The longer I spend on this part of the journey, the less I understand what or even where Central Asia is, to the point of wondering whether there really is such a thing now in its own right: Xinjiang province was a kind of Central Asia flavoured China; Kazakhstan a Central Asian Russia, and now we have reached Uzbekistan, the most archytypal 'Silk Road' country but also surprisingly Persian. Has this incredible and vast region been rendered a mere flavouring by the constant tearing apart and restructuring by varied and salivating imperial interests over the past century? Has this place, renowned for its hegemony, tolerance and vitality, where European scholars once came to learn about astronomy and algebra, where the same building was often used as both a mosque and synagogue, where ideas were traded as freely as goods from east to west and back, has it sunk forever under the weight of corpulent modernity or was Central Asia always an artificial construct that made less sense the closer you looked at it?
Either way, we are in Uzbekistan now and such considerations do not appear to have affected the locals who are both pragmatic and hospitable in the extreme. Getting in was both unexpected and interesting: unexpected because the officials, who have a reputation for surliness at best and criminality in the form of extortion towards all westerners at worse, were and continue to be an absolute delight - smiling, helpful and appreciably unobtrusive. Interesting because in order to be one of the lucky ones from the huge throng that make it through the tiny customs gate you need to have at least 5 years scrummaging expertise with the local rugby team. Uzbekistan has the strongest damn grannies I have ever witnessed: I thought the English ones at jumble sales were pretty mean but they have nothing on this lot. Luckily I do have 5 years scrummaging experience, and Ellen is not to be messed with at the best of times so we got through pretty unscathed and in no time were being organised again. This is an expression that Ellen and I have had cause to use on an almost daily basis but do not worry: it doesn't signify that we have suddenly got our act together or anything. In our case we are the objects of the organising, the subject being whatever random unfortunate local spots us and takes immediate pity. Hence ''it seems that we are being organised again, dear'' tells of the means by which we have been propelled rudderlessly across far-flung lands in the hands of innumerable strangers far more capable than either of us, and how against unbelievable odds we seem to have achieved our original route to date. Oh Serendipity, I do love you so.
We got here via the lovely Kazakh town of Shymkent where we stayed with Spanish and American Couchsurfing hosts who ran a film club in the evenings for local people wanting to improve their English: incongruously enough I found myself in a small ex-Soviet film theatre with a group of Kazakhs watching a pretty dreadful adaptation of a pretty dreadful Broadway musical 'Rent', La Boheme getting the West Side Story treatment but without the talent of its predecessor particularly with respect to the score. Needless to say I loved every mediocre minute of it being such a sucker for a musical however bad. I wept, laughed, cried, gnashed teeth, and was generally transported. It doesn't take much: I have tried for years to reject musicals, I know they're just plain wrong, but I must face the fact that I'm just too sentimental. Sob.
So to Tashkent, with its grandeur, modernity, and hugely wide sweeping boulevards. It is a very chic place in a very poor land and as capitals go I love it. The people have retained their fabled hospitality and friendliness, we didn't get shaken down once, and transport is mercifully easy as they have the Russian system whereby every car is a private taxi, willing to transport us to our destination for a few Som along great quality and queue-free roads. We stayed the first night in a guest house in order to get our visas registered automatically, a lovely place in the old part of town laid out along traditional lines: 2 stories assembled around a tree-filled courtyard offering cool shade and lazy times. Gulnara herself was a great cook and supplied the best plov tasted so far, as well as letting me use the phone when I needed to in order to hook up with our Hospitality Club host with whom we stayed the next night - a young man with near-perfect English from the hills near Kyrgyzstan who at the age of 23 already runs the front of house operation of a 5 star hotel in the centre and who dreams of foreign lands while working all the hours he can. It made me realise again just how easy we have it as I cannot say with any certainty that however hard or well he works he will get to visit even parts of his own country as we have been able to.
We spent very little time in Tashkent, mostly doing the necessary administration for our Turkmen and Iranian visas (still being deliberated on by the powers that be so fingers crossed please!) and getting some cash out in advance of our time in Iran (no visa advances, no ATMs). What sight-seeing we did was confined to the old areas where we stayed on the first night, around Chorsu bazaar, an overwhelmingly huge vibrant market of winding lanes and covered stalls selling every imaginable goods. It really made my head spin to think that I was on the silk road in a bazaar of vast proportions in the middle of Central Asia, and the stunning mosque and madrassa next to us really added to the exotic atmosphere.
An overnight train took us in Soviet-smooth comfort, through rainy desert, to Bukhara which in a way has been the chief object of the Silk Road part of this adventure: rising from the Kazil Kum desert this ancient city has been pre-eminent for centuries. It is here, rather than the Middle East, that Islam first flourished and indeed it is known as the Cradle of Islam, and the religion that spilled out of here taught of tolerance rather than discrimination and encouraged learning in all aspects rather than the bigotry and ignorance peddled by today's religious fanatics from all kinds of faiths. Bukhara is still known as the most holy city in Central Asia and in the old town you cannot move without tripping over towering ancient madrassas, mosques and minarets. To me it is an exquisite gem of a city: against an azure sky (apart from day 1 which was overcast and spotting), and almost devoid of fellow tourists, we spend our days strolling through winding lanes from one treasure to the next: from the oldest madrassa in Central Asia where people from all over the then-known world came together to study mathematics and natural philosophy, to towering 12th century minarets displaying the very first example of the turquoise tiling that is now so synonymous with the region, and which cover huge domes of mosques across the Bukhara skyline. Stroud it is not: any descriptions I attempt here will simply fail - hopefully the picture gallery will do the place more justice - but the sheer scale and beauty here is astonishing. Even the octagonal courtyarded guest house we are staying is very old and was from the beginning a caravanserai, and to us it seems very fitting that we should spend our nights in this pearl of the Silk Road staying in an old trader's inn. We are lucky enough to be here for Navrus tomorrow, the biggest Central Asian festival: Spring Equinox to us, New Year to the Muslim world. From what we gather the town takes on a great festive atmosphere and the streets fill with traditional song, dance and games as well as more modern forms of entertainment; an unexpected bonus to our wonderful time here.
277 days without a cigarette. 0 days without the snuffles.
