In Bukhara! A Surfeit of Silk (and Other Treasures) on the Great Silk Road

Sunday, April 28, 2019

Bukhara

A Surfeit of Silk (and Other Treasures) on the Great Silk Road in Bukhara:

     In Russian, the language that dominated this region for at least a century and is still common parlance in all these parts, Bukhara is Boxoro. When I alighted at the train station, late last night, with the city in darkness, it was hard to pick anything out. In the morning, I awoke feeling as if I had barely slept. My lodgings at Hotel Fernando were spartan but I had paid almost nothing for them on bookings.com and all I had expected was a safe, warm and clean place for the night—these I had received. The bathroom was spotless. I showered and dressed quickly and hoped for a good breakfast. I was not disappointed. It was not five-star but it was more than adequate.

Breakfast at Hotel Fernando:

     I was very well looked after at breakfast by the Receptionist who doubled as a waiter. He offered me eggs and when I asked for mine to be scrambled, he gave me an egg white omlette swimming in fat! However, there was a nice bread basket with butter and cheese, fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, small pastry-like croissants and caramel-filled pastries, peach juice and a choice of tea or coffee (both of which I declined). I asked for lemon-mint tea but they could not understand what I needed. I ate a lot and I ate well. I realize that these one-day walking jaunts around spots you would associate with The Arabian Nights are tiring. You need an excess of food to provide fuel for such exhausting excursions. 

Getting to know my Guide:     

     My guide Dilshod arrived at 9.30 am on schedule. He turned out to be the sweetest guy—a college graduate who studied English, he has been guiding for about two years. His English is not fluent at all, but I can see that he is trying very hard. Through the day, I get to know a little bit about himself. He tells me that his father is a mason and that he began working with him at the age of 13, carrying and fetching bricks for him—at one point on our stroll through the Old City, he points out a brick wall that he constructed with his own hands while helping his father.  However, he soon realized that if he did not get a college degree, he would be doomed to doing hard manual labor like this for the rest of his life.  He, therefore, told his father that he wanted to go to university and get a degree. His father was very understanding and worked very hard to enable him to study. Today, he is grateful that he does the kind of work he does and isn’t building brick walls. He has plans to go to Grad school to get his Masters in English. He keeps telling me how honored he is to be guiding "a colleague"—he considers us to be colleagues since I am a university professor who also teaches English. 

     We go by car from my hotel to Old Bukhara where the driver drops us off. We enter a field where an amusement park has been set up. We ignore it and Dilshod takes me to our first item of interest. 

Viewing the Mausoleum of Ismael Samani:

     I have never heard of the Samanid dynasty but it turns out they ruled over the region that is Uzbekistan in the 9th century before the arrival of Islam. Ismael Samani was an important war lord who created a mausoleum for himself. The structure is in sand-colored brick in a basket-weave design with distinctly Zoroastrian motifs in the triangles and circles inside and out. Dilshod told me to see how different it was from the many Islamic monuments we would see during the rest of the day. It was constructed at a time when Zoroastrianism was active in these parts—it has been all but wiped out today. Circles, triangles and other geometric designs on the body of the structure with a cap-like dome make this small burial site very different from the opulent Islamic mausoleums I saw at the Shah-i-Zinda in Samarkand.  Inside, there is a curved grave stone but we are not sure whether it contains the remains of Ismael Samani or his son or grandson.

Off to see Ayub’s Well: 

     It is but a short walk to see Ayub’s Well. I have to say, at this point, that our sightseeing was done entirely on foot for all of Old Bukhara is a living museum, filled with buildings and monuments that have been retained in their original form. The city reminded me so much of Dubrovnik in Croatia where the entire Old City is contained within the picturesque city walls. Other than these sites and items of tourist interest, the rest of the city is a crumbling, sand colored habitation with nothing pretty to commend it. Still, it looks authentic, unlike Samarkand, which has been rebuilt so thoroughly as to have lost any of its authentic antiquity.

     Back to Ayub. The name is Arabic for Jacob. Dilshod told me a long tale associated with the Biblical Jacob arriving here in Bukhara and miraculously striking water at this spot which brought a spring flowing into this area and is now identified through a really deep covered well. This feat was considered miraculous in a region that is a desert and where the Aral Sea has been farmed for water and irrigated by the creation of canals to the point that it has now dried down to a trickle. A museum in this venue teaches visitors about the types of water springs found in deserts and their great value to the sustenance of human life. These structures, called  Saroyads, are found in the desert where man covered natural springs with sod domes to keep the waters cool. The entire structure is interesting because it is also made of sand-colored brick and topped not by a dome (this came later in Islam) but by a cone that resembles the cap worn by dervishes. It was constructed in the 12th century. 

Viewing a Memorial to Imam Al-Bukhari :

     We paused for a few minutes right outside Jacob’s Well to view a memorial to Imam Al-Bukhari who came from Bukhara (hence his name). He is one of the most famous and earliest of the scholars of the Koran and is revered in the Muslim world. He wrote the Hadith—interpretations of the suras of the Koran. The Memorial looks like an observatory. There is also a museum inside, but we did not enter it.

On to the Old City:

     We then walked at quite a leisurely pace with Dilshod telling me about Bukhara’s close connections with Tajikistan. In fact, Bukharis  speak Tajik as a first language, not Uzbek—although they do understand it in the same way that they understand and are fairly fluent in Russian. As if to make me understand the linguistic similarities between so many of the Central and South Asian languages, we pass by a butcher shop called Go’sht Do’koni in Uzbek which has pictures of animals and cuts of meat on its frontage. I understand immediately that it is a meat shop as we use almost the same words for it in Hindi or Urdu—Ghost Dukaan. I tell Dilshod this and he is delighted because he also took Linguistics in college and he informs me that the similarities derive from the roots in Persian of all these languages.

