12. THE ICE MAIDEN OF SAMARKAND

ULEG BEQ - ASTRONOMER, MATHEMATICIAN

ON THE TRAIL OF TAMERLANE

By now I was hungry for more information on Tamerlane, I really needed historical background, but bookshops had nothing in English, and Intourist had no brochures.

 I asked the girls on the counter, where was he born, what happened to Tamerlane: What of his grandson Uluq Beq, the renowned astronomer mathematician who once governed Samarkand.

Timur was born in Shakhrisabz, they told me, 160 km away on the old Silk Road,  a few hours by car.  I couldn't hire a car by myself, they said, I would have to take a driver as well.  To get the car and the driver I would have to take an English speaking guide.  In a moment of weakness, I agreed.

The car was a small but comfortable Opel, the driver a thirtyish Uzbek in a loose fitting grey suit and brown suede shoes, and my guide was the icy, blue eyed  blonde Lara.

Lara was suffering from a cold and it was obvious she thought the trip to Shakhrisabz a bore.  We were barely into the traffic on Registanskaya, than she started a monotonous spiel....’the city of Samarkand and its' suburb’s has been inhabited since prehistoric times...’

Her nasally voice droned on, reminding me why I usually avoid organised tours, somehow I would have to break into her inner core and tap whatever made her tick;  otherwise I would be in for a rugged few hours. I let her waffle on for a few more miles, then her voice became quite husky and I suggested she sit back and relax.  I would ask her when I needed information.

We passed through dry grazing land and started to climb gentle hills that changed into steep inclines with tiny villages perched on rocky outcrops.  Small children watched over black faced sheep.  Lara suddenly came to life and said she nearly had to spend two years of her life in one of these rough little hamlets. This wasn't part of her script and I waited to hear more.

‘I trained to be a teacher, when the authorities decided all student teachers must spend two years working in a country village.  We had to go where they sent us, there was no choice.’

From the tone of her voice I could tell this was a fate worse even than guiding me to Shakhrisabz.

‘Life is terrible in these villages...and women are worthless,’ she sniffed, I dug out a box of tissues. ‘My father was very worried for my safety, what you call it...my welfare... so he went to a friend in the party and this friend said, why not get your daughter into language school?’

Of course the party referred to was the then all powerful, all dominating Communist party.

She returned the tissues and I waved them back to her.

‘So instead of becoming a teacher I learned English, and now I work for Intourist.’

This road we were on was part of the Great Silk Road, the ancient trade route that crossed China and India and linked the East with Europe.  Alexander of Macedonia had travelled this way in the 4th century BC, Marco Polo in the 13th century, Omar Khayyam, Genghis Khan, so many had passed into history on this same road....and ahead was the town of Shakhrisabz, the birthplace of the local boy who had made his name by being particularly evil...Tamerlane.

The Silk Road from Samarkand to Shakhrisabz

 The driver pulled over at the top of the pass to allow me to take photographs and give him a chance to puff on a cigarette.  The road down twisted and turned through giant rounded boulders, stretching like a long white ribbon into the distance.  There were no other vehicles in sight, ours was the only car, and yet in ancient times this road would have been thronged by merchants, caravans of swaying camels, travelers from every part of the old world.

‘Have you traveled out of the country?’ I asked Lara as we resumed our journey.

‘Yes, to India, many times.’

I asked what nationality she was...Russian mother, Uzbek father, she replied.  Naturally I asked what was, by now, the million dollar question...was she single?

‘I am engaged to be married,’ she said in a flat, cheerless tone that promised another ‘tragedy of the heart’ story... and I wasn't disappointed.

 In the course of her many business trips to India, Lara had fallen in love with an Indian, a member she said, of the extended Gandhi family.  In a novel twist, his parents had objected to the match and forbidden him to see her again.  Now at age 27, Lara's father had arranged her marriage to a Tajik engineer.  She doesn't particularly like him, but was going ahead with the wedding to escape from her parent’s control.

