14. DA SVDANYA - GOODBYE

A CURIOUS LEAVE TAKING

Farewells.  I’ve always found it hard to say goodbye; actually I become quite emotional even when watching complete strangers take their leave.  Airports can do that to you. Take that classic goodbye scene on the airport tarmac in Casablanca between Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman; the whole theatre was awash with tears and screwed up hankies.  No disposable tissues back then.

It happened to me once in Amman Airports departure lounge.  A huge Palestinian family had gathered to farewell a son and his wife returning to their new adopted homeland in Australia. This short visit home to Jordan had been a cure for his wife’s home sickness, but now the cure was taking its toll on the entire extended family, his mother and aunts in particular.

Arab women voice their emotion, they wail, they cry, they invoke the Gods; their misery is infectious.  It didn’t take long before I was caught up in the tears with them. 

Just how much of my grief was actually due to the Palestinian family’s leave taking was perhaps doubtful; I had fallen in love with Jordan and in that moment probably wished I could live there forever.  Well, at least until my next adventure beckoned.

Over the years I’ve said goodbye to a whole host of new friends, and I’ve shed enough private tears to fill the Aswan Dam, but on this one occasion my tears were spontaneous, heartfelt and on view to just a small audience of six.

FAREWELL TO TASHKENT

The streets of Tashkent were dark and deserted, the short  taxi ride from hotel to airport took no time at all. At the airport the waiting room was locked and Cari went off to find the duty officer.  A number of Afghans were squatting on the pathway outside surrounded by mounds of luggage.  Cari re-appeared with a man in uniform who unlocked for door for us to enter.   The Afghans remained outside.

Inside was dark and cold, we sat huddled together on a bench in the corner.  Cari told me about his parents and sisters and a favourite uncle who looked after his property in India.  I wondered how Cari had learned to speak such fluent Russian and he explained a woman friend had taught him.

‘She was very patient; I could phone her at any time to check on a word or phrase.  In fact she is the lady who has been faxing to Moscow.’

Then an airport policeman knocked on the glass door for Cari to open up.  He had with him two young Indian students, one, a young girl was crying softly.  The policeman wanted Cari to interpret.  The pair had been waiting for a plane to Frunze when their belongings had been stolen. There wasn't much could be done, but Cari sorted it out and sent the young couple on their way.

I found this particular interlude interesting.  How had the airport policeman known there was a Russian speaking Indian in the overseas terminal?  After all the students would have been waiting in the Intourist terminal, a separate building to this one.  Was the airport grapevine so short of gossip everyone’s comings and goings became common knowledge, or was security so vigilant they knew exactly who was where and when? 

Or was Cari not the businessman he professed to be?  All very curious, I thought. Had for instance his presence on that first flight to Frunze been a coincidence or otherwise.

Cari then asked if I had my currency forms in order, I had put it roughly together back in the hotel. ‘You had better let me check,’ he said. ‘These customs cowboys can be very arrogant sometimes.’

He counted the money, checking the various denominations.  I still had roubles from my original and only $50 exchange and balanced this out against receipts.  Hotel payments had been made in American dollars.

‘Now, is that the total currency of any kind you have on you?’ he asked.

I looked him in the eye, obviously Cari had gotten to know me rather well.

‘There is the $300 I didn't declare when I arrived.’

His expression indicated how stupid I was.  ‘Do you realise the trouble that would cause?  I've seen these characters search people, you could lose all your cash as a result; or even worse.   He left that consequence to my imagination. ‘Where is this extra money?’

‘In my shoe.’  He took a deep breath and shook his head. I was of course suitably chastened.

‘Give it to me, and your receipts again, I'll see if I can work around it and adjust the balance.’

After a little while he gave it all back to me.  ‘Now when they ask is this all the money you have, you can answer truthfully.’

Despite his many flashes of humour Cari really was a most serious person.

Outside in the pitch black the Afghans still waited, their flight had been delayed.  Then the lights in an adjoining office came on and a man beckoned.

DA S'VDANYA - THE TEARS BEGIN

‘They are ready for you,’ Cari said, gathering up my gear.

He stood by while two stern faced young men went through my currency form; they counted the dollars and then tossed them back at me in a scrambled untidy mess.  I almost said something in anger but felt Cari's hand tighten on my arm in warning.  Then they motioned for my bags, made a half hearted search and indicated I was to pass through into the next room.  I turned to Cari expecting him to follow and realised this was as far as he could come.