     It is a fairly long walk to the Old City and I catch my first glimpse of Bukhara’s most famous monument--the Kalyan Minaret. But it will be a long while before we actually get there. 

Entering the Bolo Khauz Mosque:

     Our first stop, once the narrow street opens out into a square is at the Bolo Khauz Mosque. This wonderfully picturesque structure has a lovey reflecting pool in front of it. We find a quiet and shady spot under a tree were Dilshod talks to me about the structure. I take one look at it and am immediately reminded of the patio of the house on Long Island that Louis Comfort Tiffany designed for a friend and which is now in the American galleries of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. The patio of the mosque is held up by 20 narrow wooden poles that are delicately carved at their base and are reflected in the pond in front of it. At the top of each one, you find the macarabe or honeycomb decoration, each segment of which is painted in a different color. There is exquisite ceramic decoration on the outside and on the ceiling. I am convinced that this was definitely the inspiration for Tiffany’s patio at the Bay View home. 

     Dilshod waits outside for me and chats with his lovely female friend, Munira, who is also a tour guide. He tells me to go inside and take a look. I take off my shoes and enter to find a huge French group inside. Their guide gives them a detailed analysis of the interior design by focusing on the stucco shades of soft blue and white that glow ethereally through the luminosity of a gigantic chandelier that hangs low in the center. There is a mihrab that has macarabe detailing. I listen to the commentary and understand every word in French and am grateful for the explanation. The Imam happens to be pottering around and when he sees what a huge crowd has gathered, he dons his official robe and poses right in front for a picture The guide thanks him and tells the group that it is rare for the Imam to be so obliging and that it is “tres gentil” of him to pose for the group. I use the opportunity to take a picture of the holy man. 

Off to See the Ark Fortress or Citadel:

     Outside, with my shoes on again, Dilshod introduces me to Munira. They are colleagues but they also did their Bachelors degree in English together from the same University—Bukhara State University. She is guiding a large Italian group who have gone inside the mosque too.

     Dilshod and I carry on, past the mosque and the water tower that has been turned into an observation deck with a massive ticket price. There I finally find a Tourist Information Center where I obtain a colorful map of Bukhara and an explanation of its main monuments. I am very grateful for this treasure as I could not find anything similar for Samarkand or Tashkent. We then cross the street and confront the vast dimensions of the Ark Fortress or Citadel.

     Despite his best attempts to make himself understood, I do not follow a lot of what Dilshod is sharing with me. He talks about two Amirs (Generals) whose names I cannot remember. They are associated with the city and with the construction of this massive structure dating through many centuries. It is called the Citadel of the Ark and is now a local history Museum. High sand-colored walls made entirely of brick (much of which have been restored in recent years) encircle the complex inside. We climbed up a slanting ramp that is simply mobbed by school groups. Dilshod informs me that many schools schedule their field trips on Sunday—which explains the young hordes. But there are also masses of tourists from the surrounding Central Asian countries—and it is clear to me that the Islamic heritage of Uzbekistan is intensely revered by its neighbors. I notice also that there are huge European groups of tourists—many Italians, plenty of French—but they are all sixty-plus. Clearly, these are wealthy, seasoned travelers who, in their youth, ‘did’ the world’s hot spots—London, Paris, Berlin. Now that they have finished with the more famous sites, they are turning their sights on to the road less traveled. 

     Dilshod and I went past the thick walls of the front gate. Like all fortresses, it is well guarded. There are niche-like rooms that served to prevent fires and other rooms that were prison cells. Today, they hold human vignettes to create a Museum. Inside the fortress, there are many different rooms including the Coronation Hall where there is a raised pedestal stage indicating the Throne of the Ruler. There is a courtyard devoted to the Stables. There is a narrow road leading to a small mosque, which has four mihrabs—these are niches that are built in the direction of Mecca so that the faithful can face them when praying. There is also a minbar—a structure with steps and a podium on which the Imam stands at the time of prayer. The inside of the mosque which is no longer used for prayer has been converted into a Museum that holds many precious editions of the Koran from the 14th century to the present. In fact, most of the rooms inside the Citadel have been converted into galleries to house a wealth of archeological and historical data and artifacts from ancient to modern times.

Off to See the Zindon or Prison: 

     We leave the vicinity of the Citadel behind which gives me a chance to admire the incredible layers of brick that hold the structure in place. At this point, we are walking along a dry and dusty street and it is here that Dilshod points out to me the wall he built while helping his father at the age of thirteen. We are heading to the Zindon or Prison which is a part of the Citadel although located outside it. It served the important purpose of keeping dangerous members of society at bay as well as proving the might of the ruler. 

     We pass by the Debtors Prison (which immediately reminded me of the imprisoning of Dickens’ father in debtors’ prison in London when he was 12). Dilshod explained that they were not ill-treated but were kept locked up until their family members could repay their debts and get them out or until they paid their debts by working while in prison as many of them were artisans with very special skills. In fact, many of the prisoners were not wrong-doers, explains Dilshod, but spies. Two of these were British, Charles Stoddard and Arthur Connolly—and for their pains, they were relegated to the infamous Bug Pit. I saw a deep pit in the ground that was covered by a bamboo grill. Food was sent down to them on ropes. Most prisoners died in this space from disease brought on by ticks, snakes or by scorpion bites as these poisonous creatures were introduced into the pit (hence, bug pit) to torture them. The British spies seem to have survived the Bug Pit and were eventually beheaded in public in the square outside.