‘But surely that is just escaping one prison for another?’

‘Perhaps,’ she shrugged, ‘but at my age I have still to ask my father’s permission to leave the house at night.  It is very difficult.’

‘What makes you think your husband will be different?’

‘I know he will not be, already he says I must give up my work.’

‘Then why get married at all?’  The girl must be crazy.

‘For me, is a very simple choice, stay at home and obey my father, or marry and set up my own home.’

We drove into Shakhrisabz, a small, dusty disappointment, and Lara slipped back to her spiel. 

We are now in Tajikistan, she tells me; many Tajiks believe Samarkand belongs to them.  In the past this area has been invaded by three great warriors...Alexander, Genghis Khan and Tamerlane.  Of the three, she says Alexander was the most brutal.  When he conquered a city, he left behind some of his men to ensure control, but to make sure they remained  he cut off a leg or an arm.

We passed a funeral party of men outside a house, Lara pointed to a Mullah wearing a blue turban to indicate he had made the pilgrimage to Mecca.  I asked if she thought the Moslem religion would again become dominant.

‘Of course, it is only a matter of time now.’

‘Would that mean women would have to wear the veil?’

She nodded.  I asked would her husband want her to wear the veil.

She nodded again.   I could only imagine what that would mean to a woman like Lara; only part Uzbek, highly educated, with attitudes to life more in keeping with the west.

Tamerlane’s birthplace was in ruins, only outer walls and portal supports still stood. I was surprised it had been allowed to sink into such decay.

Lara - the ruins of Tamerlane's birth place

‘The party has decreed that before reconstruction can take place, historic buildings must have at least 20 percent of the original in place.’ We were standing beneath the towering ruins, on my part blithely ignorant this was a major earthquake region.  ‘We know from history that this part of the palace was three storys high, and on the top floor was a swimming pool for the harem.’

Lara asked if I was hungry because, she said, the hotel food in Shakhrisabz was not good.  Could I wait a few hours until we got back to Samarkand? I could and produced packets of Smarties for each of us.  She and the driver took them eagerly and had an animated discussion about their colour and content.

It was a fast, silent trip back with Lara munching sweeties and replying only when I had a query.

Back in Samarkand I invited Lara to join me at lunch; I thought this would be a good opportunity to investigate the menu.  No such luck, only chicken stew was available and it didn't look too appetising.  Lara shrugged at the mess on the plate, but there was nothing we could do but eat it.

MORE TRAGEDIES OF THE HEART

Just as we finished the meal a beautiful, vibrant woman swept up to our table and began speaking in rapid fire Uzbek or maybe it was Russian.  She was obviously Uzbek with black sparkling eyes; dark hair cut in a fashionable bob and dressed in a shell pink linen suit that must have cost a mint.  With eyes flashing and hands moving expressively, she was including me in the conversation.

Lara broke in when the woman took a breather and quickly interpreted what had been said up to that point.  Our companion turned to me in astonishment and in English asked was I not one of them?

‘Please forgive me,’ the woman extended a well manicured hand, ‘I saw you and Lara chatting away like old friends and thought you must be a new interpreter on the staff.’

During all this the head waiter had conferred and departed to the kitchen.  He returned with a plate, placing it in front of the woman with a deference reserved for royalty. Lara and I looked down at the gourmet meal in astonishment, exchanged glances and burst out laughing.  It put our messy stew to shame.

Miriam, that isn't her real name, held a high position in the Uzbek Government and, because of her affiliation to the former Communist Party, was walking a political tightrope. She was a charming diplomat and spoke hopefully about her country’s future. 

We discussed fashion, the suit she was wearing was run up by a local dressmaker, but the material had been purchased on an overseas trip.  From fashion the topic led to Gorbachev’s wife, Raisa.  Surprisingly, both women were derisive, with Lara describing her as a cold snake.

‘You know,’ Miriam changed the subject, ‘my favourite author is a countrywoman of yours'....her book ‘The Thorn Birds’ was brilliant.  You know her, perhaps?’

