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...

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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.

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EPISODE 10  -   IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF TAMERLANE

Robyn Mortimer ©2010