Lunch at Inifan Restaurant:

      As we walk away from the Prison, Dilshod asks me what I would like to eat. “Anything except plov,” I tell him, “as I’ve simply had too much of it.” How about kebabs? He asks. “Fine”, I respond, but not Shaslik. Let’s make it chicken.” Yes, chicken kebabs, he can do, he assures me.  Next thing I know, he is calling his friend Firooz who is the manager in a restaurant called Inifan. When we get there, after about a ten minute walk, I discover that it is a traditional Uzbek place with a European twist. Sort of like Euro-Uzbek fusion cooking. It has atmosphere, being located in a sheltered courtyard. And from the rooftop, it offers lovely views of the domes and cupolas of this fascinating city. I request a cold Coke because it is very hot and dry—we are, after all, in the desert, in camel country—and I get one that is not as cold as I would like. I, therefore, request ice and I am very pleased when it is produced. We settled for chicken kebabs thread on gigantic and very lethal-looking skewers with fresh tomato salad and the lovely patir or traditional bread which is torn off in hunks and eaten plain. 

     It is a lovely meal. And it is enlivened by the fact that Munira’s Italian group joins us at the next table. We get talking and I discover that they are from different parts of Italy. Meanwhile, Dilshod had introduced me to his friend Firooz who is the manager and to the chef who emerges from the kitchen wearing his stylish torque. I compliment him on the food and they end up giving us a 30% discount. Dilshod offers to pay his share but I tell him that the meal is my treat. It is the least I can do for a young man who impresses me deeply by his industriousness and ambition. The bigger groups that come to this restaurant (and they keep pouring in) seem to have an arrangement with the management that gives them a three-course set menu with soup, a main (bread and kebabs) and chocolate cake for dessert. I believe they paid extra for drinks. 

     After the meal and a long rest that I badly needed, Dilshod is ready to go and I feel fortified enough to accompany him with enthusiasm. He suggests we start off at the Kalyan Complex and it is there that we go.

Viewing the Kalyan Complex:

     This complex, like the Registan in Samarkand, is quite the best-known part of Bukhara and the most crowded. It also includes a vast square with three buildings: The minaret is the focal point but it is flanked by two Madrassas, one on each side. On the left is a living Madrassa—a working Madrassa currently used by students exclusively for Islamic studies. We were not allowed inside.  I was so excited to be in a real working Madrassa as I have heard so much about them, in recent years. Yet, in peering through a stone grilled window and seeing a young Muslim student with a skull cap on and a handful of books pass by me in the courtyard, I realized that this place is no different from a yeshiva or school for Judaic studies. 

     On the opposite side is a Madrassa and mosque and we could go inside this one. A lot of these structures have been rebuilt (just as in Samarkand) as they were destroyed completely through the centuries. They are covered with lavish ornamentation that makes every single one of them visually striking—you really cannot get tired of them as each is different from the other. 

     We arrived finally at the Kalyan Minaret—it has a broad base but is not as tall at the Qutub Minar in Delhi. It has the same sandy color that derives from the use of sandstone slabs. There is an interesting story associated with this minaret and it concerns Ghenghis Khan. Known for being a wanton marauder who caused a trail of destruction every where he paused in his invasions, this is the one structure that he did not destroy in Bukhara when he passed through in 1220-21. Legend has it that he looked up to see the top of the tower and his hat blew away. He bowed down to pick it up and his army of soldiers that was riding behind him thought that he was genuflecting to it. So they too considered it sacred and left it alone. And that is why the Kalyan Minaret survived and has become the symbol of the city of Bukhara. Rumor has it that prisoners were often chucked down to their death from its height.

A Stroll Through the Market Streets and Trading Domes: 

       We walked out of the Kalyan Complex and strolled down the street that was filled with vendors selling souvenirs of every kind. However, when we passed by a large store that pronounced itself as the Bukhara Carpet Emporium, I pulled Dilshod into it and told him that I wanted to take a look. Inside, in exactly the same way as carpets are sold in Pakistan, we saw a woman explain the various aspects of silk carpet-making to a large group of European tourists. Spread out in front of us were a number of specimens, each of which represented the various recognizable designs of Bukhara’s famous carpets—from the geometric that are classic to this region to the Tree of Life design. I recognized the Bukhara carpet that we own at home in Connecticut as Llew loves carpets and has acquired quite a few over the years on his many visits to Karachi. We actually have so many of them scattered around our home that I am now quite familiar with the aspects that one ought to notice—such as how many knots per square inch are in a particular carpet. 

     We did not linger long in the carpet store as, of course, I had no intention of buying one and at the cost of $3,500 on average for a medium sized one, I was certainly not in the market for it.

      Instead, Dilshod and I popped into what was once a jewelry market; It is now used exclusively for traders of the famed Bukhara carpets. You get pure silk or pure wool—never blended. We walked out and along the market street where my eyes fell on the most exquisite golden silk stole that I simply had to buy as I fell in love with it right away. It was so soft and silken that it kept slipping through my fingers. I am glad that my only souvenir (other than post cards and magnet and a T-shirt for Russel) was this exquisite silk stole for I could not leave the ancient Silk Route without buying some silk.
     It is important to imagine as you saunter through these streets to try to imagine what it might have looked like when Bukhara lay at the very crossroads of the Silk Route--just as neighboring Samarkand did. What a busy bustling place it might have been then: when dromedaries of camels roamed into and out of the city, their riders spending the nights with food, drink and dancing at the many caravanserais (hostels) that mushroomed to provide for their needs. 