I explained I didn't know the lady though I had once met her, but she seemed very jolly.

‘I have seen ‘Thorn Birds’ on television, it was very good, very sad, but I did not think he was right for the part, the man who played Meggie’s husband.’

‘You didn't?’ I was surprised. ‘The actress who played Meggie liked him so much she married him.’

Miriam raised her eyebrows, then leaned across the table, her mood suddenly sombre.

‘If only I had read this book when I was younger,’ she hinted, ‘my life would have been changed forever.’

However much I flash forwarded the book in my mind, I couldn't imagine which part would so affect a woman in Uzbekistan. ‘You know what I mean,’ Miriam said to Lara who nodded in return.

‘Oh well,’ she sighed, ‘obviously it was not meant to be.’  Miriam shook herself out of her apathy, looked at her watch, exclaimed she had to go, and with waves and smiles to me and Lara and the hovering waiters she left.  Everyone’s eyes followed her; she had that kind of effect.

‘Dear Miriam,’ sniffed Lara ‘for her too, life has not been easy.  She lives at home still with her parents.’

Her cold was no better and I hoped she wouldn't pass it on to me.  I dug into my bag for another mini packet of tissues, I had plenty.

‘Would you believe Miriam is 50 years old and still a virgin?’

Frankly, nothing in this country surprised me anymore.  But these women certainly must have indulged in deep heart to hearts.

‘But what was the significance of the ‘The Thorn Birds’....surely she didn't have an affair with a priest?’

Lara nodded. ‘It happened a long time ago, her parents wanted her to marry someone else but she vowed never to marry.’

‘Couldn't she, or for that matter couldn't you convince ...' Lara stopped me in mid sentence.

‘Defy my parents?’ she looked astonished, ‘No...never.’

Mina, Mustoora, Lara and now Miriam; all intelligent, highly educated women, all torn between the influence of the Communist Party, freedom of a European lifestyle and the persuasive pull of strong ethnic backgrounds.

_________

EPISODE 13   TASHKENT - WHERE PIZZAS ARE FLOWN FROM SEATTLE

©Robyn Mortimer 2010

11. A FILM CREW IN SAMARKAND

CROWDS PASSING RUINS OF BIBI KHANUM MOSQUE

FELLOW TRAVELERS

With the People to People tour group and their support team gone, the hotel seemed very quiet. I wandered down to the foreign currency bar, this one as well, in the basement and pulled up a chair to watch a game show on the telly.  It was easy to follow, a celebrity game show similar to one I'd worked on in Australian television some years before. 

I sat, eyes glued to the screen, looking, I imagine like a local fan, which is possibly why the men at the table behind me embarked on a heated discussion that I found difficult not to overhear.  To be truthful, as it gained intensity, I found it more entertaining than the quiz show.

A very pukka British voice was insisting ‘It's not bloody good enough, Nigel.  I've had one shit of a day, with a shit of a crew and I don't intend putting up with the blighters again tomorrow.’

The discussion continued with Nigel the diplomat trying to smooth troubled waters only to be shot down again by the very British voice dropping four letter words with the abandon of a swearoholic.

I sympathized with both, only wishing my work experience had been in such exotic locales.  Overcome by guilt, I stopped by their table on my way to the bar for a refill.

‘Terribly sorry for eavesdropping,’ I grinned, ‘I'm from Australia, and I'd give my right arm to work with your shitty crew.’

Jack of the dulcet tones was directing a special documentary featuring author Colin Thubron retracing a Central Asian journey from one of his books, the long suffering Nigel was the unit manager, and they and the crew, British and Uzbek were working out of a specially equipped bus.  They had been shooting that day at the Shakhi-Zinda Mausoleum.

Dressed in designer jeans and an elegant long sleeved shirt, Jack not only sounded like a Richard Harris clone but his features had the ‘hard living with good booze’ lines of an Oliver Reed.  No doubt he and his crew were beginning to get on the other’s nerves and he took my hand now with the enthusiasm of a saved soul.

