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