First, as always, one of my infamous and epic disclaimers
Central Asia, with Uzbekistan in particular, has long been on my list of places to see. No other region has arguably grabbed my imagination in such a way. From the moment when I first read Peter Hopkirk’s The Great Game, I was instantly hooked. Tales of intrigue between the Russians and British in high mountain passes, stories of treachery and betrayal from various emirs, the trading routes of the old Silk Road, the exquisite and intricate faience of Islamic architecture, not to mention the structures themselves, the mythical connotations rendered forth by the mere utterance of the name Timur Lane…I had long built-up an image in my head of how splendid and wondrous the sites would be. It would be fair to say that I had very high expectations, which I firmly believe is always a dangerous thing. But then it can be awfully tricky suppressing such expectations, so what was I to do? Uzbekistan was one of the last great unknowns on my travel calendar.
The verdict? I’ll save that for the end
Nukus, capital of Karakalpakstan: utter desolation, Aral Sea tragedy and a fascinating art museum
Central Asia, with Uzbekistan in particular, has long been on my list of places to see. No other region has arguably grabbed my imagination in such a way. From the moment when I first read Peter Hopkirk’s The Great Game, I was instantly hooked. Tales of intrigue between the Russians and British in high mountain passes, stories of treachery and betrayal from various emirs, the trading routes of the old Silk Road, the exquisite and intricate faience of Islamic architecture, not to mention the structures themselves, the mythical connotations rendered forth by the mere utterance of the name Timur Lane…I had long built-up an image in my head of how splendid and wondrous the sites would be. It would be fair to say that I had very high expectations, which I firmly believe is always a dangerous thing. But then it can be awfully tricky suppressing such expectations, so what was I to do? Uzbekistan was one of the last great unknowns on my travel calendar.
The verdict? I’ll save that for the end
Nukus, capital of Karakalpakstan: utter desolation, Aral Sea tragedy and a fascinating art museum
That could have been my wife on the right
I’ve already discussed my experiences in Nukus, a grim, desolate place hundreds of miles from anywhere. The destruction of the Aral Sea in the 60s and 70s destroyed the republic, and very few people inhabit the region now. I was tempted to progress further towards the Aral Sea, to a town called Moynaq some 200 kilometres away, if only to stay in a hotel called Oybek, which the Lonely/Lying Planet describes thus:
‘There’s no electricity, no running water, and it looks like a giant poo volcano erupted in the shared bathroom. But the champagne brunch is just divine. Not really. Fortunately they keep the large rooms much cleaner than the bathroom.’
It did actually cross my mind to lie and say I really did stay there. But I didn’t. And I didn’t think such a fleabag hotel was reason enough to venture a long way out of my way.
Khiva: slave caravans, mud-walls and densely packed mosques, tombs, alleys and medressas
‘There’s no electricity, no running water, and it looks like a giant poo volcano erupted in the shared bathroom. But the champagne brunch is just divine. Not really. Fortunately they keep the large rooms much cleaner than the bathroom.’
It did actually cross my mind to lie and say I really did stay there. But I didn’t. And I didn’t think such a fleabag hotel was reason enough to venture a long way out of my way.
Khiva: slave caravans, mud-walls and densely packed mosques, tombs, alleys and medressas
In some ways, Khiva reminded me of Tallinn: both come across as outdoor, museum-like fairy tale cities, where just about all of the sites are enclosed within the city walls. Outside of the fortifications, there’s not altogether much worth seeing. Khiva can be explored in a matter of hours, unless one pops into each and every little museum and medressa, which can pricily add up.
Had there been more tourists around, the ubiquitous souvenir stalls might have seemed oppressive and overly gauche. But the city was largely devoid of tourists, save for a French tour group, and most of the stallholders were too lethargic and apathetic to try and drum up much business for their tacky wares.
Bukhara, Uzbekistan’s holiest city: wanton cruelty, barbarity and a couple of beheadings
This was the highlight of my stay, though I was ill for a part of it. Still, I was eager to delve into the 1000+ years of history of a town centre that apparently hadn’t changed much, if at all, over the past 200 years. This was where I enjoyed that wonderful ‘plov’ meal from the crooked scrimshanker of a money-changer who tried to set me up with his daughter (one of a couple such attempts on my trip) and had a nice rubdown and trampling by an 18 year old boy at the public baths.
The sites here were stupendous and moving, especially in the fading light of dusk. Particularly memorable was the Mir-i-Arab Medressa, which tourists can’t enter, and the Ark, Bukhara’s oldest structure, 80% of which was destroyed by Soviet bombing raids in the 1920s. This was where, in 1842, two British officers caught up in the Great Game intrigue were beheaded. Colonel Charles Stoddart had arrived in 1838, and was immediately thrown into jail by the offended emir (a long story which I won’t get into here). He spent much of the next 4 years in torture chambers and dungeons and a bug pit full of various creepy-crawlies. Captain Arthur Connolly arrived in 1841 in a futile attempt to get Stoddart released. He too was made to languish in various cells before being executed along with his comrade. Of all the Great Game yarns, this remains one of the most entrancing and gripping.