 ’My dear,’ he took my hand, and all I could see was an Oliver Reed look alike on his best behaviour, ‘what are you drinking?’

Nigel saw his chance to escape and did so leaving me with the charismatic Jack who told me he does film work only to keep his farm in France going, and to pay the telephone bills for number two family in New York.

‘Number three family,’ he replied to my raised eyes,’ is my beautiful wild Irish Rose and two little tiddlers.’

I asked about family number one...’Oh, I have a grown up daughter in Shanghai, she's an opera singer.’

We had another drink, and then another.  Time seemed to be galloping by as Jack recounted countless anecdotes. They had been shooting in the mausoleum for most of the day and nothing had gone right, hence the outburst earlier.

‘We had all this gear in there, lights and cables spread all over the place, bloody sacrilege really, anyway this Moslem family came in to pay respects at the tomb.   They were marvelous, Mum and Dad, kids and old Granny; they just ignored all the technical stuff and went about their business.

‘By this stage' he confided, 'I was ready to kill certain members of the crew and had dropped down on my haunches in a quiet corner, with my head in my hands, wondering what the hell I was doing in this country in the first place, when the old lady tottered over, leaned down and dropped a few kopeck at my feet.’

Jack took another swig of his beer, ‘She thought I was a beggar. It bloody made my day, it did!’

Next day I walked across town to the Shakhi-Zinda Necropolis, which translates into ‘Town of the Dead’, a group of twenty buildings on the south eastern slope of Afrasiab, the ancient city upon which Samarkand was built. I had to admit that until Jack had told me about it, and in the absence of English language guide books, I had no idea such a place existed.

 As it turned out it was within cooee of the grand bazaar and within sight of the Bibi-Khanum Mosque, and all three, like every other historical edifice in Samarkand, was obviously part of everyday life, proving the ancient pattern had continued into the present despite the intermittent hiccup of 70 or so years of Soviet influence.

On the road to the Bibi Khanum Mosque

I talked to an old man who made his living as a tourist guide.  He told the story of an ancient who supposedly lived at the site, one Kusam ibn-Abbas, a cousin to Muhammad the Prophet.  Kusam, it was said, took his head from his shoulders after a sermon and descended into a cave where it is said he still lives.

The guide looked me in the eye and said, ‘You don’t believe me do you?’  Of course I rewarded him with a wink and a smile.

The Mausoleum was the resting place of Tamerlane’s wife, Tumanaka and his sister Shirin-bika-aka, and I will forever be grateful to Jack that my visit to this city included these treasures from the fourteenth century.

 Exploring the crypts and galleries took me hours and when I re-emerged into the 20th century, a tour coach was pulling up closely followed by two enterprising local lads with a car boot full of tacky souvenirs.   As I passed, glad I wasn't one of so many, I noticed a tourist haggling over a silver fob watch.  The young men gave me a jaunty wave.

I was hungry for more history.

_____________

EPISODE 12 -  ICE MAIDEN IN SAMARKAND

©Robyn Mortimer 2010

10. IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF TAMERLANE

Registan Square - its sheer size amazing.

BREATH TAKING SAMARKAND

 had been dreaming of Samarkand for so long and now I could barely believe I was here, treading the same path taken so long ago by Genghis Khan and Tamerlane.

Streets that had seen so much history were now  broadened and concreted, traffic a curious blend of modern trolley buses and old cars, horse drawn carts and donkeys, and people dressed in the loose flowing garb of Islam. I was so engrossed in the buildings and shops; even the Arab way of stacking fruit on the pavement that the square itself appeared before me like a sudden apparition.

Its sheer beauty took my breath away.  Registan Square, for me one of the seven wonders of the world. I stood across the road, across Registanskaya Street, utterly overwhelmed and wishing I had someone with me to share the moment. 

Then I crossed the six lanes of traffic and stood on the opposite footpath, my back to the noise and fumes of the 20th century.  In front of me was a square that hadn't changed in hundreds of years, a scene that could have been taken from the Bible, or from the Koran.