Discovering an Archeological Site:

     Past this shopping complex we arrived at another square where an attempt was being made to build a new structure. On digging, they discovered that they were on the ruins of another ancient building. That site is now being carefully excavated. I would imagine that a lot of Bukhara has layers of ancient construction concealed beneath it. It is what happens when a settlement has been in constant habitation for so many centuries.

On to the Labi Hauz Complex:

     We moved on then to the Labi Hauz Complex which is built around a small pond. The pond in the center used to be used by camels. Caravansaries (hostels for the traders who brought dromedaries of camels into the town as Bukhara and Samarkand lie at the very center of the Silk Route) dot this town and in olden days, this was actually used as a camel stop. Sculptures of camels are scattered around the pond to suggest this. 

     Also making up this complex is a building dedicated to a dervish whose name I cannot recall. Later on we came upon yet another one that is made unique by the phoenix and a pig-like animal on its entrance gate. This ceramic tiled decoration is similar to the Sher Dor Gate at the Registan in Samarkand—decorated with animal and bird motifs in defiance of the tenets of Islam. We entered and found that the courtyard was set up for an expensive dinner  and a stage that would provide traditional Uzbek music and dance later in the evening.

     At this point, Dilshod informed me that further down a narrow side street and away from all the noise and activity of the square is a synagogue.  It is still in use although there are only about 600 Jews left in Bukhara. We entered the synagogue, met the man who looks after it and chatted with him. He told us that this father was a child during the Holocaust and that he survived the concentration camps although he was beaten regularly on the slightest pretext. The synagogue is beautifully decorated. We saw the Torah which is actually exposed (in most synagogues that I have entered, it is concealed on an altar behind an ornate curtain).  We made a small donation and left.

     Back on the Square, we saw the sculpture statue to Khudja Nasriddin, an Uzbek comedian who was well known for his wit and humor. He is featured on a donkey. Thus park attracts a vast number of tourists and locals and is a popular hangout. 

Off to See the Chor Minor:

     We then took the car and left for the Chor Minor which was quite a ways away—I was glad we did not walk as my energy levels were seriously flagging by this point. The structure was built in the early 20th century by a merchant who wanted to leave something behind for his own future generations. The style was inspired by the Char Minar of Hyderabad and features four towers each topped by a crown of aquamarine tiles. There is a stork’s nest on one of them—symbol of the city and of freedom. 

     I paid 4000 som to climb up about 25 steps to reach the roof from where I hoped to get some good pictures of Bukhara but it was most unpicturesque. However, I got to see the ceramic tile work from up close. 

     By this point, we had reached the end of our walking tour of the city and, to Dilshod’s credit, he showed me all the sights without hurrying me through any of them. We entered the car and got back to Labi Hauz Square where Dilshod took his leave of me. It was 5.30 and I was not expected to take my flight till 10.45. I thought I would sit there in the square until 8.00 pm when I asked the driver to come back to get me. But by 6.30, I got bored and thought it would be a better idea to get to the airport early. Hopefully, I would get WiFi there and be able to read on my iPad. So I called Dilshod who called the driver and by 7.00 pm, I was being driven off to the airport.

     I spent about two hours at the airport before I checked in and discovered that my 10.45pm flight to Tashkent was late by 90 minutes. We finally took off at 12.15 and reached at 1.15 am. Mohammed was waiting for me—a professor at the University. He drove me back to the faculty housing where I reached at 1.45 and fell asleep at 2.00 am!

     What a whirlwind tour it had been! I felt as if I had been whisked on a magic carpet to another world—a world of fairy tales and fables. It would take me a while to process all that I have encountered, but for the moment, I was glad to be in Tashkent again where my last day in Uzbekistan promised to be rather special.

     Until tomorrow

See Samarkand and Die! My Great Silk Route Travels Continue in the City of Timur

Saturday, April 26, 2019
Samarkand, Uzbekistan

See Samarkand and Die! My Great Silk Road Travels Continue in the City of Timur The Lame:

     Salaam Aleikum from Samarkand, Uzbekistan!       
     I did not sleep too badly in the City that Amir Timur made famous—Samarkand: despite the kitschy Chinese decor in the Asia Samarkand Hotel (think garish colors and ugly light fixtures). I woke up several times during the night and did not feel entirely rested by the time daylight was breaking. 

     In keeping with Khurshid’s advice, I got out of bed, had an early shower and got dressed to catch my first glimpses of the Registan—Samarkand’s great showpiece. He had told me that the sun would be at the perfect angle at about 7.15 am—should I be a photography buff, this would be the ideal time to be there. I thought it would be a good idea to get there before the place became invaded by tourist hordes.

Early Morning Stroll to Registan:

     So I dressed warmly and left my hotel for the quick five minute walk to the venue. To my enormous disappointment, the sky was heavily overcast—so any hopes of getting the perfect pictures in the perfect light were dashed. I arrived at the great big car park and was surprised to find that several tour buses were parked there. Many had already disgorged passengers in what I thought might be a way to see the complex for free without having to pay a hefty entry fee—but I could be wrong.  

I saw a small mausoleum first and then, as I negotiated my way around a neat garden filled with poplar trees, I came upon the high ceramic-tiled walls of one of the Madrassas (Islamic schools) that make up this place. I had not read enough about it to know what I was looking at; but as I worked my way closer to the main square, I caught my first glimpses of the buildings with which I would become very well acquainted by the end of the day. 

    I took a bunch of pictures from many angles and became deeply enchanted by the confection of ribbed domes, towering minarets decorated with calligraphy and Madrassa walls completely covered by ceramic decoration in different shades of blue. I was just about to leave, past the few energetic joggers who were running around the complex when the first fat drops of rain began to fall. They further dashed my hopes of enjoying what most people think of as “sunny Samarkand”.