Samarkand: jewel of the old Silk Road
We travel not for trafficking alone,
By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned.
For lust of knowing what should not be known,
We take the Golden Road to Samarkand.
(James Elroy Flecker, The Golden Journey to Samarkand)
Whenever I’ve thought of Central Asia and its glorious past, Samarkand has always been the first city to lodge in my head. Its very name conjures up some of the most epic and evocative images, sending frissons of excitement down my spine. I had no idea what to expect, though I had reserved my highest expectations for here.
The Registan in all its [Soviet-restored] glory
Its most famous site – and arguably the most famous and spectacular in all of Central Asia - is the Registan, a massive plaza boxed in by three of the world’s oldest and most-beautifully preserved medressas. To be fair, the Soviets renovated much of these edifices, so much so that many say that today they look nothing like they did centuries ago when Timur Lane made Samarkand the capital of the Mongol Empire in 1370. But it’s still quite a spectacle, majestic in its grandeur and redolent of a bygone era signifying the region’s greatness, affluence and power.
Tashkent: the start and finish
Tashkent: the start and finish
New friends in Tashkent (the kid in the middle in red really doesn't mean that)
I began and ended my journey in the capital, Tashkent, which in many ways was the most intriguing and thought-provoking of my destinations. Most travellers to Uzbekistan steer well-clear of Tashkent, using it merely as a base for a day or two whilst waiting for visas or flights out of the country. But as a self-professed lover of cities, I was thoroughly enchanted and mesmerised by some of the things I saw and experienced here.
Tashkent was, in some respects, an eerie, surreal place. I encountered very few tourists and nowhere else is the idea of Uzbekistan being a ‘police state’ made more manifest than here. The city was swarming with policemen and some lovely tree-lined streets were completely deserted of regular people. Amazingly, I couldn’t get over how friendly all the policemen were; though I’d read and heard tales of police harassment and brutality, every policeman I met was courteous, pleasant and inquisitive in a non-threatening manner. And none even so much as hinted at wanting a bribe.
Along with the anodyne Contemporary Art Museum, which I popped into for little other reason than to get a respite from the oppressive heat, I visited two others: the History Museum of the People of Uzbekistan and the Amir Temur (or, Timur Lane) Museum, dedicated of course to that bloodthirsty tyrant - but then, who wasn’t back in those days? - of a former Mongol leader, long considered an Uzbek national hero and the de facto father of the country.
Amongst the plethora of odes and tributes glorifying the great man was this gem from Uzbekistan president Islam Karimov:
If somebody wants to understand who the Uzbeks are, if somebody wants to comprehend all the power, might, justice and unlimited abilities of the Uzbek people, their contribution to the global development, their belief in future, he should recall the image of Amir Temur.
Though I don’t want to delve into the frasmotic flummeries – for they are all flummeries in the greater context anyway – of Uzbek politics, a brief word on Karimov, Uzbekistan’s president since its independence in 1991. Most call him a third-rate, crack-pot dictator who stifles the opposition, silences dissent by any means necessary and boils his opponents to death. Whatever one says about him, there’s little doubt that he has an iron grip on the country – thanks to a few rigged elections - and for the foreseeable future he’ll be running the show. But as far as brutal, authoritarian present-day dictators go, he has to be up there in the top 10.
Post September 11, Uzbekistan suddenly became a crucial hotspot in the ‘war on terror’, and American and British aid and forces – along with an airbase - poured into the country. This gave Karimov even more leverage in his attempts to stamp out any dissenting voices, for any slight signs of insurrection from Islamic political parties were often conveniently linked to Al Qaeda and he more or less had free license to crack down on anyone deemed a threat. (For an excellent account, read Craig Murray’s Murder in Samarkand, which goes into far more detail than I’m at liberty to go into here.)
Now, I’m no expert pollster nor am I a psephologist, but in a sample size of about 25-30 Uzbeks, in a rudimentary poll I found Karimov to have an approval rating of exactly 0%. Around 10 people abstained from answering, but I’m willing to bet none of them would have changed the equation.
[For some reason, the words of Nigerian writer Chinua Achebe used to describe his compatriots kept going through my head and might be applicable here: ‘They are seemingly nothing but a region of incorruptible and unpatriotic citizens drenched in the crucible of barbarism and incompetence.’]
Anyhow, the History Museum featured all sorts of paeans to Karimov, with a handful of patriotic quotations mixed in with photos of him with various world leaders. Amongst the more indelible were images from September 11 next to a letter from Rudy Giuliani praising Karimov for his role and support in the war on terror along with a gift of a signed photo of the Twin Towers. Next to this display was a dubious array of images of alleged ‘terrorist’ bombings in Uzbekistan over the past few years. I found this all quite troubling, to say the least.