Three ancient buildings comprised and dominated the square, the fifteenth century Ulugbek Medrese, the almost identical Shir-Dor Medrese and in the middle the Tillya-Kary Medrese all with detailed mosaic work in brilliant shades of blue.  Minarets and soaring arched facades, perfectly formed, yet with the tiny imperfections demanded by the law of Islam.

The incredible blue of the domes and intricate tiles merged with the clear blue of the sky, the vast paved square with stands of trees and pockets of lawn completed a perfect setting.  I sat on stone steps, centre front, absorbing the magic, until the light went from the sky and I became worried that the night would overtake me.

The ‘People to People’ buses had arrived from Bukhara and Jerry called out that he'd located some locals with black-market antiques for sale; did I want to tag along? But I had already arranged a night at the theatre.

Next morning, I started out very early on foot.  Intourist had no maps in English but I did have a roneoed copy of the streets of Samarkand thoughtfully provided by Mitzi when she handed me that questionable visa.  Throughout the day I would cross the paths of various Sputnik buses, waving to familiar faces as we each touched on the various points of splendour.

I was drawn again to the square, and sat there completely absorbed in the atmosphere of Registan.  No other place on any of my travels has held such a powerful sway over my imagination. The hordes of Asia passed by my eyes, conquering nomads, heroes and villains.  War and peace and revolution, cruelty and kindness and survival.  I was close to tears, quietly emotional. I sat there for ages more before starting down Tashkentskaya Street where life seemed to have frozen to a time some centuries before.

The twentieth century ended at the start of the street, at the bus depot, where not only trolley buses turned around to return the way they had come, but all the buses from outlying districts deposited people in town for the day to either buy or sell at the grand bazaar.

At the bus depot

Around the depot entrepreneurs set up long charcoal braziers, and smoke and the smells of cooking meat and garlic wafted in the air.  There were outdoor teahouses with tapchans and groups of men in deep discussion and through all this mass of people surged excited family groups.  

Young girls with long black braids, like butterflies in their gaudy striped silk dresses and embroidered caps, plump matrons clutching small children eyes bright and darting. Their menfolk walked apart, some proudly carrying a small child, all wearing the black and white embroidered skull caps of the Uzbek.

Tashkentskaya was a long narrow street that led from Registan to the ruins of the beautiful Bibi Khanum Mosque and beyond to the grand bazaar itself. Along both sides of the paved street small shops sold materials and ribbons, foodstuffs and books and utensils; and in front of the shops, on the footpaths, stallholders duplicated everything inside the shops. 

It was busy and noisy and carefree and everyone seemed to be enjoying what the day had to offer.  In the middle of the street, ignoring the spill over of pedestrians, pony and donkey drawn traps journeyed back and forth, saving weary feet the long trek from bazaar to bus for just a few kopecks.

A welcome ride from Bazaar to bus depot

I hadn't realised it was Sunday, and I was very lucky because the Sunday market was the biggest and best. I entered the vast enclosed complex near the melon sellers where towering mounds of watermelons were displayed on worn and faded carpets of such beauty I nearly wept at such neglect.  Trucks reversed through milling crowds with even more melons.  In separate sections were fruit and vegetables of every variety ...carrots, tomatoes, egg plant, onions, horseradish...a riot of colour spread out on row after row of tables.

Every conceivable item was on sale, singing birds in cages, coarse grains, exquisite shawls in the finest of wool, cheese and carpets....even a woman wearing the paisley design scarf of the Uzbek women standing rather forlornly by herself selling her hair, a long black twist, so long it must once have reached past her waist.  I couldn't bring myself to photograph her.

My camera was suspect, so was I.

 I drew comments, blondes stand out in Asian crowds, and  often asked where I came from.  Those who looked blank when I replied ‘Australia’, more often responded to ‘kangaroo’.  A Soviet made documentary about the outback was a recent hit on local television.