Breakfast at Asia Samarkand Hotel:

     Since I was back at my hotel by 8.00 am, I decided to get straight to breakfast which had already attracted quite a few of the guests. The buffet was huge and offered a massive selection of very tempting items. I settled for a piece of Omlette, chicken sausages, vegetable ragout, fried cauliflower, rolled buckwheat crepe, lavash (bread roll filled with diced potatoes) Samarkand bread with cheddar cheese, beef cold cuts, peach juice and lemony mint tea. I took my time and ate well in the hope that I would have a light and very late lunch. 

     Next, I went up to my room and picked up my bags which had been packed already and proceeded to check out. My guide Khurshid was expected to pick me up at 9.00 am but he did not show up till 9.20 am. When he did get there, he apologized and told me he had to suddenly take on an Italian “delegation”. It seemed from the get-go that he is very enamored by the diplomatic missions that he leads on tours.  

  Off To A Silk Paper-making Factory:

     I would soon realize that Khurshid was not at all interested in me. His focus was a group of Italians whom he kept referring to as a “delegation”. It turns out that he runs his own business in tour-guiding—something he has been doing for over 21 years—and is well-known among the tourism business community in Samarkand. Apart from speaking English (which he does not do well at all), he speaks Italian (in fact, his Italian seems to be far better than his English). He gave me no no explanation at all as to where we were headed until I actually asked him and his response was “Good question!” He then proceeded to tell me that on his way to pick me up from my hotel, he had noticed a vast crowd in the environs of the main sights—he, therefore, made the decision to drive me out to the farthest spot on our travels for the day...and there, he said, we would meet the “delegation”. 

     I was, in fact, taken to a Silk Paper-Making Factory. Now I have traveled enough to know that all tour guides end their tours taking you to come place with which they have a connection that will give them a commission on the purchases of the tourists they lead to the store. Ok, fair enough. I know that this is standard international practice. But to do this, first thing in the morning, before we had seen every one sight, was a bit brazen, I thought. Still, I said nothing.

     At the venue, we did meet the Italians.  They turned out to be a group of five—two couples, one of whom had their grown-up son traveling with them. One of the couples seemed to have a diplomatic connection: the husband was based in Astana in Kazakhstan. The other couple were their friends. The latter had arrived from Milan to spend a week in Uzbekistan in the company of their diplomat friends. They were going the same route as I was: Samarkand to Bukhara (but they were also moving on to Khiva—which I was not doing). 

     Khurshid thrived in their company. For most of the day, I felt neglected as he spoke in short snatches of English to me and gave the bulk of his attention to commentary in Italian with the group whom he treated as if he had known them forever. Besides this, as I said, his English was far from fluent and was also heavily accented. He gave me only minimal information and I was very grateful I was carrying my Lonely Planet Notes as they certainly supplemented the meager information he gave me. 

     In the Silk Paper-Making factory, I learned how not a single part of the mulberry tree was wasted. Although it is well-known that the leaves are the only food upon which the silkworm will feed, the twigs and branches are used to make silk paper. The bark is soaked and then scrapped so that the inner pulp is boiled, then beaten to a pulp through the turning of a large water-wheel which is assisted by the flowing Siyob River that runs through the factory. The pulp is then strained through a sieve and ends up creating sheets of paper. These are fashioned into a number of items such as greeting cards, posters, even handbags, dolls, etc. Everything was atrociously priced—they were charging 10 euros for a tiny paper doll that could be hung as a Christmas ornament. Prices were quoted in euros as there were huge groups of French and Italians that kept pouring in.

     I got away from the din and, at Khurshid’s advice (I noticed that he kept sending me off to do things on my own so that he could focus on his interaction with the Italians), I took a stroll around the complex and enjoyed seeing the geese that were at one end of the property that was very charmingly landscaped with Japanese bow bridges over running streams—the canals of the river. When I rejoined the group, they were enjoying a cup of hot tea (which I refused as I did not wish to stay awake at night).

     We left in separate transport—I would be driven by Khurshid all day while the Italians would be in a six-seater van with another driver. Khurshid informed me that our next stop would be in Afrosiyab to see the Tomb of Daniel.

         

Daniel’s Tomb in Afrosiyab:

      In the car, I got a bit of an explanation from Khurshid. The Siyob is the river that has flowed through Samarkand since ancient times. Afro means “Beyond”. So this part of Samarkand was “Beyond the Siyob”—it is the ancient part of Samarkand that goes back to the Biblical period. All that remains of it is a ruined wall on a grassy hill. We passed by the entrance to a Museum where I believe the remains of a wall fresco that describes an ancient battle can be seen—but we did not go in there. 

     Instead, we were headed to the Tomb of the Prophet Daniel who is sacred to three religions—Islam, Judaism and Christianity. He is the same Biblical figure who survived the stint in the lion’s den. The story goes that two pieces of his bones were brought to Samarkand as relics and were interred in an 18 meter long tomb (to confuse grave-robbers and prevent them from being stolen). It also appears that a natural spring came quite suddenly from the earth after his remains were buried. This is now considered holy water and a large number of Muslim pilgrims were taking bottles of it home. 

     The tomb itself is quite arresting. It can be seen in a long house that was specially created to conceal it. It is covered by a long green cover that is richly embroidered. Outside, there is a pistachio tree that had apparently been planted centuries ago and was completely dead. A few years ago, the patriarch of the Russian Orthodox Church paid a visit to the venue as a pilgrim and immediately the tree began to produce foliage and, a few years later, pistachio nuts as well. At the base of the hill on which the tomb lies, the faithful can drink of the holy water and pray for miracles. 

