an idea of the architecture of a Silk Road City.

                         

Stayed at the Hotel Arqanchi, with a huge and lovely courtyard and good rooms circling it. Laundry done for the bargain price of 10,000 sum a bag. This is $7. Excellent. Ate in a few chaikhanas, tea houses, all with the wide divans around low tables that we're so fond of....makes it much easier to imagine oneself as a pasha when lounging as locals bring one supper. Food remains somewhat monotonous—laghman (noodles) comes in soup or fried, manti (dumplings), and shashlyk (call it what you like, it's still kebab). The quality varies hugely, as does the price, but the standards here really are the standards. We did venture with a small group to the local posh hotel on the promise of a menu of more choices than can be counted on one hand, but as they in fact had only borscht and beef stroganoff, back to the chaikhana it was. The chosen one had only four options (see above, plus plov), but at least they had all four, and beautifully done.

                  

From Khiva, spent a day getting down to Bukhara. Personally, I've been looking forward to Bukhara for ages, having read a trashy romance ages ago partly set here in the bizarre and arbitrary court of Nasrullah Khan, who famously executed the British officers Stoddardt and Connolly in the Great Game. Apparently the khan sent a note to Queen Vic, who ignored him, and in return he left them in a pit of scorpions and then killed them.

Bukhara is arranged around a pool called the Lyabi Hauz—hauz meaning open pool. The city was infamous for the series of open pools in which the locals enjoyed contracting incurable illnesses, such as the plague. Russians filled them in barring this one, which is surrounded by cafes and camel statues. Jen turned 60 while we were here, so Mansur arranged a rooftop party for the entire group from sunset. This involved matching blouses for Rich and David, and much much vodka. Although to be fair, the matching blouses were acquired pre-vodka.

                  

Stayed at the Lyabi-Hauz Hotel, which is gorgeous and modern and decorated with some amazing suzanis and ikats. The central courtyard features an open summer terrace with carved wooden columns soaring up about twenty feet; it must have been an impressive house prior to life as a hotel. One of the nicest places we've been; certainly preferable to the nameless Kazakh brothel in Aktau.

               

Having seen what could be seen of Bukhara, we've now come across east to Samarkand, the massive capital of Amir Timur, better known in the west as the Tamerlane of poetry, who ruled this part of the world in the 14^th century. It's similar to Khiva and Bukhara, but on a far grander scale. The name itself evokes samites and scimitars. One of the most impressive sights in all of Central Asia is the Registan Square, composed on three sides of absolutely massive medressahs (Islamic schools—Samarkand being famous for them). The entrance portals are huge and heavily decorated, one with lions and faces in direct contravention of Islamic principles. Although the lions do look like tigers, so maybe god forgives as long as you hire a crap artist?

                          

Also popped up to the necropolis of mausoleums, including that of the Prophet's own cousin Qasim. Stunning, striking, blah blah blah. Off to dinner at the only Italian restaurant in Samarkand, which also offers wifi. If you're reading this, it's worked.

Also, just a note to the various people reading this who have commented—you make my day! Blogger won't let me reply directly, but every time I hear from you it's lovely, and I do appreciate it. Uncle Bill, Mary Ern, Emma's parents, Louise's family, Julie and everyone else, thank you. Those of you who have posted without signing your names, we thank you too, though we don't always know who you are!