At the hotel preparations were under way for the ‘People to People’ caravan flight back to Moscow, the supply of twine and wrapping paper nearly exhausted.  Jerry had by far the most excess luggage with carpets, shawls and local hats by the score.  In my room I found a note from Dawn in case she missed me downstairs in the foyer...when I made it to Alaska, her home was my home.

I would miss these friendly people; the sole Japanese in the group who stuck close to me in Bukhara because, I suspect, I took the time to listen to his halting English; dear Dr. Katie, recovered now from being stuck in the hotel lift; Jerry and the Ecuadoran industrialist who managed to put away copious amounts of vodka; the Gautelamalan who had twelve foster children back home and bought souvenirs by the dozen.

Jeff, the lanky farmer from Missouri showed me a fob watch he had bargained off a street seller for ‘only $20, how about that?’ Amid calls to ‘you write now, you hear’ and a cheery wave from Lena from Moscow, the big sputnik buses pulled out into the traffic for the short drive to the airport.  I might prefer traveling alone, but it is fun meeting people, and sad sometimes to say goodbye.

Though I wasn't to remain alone for long...

_________

EPISODE 11 -  FILM CREW IN SAMARKAND

©Robyn Mortimer 2010

9. FLIGHT TO SAMARKAND

REGISTAN SQUARE, SAMARKAND

A BRIBE OF MANY COLOURED SMARTIES

 The flight to Samarkand was a short hop over barren desert. At times we seemed to be following the long straight line of a road then the line would fork away in a different direction and all the eye could see for mile upon mile was parched, empty sand.

I had a window seat and next to me sat an Uzbek man nursing his daughter, a little girl of about five or six.  Across the aisle sat his wife with their baby son, a grubby little boy with a snotty nose.  This was their first flight and they were nervous and excited.

The father kept trying to peer out my window and I felt an absolute heel.  The good part of me wanted to exchange seats, let these simple people watch their world whizzing by underneath,  but the selfish side reasoned that this would probably be the only time I would pass this way, while they would doubtless make the journey again.

I hoped Allah would understand and forgive me, softening my stand with small packets of brightly coloured Smarties from home.

Samarkand was vastly different to both Bukhara and Frunze.  One of the oldest cities in the world dating from the 4th century BC and a contemporary of Babylon and ancient Rome, this ancient city is also known as the 'Muslim Pearl'.

The taxi drive to the hotel, through busy congested streets where the traffic seemed to obey no set rules whatever, kept me on the edge of the seat.  I had bargained with drivers at the airport who started their price in dollars, moving along to 60 roubles before finally completing their haggling at 25 roubles.  This had been accomplished with a sense of humour on both sides and in front of a vast audience who seemed hugely amused.

The driver I settled on  was a jovial bear of a man whose baggy trousers were held up with old fashioned braces.  He installed me in the passenger’s seat up front, and proceeded to drive with one hand on the wheel while he pointed out the sights with the other.  I didn't understand a word of his commentary but I swivelled about as we passed archaeological diggings side by side with residential buildings.  I tried to imprint on my mind our progress through busy streets and tree lined roads. 

 Samarkand,  at last I was in Samarkand and I felt my heart swell to bursting.  Then suddenly through the huddle of suburbia, above the roofline of shops and double story apartments emerged a huge blue dome. 

I gasped, loudly, I couldn’t help myself.  I may even have clutched the drivers arm, I can’t remember because the beauty of that dome, its splendour amid the mundane knocked the breath out of me.  The driver slammed on the brakes, oblivious to tooting horns and vehicles behind us, coming to a stop in the middle of traffic to give me a better look.  As my eyes met his I could see he was beaming, our pleasure instantaneous and mutual.

I couldn't wait to dump my bag at the hotel,  get out and explore.  Frunze, for all its charm and Kirghiz people was really a comparatively modern Russian town, Bukhara a friendly sleepy sprawling village, but Samarkand was vibrant and alive; a living page of history I couldn't wait to explore.