Visit to the Shah-i-Zinda: 

      Back in the car, we drove to the next attraction—A necropolis that contains remains of many of the members of the Temurid dynasty. This is one of the show-piece attractions of this city and I can only describe it as awesome. Up on a hill, a large number of people from the history of Amir Timur (known to the rest of the world as Timur The Lame or Tamberland) are buried in Islamic fashion, i.e. in the ground. The spots of their mortal remains, however, are denoted by the construction of tombstones exactly above the actual graves themselves. 

     What is astounding about this place is the grandeur and complexity of the decoration.  Awesome cobalt blue and turquoise blue decoration on a number of mausoleums showcase the brilliance in ceramic creativity of ancient and contemporary craftsmen. Constructed along a narrow lane, most of these monuments were in a miserable state as a result of natural destruction (earthquakes) and the passage of time.  Lot of black and white photographs exist of this vicinity seen in near-ruin. However, realizing their cultural importance, attempts to rebuild them have been made since the time of the Soviet ownership of this region. 

     After Independence, the indigenous Uzbek government has devoted vast sums of money to reinstate the area to its former glory. In the process, they have preserved these ancient crafts and skills and provided employed to a vast army of artisans. No too mausoleums are the same and some are far more ornate than others. They are lavishly decorated on the outside in various shades of blue—from turquoise to cobalt. Khurshid told me, when I asked, that blue is the color of the heavens—where good Muslims hope to go after death. So what you see today, after careful restoration, is various techniques of ceramic craftsmanship from embossed tiles, honeycomb patterned pieces (macarabe) that fit like jigsaw puzzles together, Persian-style inlaid floral motifs and decoration and loads of geometric ornamentation created with glazed tiling. The place is so photogenic that it is impossible not to keep clicking—and no pictures can do justice to its extravagance which is also a holy place of pilgrimage for the area’s Muslims. I found myself completely blown away by this site—by its Oriental architecture and its uniquely breathtaking decoration, both inside and out. But for the awful crowds from neighboring Tajikistan and Kazakhstan that arrived in noisy droves that simply mobbed the narrow lane along which the mausoleums are situated, I would have been able to spend far longer here than the time Khurshid gave us to see everything.  

Lunch at Joni Osh:

     I have to say that although I had eaten a very good breakfast and was not hungry, I was grateful for the opportunity to sit somewhere to rest and Khurshid selected a place called Joni Osh for our lunch of Plov  He kept telling me that it was very different from that of Tashkent (but in the end, it was not really very much different except that the hunks of meat are placed around the mound of rice and not shredded). It was eaten with very runny plain raita flavored with dill and tomato salad. Again, it is clear to me that he has some kind of connection with folks at this place. We were not asked to pay any money and my travel agent had told me clearly that I would need to pay for my meals. So I was a bit confused. On the other hand she had not told me that I would have to pay the entry fees to each monument and I ended up paying at each place—the fees varied from 10,000 som to 40,000 for the Registan. I was glad I had changed $100 at the counter in the Grand Mir Hotel in Tashkent for I was doling it out like peanuts throughout the day.

     I was grateful for the company of the Italians at lunch.  They turned out to be very friendly and they made attempts to include me in some of the conversation. Had they not been around, I think I would have had to endure the noisy company of Khurshid exclusively and that would have been pretty irksome.

 Off to see Ulugbek’s Observatory and Museum.

      With lunch done (and all of us feeling far too stuffed for our own good), we drove to the site of the ruined remains of Mirza Ulugbek.  He happened to be the grandson of Amir Timur and he succeeded his grandfather to the throne to rule as emperor. However, he was also a brilliant mathematician and astronomer and is rated as highly as Ptolemy and Tycho Brahe who preceded him and Halley who followed. He set up an observatory that enabled him to trace the movement of the sun across the globe as well as the variations of the lunar calendar.  Not much is left of the brilliant observatory he set up (I had seen a model of it at the Museum in Tashkent) except the long curve of one of the structures he built to read the heavens. This structure inspired Raja Man Singh of Jaipur who built the Jantar Mantar in the 17th century. The curving remains of his concrete observatory is preserved in a special structure—all the visitor can do is gaze down at it from a height behind a grill and take pictures. 

     Opposite this structure is a brand-new Museum that effectively lays out his greatness, his significance to scientific astronomy and the impact of his work. This space also contains a number of Korans and other books in beautiful calligraphy. He was so wedded to the pursuit of knowledge (at a time when Islam celebrated the acquisition of knowledge for both males and females) that he built a Madrassa as part of the Registan complex at Samarkand and personally taught Math there. 

A Visit to the Gur-e-Amir Mausoleum: 

     Our sight seeing in Samarkand was well under way when we returned to the monument that I had seen spotlit last night—the stunning resting place of Amir Timur. Long before you enter the space, you will be swayed by the beautiful ribbed dome, towering gateway and calligraphied walls. I have to say that it was far more striking last night when the light lent it a soft romanticism. 

     A word about Timur: He is the 14th century military general who married into the family of Ghenghis Khan and saw himself as the Mongol’s successor. He spent most of his life based in Samarkand from where he strategized on the conquest of neighboring regions—all of which met with much success (if you discount that fact that he was shot by an arrow in his leg which rendered him lame for the rest of his life). His invaders went as far as Delhi in the East and Eastern Europe in the West. While he was a brilliant tactician, his reign was not without its share of brutality and he is known to have buried his enemies alive. As a contradiction to his cruelty, he was devoted to the creation of architectural greatness and went on to commission a vast number of structures that proclaimed the glory of his reign and the capabilities of the artisans of his era,.

