|
British Mensa Travel Special Interest Group |
|
Home Copyright
© |
The
Golden Road to Samarkand by Margaret Walker "We
are the Pilgrims, we shall go Ever since reading Flecker, years ago, I had nourished a dream of one day visiting Samarkand. In June 1997, I finally made it, although by way of an Uzbekistan Airways flight to Tashkent rather than by camel train from Baghdad along with Flecker's merchants. The Hotel Uzbekistan, a former lntourist hotel where we spent our first night was barracks-like but reasonably comfortable, with a floor lady to look after the keys (and, surreptitiously, to exchange dollars for local currency at roughly double the official rate). The foyer was invariably full of wedding parties, the men wielding camcorders and the women guests so elaborately dressed as to be almost indistinguishable from the brides. From the hotel they went to be photographed beside the huge monument commemorating the devastating earthquake of 1966, which caused massive destruction and loss of life in the capital. The centre of Tashkent still has many impressive buildings built during the Soviet period, such as the National Theatre, National Museum and government offices, especially around Independence Square, whose dimensions struck me as only slightly less than those of Tianenman Square in Beijing. A bust of Lenin has been replaced by a large bronze globe, with Uzbekistan prominently featured. At the far end of the square soars another symbol of the age - a towering TV mast. Along one side of the square a row of fountains send arching sprays of water down to a tower level, separated by a narrow walkway from an ornamental open-air swimming pool. Wedding parties paraded back and forth along this walkway, dodging, with much laughter, the fountains spray to one side and the splashing swimmers on the other. The many fountains in the capital, the parks and trees lining the streets help alleviate the summer heat, already in early June reaching 30 degrees C. Children ran in and out of the water, their elders sitting as close as possible to benefit from the coolness or, depending on their cultural background, donning swimsuits and joining the children. Uzbekistan has a very varied population mix, Uzbeks, Tajiks, Kazaks, Tartars, Armenians and so on. Our guide told us that many Russians left at the break-up of the Soviet Union, but have returned as the economic situation in Russia has deteriorated, although no longer able to command the best jobs, especially as Uzbek is now the official language. In all the towns we visited, we noticed parks with areas reserved for children, each with what appeared to be standard issue Ferris wheel, swings and roundabout. In Fergama there was also street entertainment, sponsored by Kodak, with clowns and dancers in traditional Uzbek costume. Tashkent boasts an underground system, for which you buy a token to operate the barriers on to the platforms. Here is magnificence (inspired, no doubt, by the Moscow metro) - marble walls and glittering chandeliers. The trains are clean, frequent and fast. The subways are another refuge from the June heat and are full of stalls selling books, flowers, tapes of Western pop music bottled water and cans of Coke. From Tashkent we flew to Fergama in the North East, where the snow-capped Tien Shan mountains form a bulwark against China. We should have gone by road, but this goes through part of Tajikistan, where a civil war is raging. Below us stretched vast cotton fields, planted by lie Soviets to ensure their self-sufficiency in this commodity. The two great dyers of Uzbekistan, the Sir Darya and the Amu Darya (the Oxus of classical times) have been tapped to provide litigation to such an extent that they have virtually ceased to flow into the Aral Sea. Some call it an ecological disaster - yet, when you see how people's (pretty modest) prosperity depends on the cotton, it is hard to be judgmental. It was not for cotton, however, that we went to Fergama, but to visit a traditional silk factory where the colourful 'atlas' fabric is produced. We saw the silk threads being unwound from the cocoons, spun twisted, dyed woven and hung up in the Exhibition Hall, shimmering with yellow and green and pink and purple like exotic butterfly wings. "Could we buy some?" "Well, yes", they said and promptly lost interest. But we persisted, and now have cushions which go with none of our other furnishings, but which remind us of the slim, dark factory women dressed in equally vibrant colours, smiling with mouths full of gold teeth. They mine gold in Uzbekistan, along with (they said) 95 other minerals, including uranium. In the market at nearby Margilan we shopped for lunch - warm, round loaves, sun-ripened apricots (the best I've ever tasted), cherries and grapes. The fruit was wonderful and we bought lots to eat on the long tedious coach journeys between the widely scattered towns. Meals in the hotels left much to be desired - vegetable soup with a small piece of meat lurking at the bottom of the bowl, and the ubiquitous 'plov' - a heap of rice, meat and vegetables which was curiously bland considering the range of in bazaars. Next day we went up into the mountains, where a line of precariously swinging "buckets", each holding two people who had to leap in and out as they lurched past, transported us even higher, where the bare, rocky slopes were reflected in the Blue Lake. In the afternoon, we took a stroll by a rushing stream in Kirghizstan, the spectacularly beautiful but poorest of the Central Asian states. It is said that drugs make their way from China through the valleys of Khirghizir, and when we came across a parked car, the passengers dancing dreamily in the middle of the road, we did rather wonder. However, they called out greetings and invited us to join the dance and a great time was had by all, until some children appeared, driving their cows home for the night, and broke up the party. A slight hitch on the way back to Tashkent; we were to travel by air in two parties, one leaving at 9 am the other around 1 pm. 9 am came and went - no plane. We waited an hour or so, found a cafe for tea and buns, and waited some more. Finally, we were told there would be only one plane, in about half-an-hour. Frantically one of our guides tried to round up lie rest of the group, but three of them had gone exploring and missed the plane. They also missed Khiva, but we all met up again in Bukhara three days later. Khiva, whose origin is