But first I had to face the routine inquisition of booking into the Intourist Hotel; the women behind the front desk here was  more sophisticated than Bukhara but still unsure about foreigners wandering in off the street; the staff were mainly Russians speaking laboured English.

It wasn’t that I had to plead; rather they had to convince themselves that they were permitted to take me in as a guest, a lengthy procedure.  This time the charge was US$70 with breakfast only.  I insisted they include lunch for no other reason than pure devilment, and they did...though later the Uzbek head waiter made me accompany him to the front desk to have that confirmed.

The hotel was on the busy intersection of M.Gorky Boulevard and Registanskaya Street, broad thoroughfares that buzzed with traffic.  I turned right and headed towards Registan Square which means ‘place of sand’.....and had been the site of some nasty executions down through the centuries.

Would I tap into the ancient history of the Square, or would I be disappointed, its mystery and intrigue swamped by the modern world.

 _____________

EPISODE 10  -   IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF TAMERLANE

Robyn Mortimer ©2010

8. DEJA VU IN BUKHARA

A LANEWAY IN BUKHARA

A STRANGE WALK THROUGH STRANGELY FAMILIAR PLACES

Next morning after the usual breakfast of flat bread, glass of thick yoghurt, black tea and fried eggs, I set out to walk through the old city of Bukhara, the Moslem quarter where homes were hidden behind high walls and narrow alleys led to domed market places. 

I had only walked a few hundred yards down the street when a car pulled alongside.  It was Sasha with a Missouri farmer called Jeff and a Guatemalan plantation owner.  They were on their way to a local tea house; would I care to join them?

 ‘We are going to my most favourite place in all of Bukhara,’ Sasha told us as the car negotiated winding alleys and narrow lanes.

He parked the car in a quiet almost deserted square where all the buildings had high walls and no windows. There was not another soul around. I stepped out of the car and looked about, feeling a sudden and inexplicable surge of recognition. How on earth could I explain this strange sense of belonging, these familiar surroundings?

 I felt completely at home.  Was this odd feeling of awareness  what some people called déjà vu?

Sasha opened a wooden gate in a high brick wall and we entered an oasis of beauty and shade...an open courtyard dominated by spreading mulberry trees.  Under the leafy branches were six tapchans or wooden beds for locals to sit upon and play backgammon, sip tea or just count their beads.

The tapchans were varnished and highly polished and covered with a bright kelim or carpet in the middle of which was a small table. The teahouse was part of an old madrassah or school and the buildings surrounding the open courtyard housed an artisan’s commune where coppersmiths and weavers worked their craft. A huge copper samovar polished to a golden sheen dominated the servery where our tea was being prepared.

With Sasha and Jeff the Missouri farmer, and the Gautemalan sitting at a tapchan in the open air tea house

Following Sasha’s lead we took off our shoes and sat up on the tapchans, leaning back on the bed ends.  Our host sat easily, his legs crossed, Jeff and I, both tall, draped ourselves ungainly under the little centre table while the more plump Guatemalan sat crossways with his feet on the ground.  

Two men on a tapchan next to ours played backgammon; Sasha sat back, relaxed, and fingered his beads as Greeks do their worry beads.

The teahouse attendant brought our green tea in an orange teapot with four glasses and a plate of Arab sweets...nougats and sugary confections.  A radio played in the background, the music of the Arab world, shrill and discordant but not unpleasant. 

The atmosphere was tranquil, like being in a private world.  If I lived in Bukhara this would be my favourite place too...perhaps it once had been.

We passed the time discussing everything and nothing, from Missouri winters to the price of coffee.  I was very aware how privileged I was to be included, Uzbek women by and large don’t join in their men’s social lives.

We next visited an artist friend of Sasha, Dumond Park, his family were of Korean origin.  His studio was in a run down part of Bukhara in a partially demolished and very old building.

His paintings were large and many and my companions from the tour group bought a number to ship home.  I had to be content with a few of his smaller postcard size etchings, one of them the introduction to all posts in this series, another seen below.