It was so sudden, the hours we had spent together I hadn't given a thought to saying goodbye, and now, under stark lights with two loutish young men looking on, this wasn't the right place.  I felt tears welling and tried to blink them away.

‘Cari, you've been so kind to me,’ I was searching desperately for the right words ‘...just saying goodbye isn't enough.’

He stood there, so tall, that devastating smile, and in his eyes the same anguish I was feeling.  I reached out for his hand and held it tightly, willing him to feel how I felt, to hear all the words we had left unsaid and now couldn't say at all.

Two others had entered the room, a man and a woman in uniform.  I was to go with them.  Cari remained in the doorway, we still clutched hands.

‘Thank you, so very much,’ I stepped away trying hard to hold back a flood of tears, Cari stood there in the open doorway.

I was halfway across the room and called out ‘Cari, goodbye, da svidanya,’ the Russian for goodbye a mournful bridge between us....’da svidanya.’

The Soviets let out a concerted sigh, they could relate to this one act melodrama.  I followed the woman into the next room and Cari was gone forever.

I stood sniffling under the harsh lights while the passport control police examined my visa and papers all the while watching me in the overhead mirrors.  I felt wretched and totally isolated in the long drab waiting hall...alone in a deathly silence.

The time was about 3am when another young woman motioned I was to proceed upstairs into another dimly lit waiting room where chairs were set out in rows.  A grandmother in a floral babushka scarf padded in on soft slippers wheeling a trolley load of bottled mineral water.  She left the trolley at the back of the chairs and softly padded out again.

LIKE AN ABSURD DREAM

I sat to the side of the arranged rows and wallowed in my misery.  Then in a strange silence, like spirits rising from the underworld, people began to drift up the stairs. 

They came in twos and threes, some alone; Indians in flowing saris under heavy winter coats, turbaned Sikhs, Russians in fur hats, young girls in miniskirts, hundreds of people in a hushed procession.  Two women even had spaniels on leads.

No one spoke, no one smiled, they just moved silently past, filling up the rows of chairs, a few taking bottles of mineral water as they passed the trolley.

Some lights came on at the end of the room revealing five young men with musical instruments.  They began to play, popular music similar to that at the hotel earlier in the night, they could even have been from the same band.

Two couples began to dance, no one else reacted to the music, everyone just sat listening in a bored silence.  It was like a surreal scene from a Fellini movie, and strangest of all, it fitted my mood exactly.

The entertainment continued for nearly an hour, then the band stopped and the people rose and just as quietly as they had entered, began to leave down the staircase they had first emerged from.

I waited and then joined in at the tail end, nobody directed me; I guessed this must be my flight.  The plane was parked close to the terminal and we walked the short distance to stairs leading into the lower section.  I could see my travel bag on a shelf with other luggage so I knew I was on the right aircraft.

A hostess approached and asked was I the Singapore?  I presented my ticket and stood there at the back of the plane while the crew scurried about trying to find me a seat.  There were numerous headcounts, every so often a crew member came up and apologized with a ‘very sorry, won't be long now.’

Maybe I would be taking breakfast with Cari after all.  The panic ensued for nearly half an hour when finally a hostess led me through the aircraft to a seat in the middle row beside a very cross lady whose spaniel now rested on the floor between us.

With that problem resolved the crew returned to their stations, the engines roared into life and the plane lifted into the night sky.  I was leaving Tashkent the way I had arrived, in the midst of an absurd dream.

And that effectively summed up my entire trip through the Central Asian Stan’s.  

I left with memories of kind and thoughtful people, the multi racial men and women of these three countries, Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan and Tajikistan,  Russians and indigenous both.  For years under the yolk of Soviet rule and now the possible return to the strict  laws of Islam. 

And I remembered the women I met, Mina and Mustoora, Lara and Miriam, their taste of independence and freedom now threatened by a return to the veil and chador.

But they are a sturdy race, these people of Central Asia;  I'm sure they will yet again endure and triumph, after all their countries have already survived the rough excesses of Alexander, Tamerlane, Genghis Khan and Stalin,  and lived to tell the tale. 

And besides, what else can fate throw against them.

_____________

©Robyn Mortimer 2010

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

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