said to date from the discovery of a well by Shem, son of Noah, is amazing - a walled city of golden mud brick worked into wonderful shapes of domes and arches and minarets, and embellished with tiles of blue, green and turquoise. Left to decay for years, it is now being restored at a frantic pace. Sadly, when the restoration is complete, the people who still live in the shady courtyards and narrow alleys will be moved out to Urgench. It will be more comfortable for them, although the old do not wish to move, but the city will lose its soul and become just a museum. It was a great experience to stay in the Amin Khan madrasa (a former Islamic religious school) currently being converted to a hotel, picking one's way past the tilers and plasterers; climbing the steep narrow stairs which lead from each corner of the main courtyard and walking along the airy veranda to a one-time student's cell, beds draped in mosquito netting and a bathroom with quite creditable plumbing and a view of the ancient walls and a bronze statue of a medieval poet, who was totally disregarded by the small boys playing football. They assailed us as we emerged and clamoured for photographs. It's a seven hour drive across the desert from Khiva to Bokhara. Thanks to irrigation, the desert is more fertile than it was, with oases of cotton fields, rice paddies and orchards. We also crossed the mighty Oxus, and passed industrial areas where gas is being drilled, another of the natural resources which could lead to huge development in this region. Modern Bokhara, where our hotel was situated (another ex-lntourist edifice with dodgy plumbing, but with the temperature hitting 40C, who needed hot water?), had wide tree-lined avenues, pleasant residential streets and impressive public buildings. Old Bokhara, like Khiva, is in process of restoration, although there is no question of moving anybody out, and its largest mosque complex was closed. The Kalyan minaret, soaring 47 metres into the dazzling blue sky, can hardly be missed. It is said to have dumbfounded Genghis Khan himself. He saw a use for it as a means of executing those who displeased him by having them thrown from the top, hence its alternative name "The Tower of Death". As well as the mosques and madrasas which we were able to visit, with their domes and huge entry portals elaborately decorated with tiles, I much appreciated the cool, shady 'trading domes', where merchants still trade as their ancestors did when Buohara was a Silk Road oasis. The names give it away: 'The Jewellers' bazaar', 'The Cap-makers' bazaar' (where they sell wedding caps embroidered with gold thread and sequins and the everyday black skullcaps, embroidered with motifs in white, worn by almost every man we saw), "The Money-changers' bazaar". It is easy to imagine the camel-trains coming in from China, Persia, Baghdad but the wares on offer today are just a token of what they once were. In the evening, we went to a concert of traditional music and dancing, reclining on wooden beds in the courtyard of a madrasa. After the performance, dinner was served on little low tables placed on the beds, so that you reclined and ate like ancient Romans. And then, at last, to Samarkand, the city which Tamerlane made capital of his empire, an empire which stretched from modern Turkey to lndia. Throughout the former Soviet Union, the icons of Communism are being replaced. In Uzbekistan the new hero is Tamertane (1336 - 1405), grandson of the (in)famous Genghis Khan whose Mongol hordes swept across Central Asia, destroying most of what stood in their way. Tamerlane extended the empire and built splendid new cities to demonstrate his power and glory. The proud conqueror displays his horsemanship among the trees and flowerbeds of Tashkent, stands high on his plinth before the ruins of his White Palace (the Aksaray) in Shakrisabz, and sits enthroned in Samarkand, gazing down the broad highway, which connects the modern city to his old capital. Samarkand was considered for the new capital of Uzbekistan, but finally Tashkent was decided upon, a decision which grieved our excellent Uzbek guide, Muso, as Samarkand is his home town. Nevertheless, it has a prestigious University (Uzbekistan claims 100% literacy), well laid out parks and gardens, new hotels and a theatre in process of construction. As for the old buildings the Our Emir, tomb of Tamerlane, and the dome of the Tilla Kari madrasa in Registan Square, are ablaze with gold leaf. The blue, green and turquoise tiles are being replaced, streets and courtyards repaved, students' cells in former madrasas are being converted to artisans' workshops. Bronze statues of musicians, poets and philosophers recalling the cultural heritage of Samarkand in its heyday are everywhere to be seen. The remnants of Ulug Beg's observatory are a tidied-up tourist attraction with a museum of the discoveries of this grandson of Tamerlane who, in the 15th century, calculated the length of the year to within a few seconds. Only the Shah-i-Zinda complex is so far being allowed to grow old gracefully, perhaps because it is still a place of pilgrimage and worship, or perhaps because its remaining tiles (and fortunately there are many) are of a brilliance whose intensity is matchless. On our penultimate evening, after savouring the delights of the huge covered market and taking tea in one of the many "chai-khanas", we went to a play in the courtyard of the Sher Dor madrasa, which has lions hunting deer represented on its facade (except that the lions are striped, so look more like tigers). The play was a sort of musical Romeo and Juliet story, but with a happy ending, and included dances and a puppet show. As before, we reclined on cushioned beds, sipping tea and nibbling sugared almonds and dried fruit, and were persuaded to rise at the finale to join in the dancing. Around us the students' cells lay in shadow, and above us were the stars, and I thought of Ulug Beg with his telescope and his calculations. Back at the hotel, there was a disco in progress with Western pop music pounding out just the same as here. The drinks on offer were Coke and 7-Up. This is a fascinating country, on the brink of great changes. Go there - go there now - even if it's not quite Flecker. "Sweet to ride forth at evening from the wells, When shadows pass gigantic on the sand, And softly through the silence beat the bells, Along the Golden Road to Samarkand." First published in VISA issue 29 (summer 1998) |