I had decided to walk back to the hotel and left the others to return in Sasha’s car.  He had given me directions but I didn't need them.  In the maze of walled alleys and lanes it seemed I picked my way unerringly, turning corners and crossing streets until I found myself in a narrow paved thoroughfare divided by a man made aqueduct.  

The stream or canal was narrow and contained within waist high brick walls on which small children played, chasing each other and balancing, arms outstretched.  

Ahead, gossiping and enjoying the sunshine, three older women sat on a section of the wall. They were dressed in their traditional costume, paisley shawls and head scarves in red, green and blue patterns over matching floral dresses. Each outfit was colour co-ordinated with plain wool socks and cardigans and soft felt slippers.

Three ladies of Bukhara

They smiled a greeting and I was startled by the resemblance of the lady in the middle to my long dead grandmother....the same features, olive complexion, even her expression as she gestured to my camera.  As I took photographs I almost expected her to call me by  name. 

We conversed by pantomime and finger counting, the lady in the middle was in her mid seventies and between them they had 12 grandchildren. The old ladies wore tasteful jewellery of old gold, bracelets and rings, and in their pierced ears delicate emeralds and rubies. The walled house across from where they sat belonged to the youngest of the three.

When I left the three ladies of Bukhara I continued on my way, past little shops that sold sticky sweets and sacks of grain, a tiny barber shop with room for only one customer. I caught up with a man on a donkey who averted his face when I lifted the camera. 

But strangely, in this maze of nameless streets I didn't have to ask directions, without hesitation I turned corners, traversed streets,  found the way out of that old quarter through a park into Lenin Square and back to the Intourist hotel.

I try to keep an open mind on the mysteries of life and death and possible reincarnation, to me all is impossibly possible, but of this I am sure, in Bukhara on that day, I experienced a sense of history, of a belonging that I cannot possibly nor rationally explain.

The ‘People to People’ caravan left early next day in their air-conditioned sputnik buses for Samarkand, 230 kilometres across the desert.  I asked Mustoora where I could find the local bus for Samarkand.  She was horrified.

‘The journey would take all day,’ she warned me.

I didn't mind, I wasn't on a strict timetable.  She went on to insist that women didn't travel alone in this part of the country, a woman alone would command no respect, she said.

Such a short distance, surely I wouldn't offend anyone...I really wanted to travel by bus.

‘If you had a companion it would be possible, but for you alone...the driver would not sell you a ticket.’

‘If you spoke to the driver....’ 

‘No.  It is out of the question.’

She spoke with such finality I could do nothing but put myself in her hands.

‘There is a flight leaving later this afternoon, I will see if they have space for you.  Come back after lunch.’

As it happened Mustoora had confirmation almost immediately and joined me in the dining room.  I invited her to share chai with me, and of course I questioned her about her life.

She was Uzbek born of an ethnic Uzbek father and Iranian mother.  She had studied languages and travelled abroad for Intourist as an interpreter.

‘For many years I enjoyed my life travelling and seeing the world, but my father was not pleased.  He insisted I return home and marry.’ At this point Mustoora extended her hand in a futile gesture the palm upturned, ‘I held off as long as I could, but when I turned 32, my father arranged for me to marry an Uzbek engineer.’

Through the story Mustoora maintained an offhand, resigned attitude. She held the most senior position here at the hotel and was a tough lady as her interrogation of me the night I arrived had demonstrated.

‘That was twelve years ago, and with marriage my travels ended...’she shrugged, ‘...but at least my husband understood my need to have a career.  So he allows me to work here, for Intourist.’

‘Are you happy,’ I asked her?

‘Happy?’ She paused to mull over my question before she finally replied, ‘I have a son, he is my life.   No I'm not happy, but I tell you this...I am lucky.’

She had already told me that her name, Mustoora, means obedience.

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Episode 9  Flight to Samarkand  Flight to Samarkand

 

© Robyn Mortimer 2010