    Timur’s great great grand-son, Babur, arrived on the Indian sub-continent to found the Mogul dynasty that brought the grandeur of Islam to India. He is known in the West as Tamberlaine or Tamerlane—a corruption of the phrase Timur The Lame. So revered is he in Uzbekistan that there is a grand equestrian statue to his glory at Amir Timur Square in Tashkent which also graces the paper currency of the Uzbeks. A similar statue—not equestrian but, this time, seated on a gaddi or throne—is to be found in the center of Samarkand and we drove by it several times.

     Inside, we were completely taken by the main hall under the main dome where the Emperor lies buried under a lovely black jade tombstone. It is surrounded by those of his closest and fondest family members. Lots of gilding inside makes this interior different from the ones at Shah-i-Zinda  which were mainly in shades of blue. A map gives the visitor a good idea of the location of each of the descendants of Timur, but it is the sheer beauty of the interior decoration that grips visitors as they take in the splendor of the decoration. 

An Excursion to the Mosque of Bibi Khanum:

     We moved on then to the mosque of Bibi Khanum, who was the favorite wife of Timur. A very long walk, after we parked, took us along a touristy shopping mall to the site. The place is associated with a large number of legends—it is difficult to say what is fact and what fiction. But when one passes through the gigantic gateway, you enter a pretty tree-filled courtyard.  In the courtyard, there is a huge stone stand for a Koran which existed but was plundered and taken away to Isfahan in Iran by Nadir Shah—the same one who plundered Delhi in 1735. Apparently that Koran is to be found in Iran even today. Women lacking fertility and wanting children crawl around its legs.

     It is worth recounting the legend here: Bibi Khanum decided to surprise her husband Timur by the construction of this mosque to honor him on his successful campaign in India. She hired an architect to get the work done and she came daily to the site to watch its progress. The architect fell in love with her and delayed the completion of the project just so that he could continue to see her daily. When she urged him to finish it, he told her that he had fallen in love with her and asked her for a kiss as repayment for his talents. She brought a number of glasses to him and told him to take a look at them—she said that women were all the same inside-i.e. kind and good-hearted—despite the differences in their appearance. So she offered him any of her slave girls for his pleasure. He responded by bringing her two glasses—he filled one with water and one with wine. He told her that both of them looked exactly the same, yet one (water) did nothing for him when he drank from it; the other (wine) left him with a burning on his lips and his heart. The same, he said, was true of women. Only one of them could make him burn with love.  Khanum was so impressed by his logic that she finally permitted him to kiss her as she really did want to see the mosque complete by the time Timur returned.  It turns out that the kiss was so passionate that it caused her to blush—a blush that remained permanently on her cheek. When Timur did return, he wondered at her glow and realized that something had happened in his absence. She told him what had transpired and Timur had the architect imprisoned and subsequently killed.

     Today, large numbers of visitors come to see the mosque but cannot enter it. Restoration work is on inside and it will be a long while before they can see the interior gleaming again. Across the road, Bibi Khanum lies buried in a small mausoleum. 

Shopping in a Local Bazaar:

     I suppose it would not feel as if we had strayed into The Arabian Night’s until we had surveyed the goods, bargained with the traders and left with our hands filled with the legendary goodies of the region from one of the open-air bazaars. Accordingly Khurshid led us to one.

     For conveniently adjoining the mosque is a busy open-air bazaar and Khurshid gave us half an hour to browse through it and buy anything we might desire. We ended up tasting a massive variety of eats from walnut-stuffed dried peaches and the salted kernels of peach and apricot seeds to pieces of nougat and halwa. I was able to browse through some of the clothing stores from where I bought a T shirt for Russel. We were all very tired by the time we were done and I did actually spend a good part of the half hour sitting down and resting my feet as the fatigue was really beginning to get to me. I was relieved when the Italians suggested that we enter one of the cafes (known as a chaikhana) to get a coffee. While the Italians nursed their espressos and cappuccinos, I bought a slice of walnut cake which Khurshid told me was baklava but turned out to be just a sponge cake with walnuts sandwiched inside. It would see me through to a very light dinner.

Finally, Samarkand’s Poster-Boy, Registan: 

     I had come to Uzbekistan because the pictures taken by my Fulbright colleague Gerald Sheffield of the Registan when he had made a presentation at the Fulbright conference in Cochin, on the architectural delights of the town, were so enticing that I thought to myself, I simply must see this fabled land. Well, I can now say, quite enthusiastically, “See Samarkand and Die!” This was what struck me after a day devoted to an overload of Islamic architectural exuberance. Wen we were at the Registan, finally,  the same complex that I had seen at the crack of dawn, the thought struck me—I had seen Samarkand...I could die! I was bowled over by the Al-Hambra in Granada, Spain, and thought I had never seen anything so beautiful—well, I was mistaken. The ceramic work of this region defies description.

     The Registan, literally meaning “Sandy Place”, was built in the reign of Amir Timur around the 14th century. It was meant to be a complex of Madrassas which are traditional Islamic schools for the study of religion. Somehow when approached from the front, the impact is completely different from that which I had felt in the morning. Visually grasped as it is meant to be—as a three-sided architectural masterpiece of symmetry and beauty, it left us unable to stop ourselves from taking pictures.

     There are three Madrassas in this complex: If you are facing it, on the left is the Madrassa of Ulugbek, the astronomer emperor, his signature stamped on the edifice by the application of stars as its most striking  decorative motif. The grand doorway is flanked by two minarets. Inside, through the archway, you will enter a courtyard that has been taken over by contemporary traders. The Madrassa was traditionally characterized by student rooms or dorms on the top floor and their classes just below. The emperor himself taught Mathematics here and is known to have encouraged men and women to develop inquiring minds...truly, it was a time when the practitioners of Islam saw knowledge-acquisition as a way of glorifying God. 

     Today, the modern-day tourist can browse from one shop to the next through every imaginable form of human craftsmanship from jewelry to pottery, from textiles to embroidery, from magnets to paintings to expensive carpets. All of the romance of the bazaars of the East were here for the shopper’s pleasure. I whizzed through these structures as I was already flagging quite badly. I went through this building with Khurshid but then he sent me off on my own and told me to return to the main square at 7.00 pm. This left me with about an hour to see the other two Madrassas. Note that Khurshid stayed around with the Italians although he told me that he tells people to split up to enable them to do what they prefer to do.

     I lost no time in going to see the exquisite mosque at the back of the Madrassa that is in the middle of the complex—the Tilla-Kari (Gold -covered) Madrassa. It is the highlight of this complex and justifiably so. Truly, words cannot do justice to the beauty of the mosque that is only a show piece today and not a functioning house of worship. The ceiling and the walls are entirely covered with gilding in the form of papier mache and ceramic tile. Glowing under strategically-placed chandeliers, the effect is simply stunning. The dome is topped on the outside by a recently-added (during restoration) gigantic turquoise blue dome.

     On the sides of this structure are small niches filled with black and white photographs of these structures and the huge destruction done upon them by time. As a contrast, colored pictures taken from the exact same location show how much restoration has been done and what fine effects have been achieved. I could hardy drag myself way from this incredible space.   

     On the right hand side, is the Sher-Dor (Lion Gate) Madrassa which is denoted by ceramic decoration that, in defiance, of all Islamic tenets the prevents the depictions of human or animal life, presents animals (lions that look like tigers) and prancing fawns. There is the rising sun at the very top—a symbol of light and enlightenment in a Madrassa or school. This symbol has been appropriated by Alisher Navoiy University in Tashkent where I am currently teaching and where the mission is the propagation of Uzbek language, literature and culture.

     As instructed, I arrived at the square and found members of my party at 7.00 pm seated on the patio of the Ulugbeg Madrassa. I joined them and was told to pay 40,000 som for entry into the complex. A guard came up and told us that we had a few minutes more to sit there as the complex closes at 7.00 pm. However, the superb illumination comes on at 7.30 am and it is really worth the wait to see the buildings in that light. You realize then why this is the poster-child of the city and Central Asia’s best-known monument. We climbed to the viewing platform to take some more pictures, because, honestly, no one seems to get enough of this venue. Truly the soft golden glow of the lights makes the entire scene memorable. 

     I have to say that the weather was very cold and was made worse by the intermittent rain. I was very grateful for my layers—two cardigans and a light down jacket and my warm silk scarf. I was also glad that I had carried pantyhose to wear under my trousers. All these combined to keep me comfortable.

    I was absurdly happy to feel the chill of the weather in my bones—clearly I am missing the temperate zone too much after what seems like just one long single season in Bombay after nine months in the city of my birth. The sights of flowering chestnut and lilac tress are making my heart sing and I am glad to experience, in a small way, the heart-lifting sights of spring in Samarkand. 

Dinner of Shorba Before Getting My Train to Bukhara:

     Members of our party were taking the same train that I was to take to Bukhara in the evening—the 9.00 pm bullet train that would arrive from Tashkent. They wanted to have lemon tea, with which they seem to have fallen in love, as a precursor to their parting from this fabled city on the Great Silk Route. Tea that was hauled on camel-back all the way from China and India was incorporated into the lives of these Oriental people who drink it all day in gallons. Tea shops called Chaikhanas have mushroomed all over to cope with this custom.

      Khurshid led us to a chaikhana where the Italians settled with steaming bowls of lemon tea and I decided to have Shorba (soup)—a clear beef broth flavored with plenty of dill and featuring boiled potatoes, carrots and hunks of beef. It was served with bread and made a very good supper after our filling plov lunch.  We were joined by two Japanese girls that Khurshid befriended before he took me to the train station for my bullet train ride to Bukhara.  

On the Bullet Train to Bukhara:

     It appears that I was very lucky in getting this ticket on the Bullet Train as all tickets on these trains are booked solid months in advance. It appears that only the influence of the folks at the US Embassy enabled me to travel on this train (or so Khurshid told me)—boy, did I feel lucky! I will make it a point to say a special Thanks to Dinara at the US Embassy Travel Desk when I return tomorrow to Tashkent. 

    Anyway, the Bullet Train known as the Afrosiyab, is a fairly new addition to Uzbekistan Railways. So far, it runs from Tashkent to Samarkand and then on to Bukhara. It is expected that another leg will be added soon to Khiva—which is the other site of tourist interest in this country. I had never heard of the place and, chances are, I probably would not have had the time to conclude it anyway. 

     The train is sleek and similar to Japan’s Bullet Trains—you are greeted by a stewardess and shown to your seat which is very luxurious. Tea and other snacks are served (for payment). There is a TV set to keep you occupied. The journey took an hour and 40 minutes.  I pulled out my iPad and began writing my journal and then actually nodded off to sleep for about an hour. By the time I awoke, we were close to arrival at Bukhara. 

    I was picked up by a driver named Nazrulloh who could not speak English but who led me to my hotel for the night where I had made a booking—Hotel Fernando. It was close to midnight and there was not even a Receptionist to greet me. A waiter handed me my key and led me to my room—a very plain space but at least there was heating and a comfortable bed although the pillows were like hard Himalayan mountains. I did not waste any time as I was exhausted when I went straight to bed, but the awful pillows made it very hard for me to fall asleep.

     Until tomorrow...