One grim display featured some bandannas with this amusing caption:
‘Terrorist’s forehead fillets taken off from terrorists’ heads’. Not literally, thank goodness.
But in an attempt to find some further humour, or at least irony, in what I saw, this further quotation sums it up nicely. This is what Karimov had to say regarding the brutality and totalitarianism of the Soviet Union:
Socialist transformation lead to the creation of the totalitarian state, coercive nationalization of the economy, elimination of political pluralism and greatly damaged national originality.
And in the section dedicated to the might and prestige of Uzbek science, which featured photos of the future of Uzbek energy, from wind-power generators to hydroelectric plants to clean coal stations, was a solar power plant, along with the caption: ‘big sunny oven’.
You really can’t fault the technological prowess and bravado of Uzbek scientists.
But lest we forget…
Tashkent was, in some respects, an eerie, surreal place. I encountered very few tourists and nowhere else is the idea of Uzbekistan being a ‘police state’ made more manifest than here. The city was swarming with policemen and some lovely tree-lined streets were completely deserted of regular people. Amazingly, I couldn’t get over how friendly all the policemen were; though I’d read and heard tales of police harassment and brutality, every policeman I met was courteous, pleasant and inquisitive in a non-threatening manner. And none even so much as hinted at wanting a bribe.
Along with the anodyne Contemporary Art Museum, which I popped into for little other reason than to get a respite from the oppressive heat, I visited two others: the History Museum of the People of Uzbekistan and the Amir Temur (or, Timur Lane) Museum, dedicated of course to that bloodthirsty tyrant - but then, who wasn’t back in those days? - of a former Mongol leader, long considered an Uzbek national hero and the de facto father of the country.
Amongst the plethora of odes and tributes glorifying the great man was this gem from Uzbekistan president Islam Karimov:
If somebody wants to understand who the Uzbeks are, if somebody wants to comprehend all the power, might, justice and unlimited abilities of the Uzbek people, their contribution to the global development, their belief in future, he should recall the image of Amir Temur.
Though I don’t want to delve into the frasmotic flummeries – for they are all flummeries in the greater context anyway – of Uzbek politics, a brief word on Karimov, Uzbekistan’s president since its independence in 1991. Most call him a third-rate, crack-pot dictator who stifles the opposition, silences dissent by any means necessary and boils his opponents to death. Whatever one says about him, there’s little doubt that he has an iron grip on the country – thanks to a few rigged elections - and for the foreseeable future he’ll be running the show. But as far as brutal, authoritarian present-day dictators go, he has to be up there in the top 10.
Post September 11, Uzbekistan suddenly became a crucial hotspot in the ‘war on terror’, and American and British aid and forces – along with an airbase - poured into the country. This gave Karimov even more leverage in his attempts to stamp out any dissenting voices, for any slight signs of insurrection from Islamic political parties were often conveniently linked to Al Qaeda and he more or less had free license to crack down on anyone deemed a threat. (For an excellent account, read Craig Murray’s Murder in Samarkand, which goes into far more detail than I’m at liberty to go into here.)
Now, I’m no expert pollster nor am I a psephologist, but in a sample size of about 25-30 Uzbeks, in a rudimentary poll I found Karimov to have an approval rating of exactly 0%. Around 10 people abstained from answering, but I’m willing to bet none of them would have changed the equation.
[For some reason, the words of Nigerian writer Chinua Achebe used to describe his compatriots kept going through my head and might be applicable here: ‘They are seemingly nothing but a region of incorruptible and unpatriotic citizens drenched in the crucible of barbarism and incompetence.’]
Anyhow, the History Museum featured all sorts of paeans to Karimov, with a handful of patriotic quotations mixed in with photos of him with various world leaders. Amongst the more indelible were images from September 11 next to a letter from Rudy Giuliani praising Karimov for his role and support in the war on terror along with a gift of a signed photo of the Twin Towers. Next to this display was a dubious array of images of alleged ‘terrorist’ bombings in Uzbekistan over the past few years. I found this all quite troubling, to say the least.
One grim display featured some bandannas with this amusing caption:
‘Terrorist’s forehead fillets taken off from terrorists’ heads’. Not literally, thank goodness.
But in an attempt to find some further humour, or at least irony, in what I saw, this further quotation sums it up nicely. This is what Karimov had to say regarding the brutality and totalitarianism of the Soviet Union:
Socialist transformation lead to the creation of the totalitarian state, coercive nationalization of the economy, elimination of political pluralism and greatly damaged national originality.
And in the section dedicated to the might and prestige of Uzbek science, which featured photos of the future of Uzbek energy, from wind-power generators to hydroelectric plants to clean coal stations, was a solar power plant, along with the caption: ‘big sunny oven’.
You really can’t fault the technological prowess and bravado of Uzbek scientists.
But lest we forget…
The most moving site had to have been the Crying Mother Monument featuring the ever-present eternal flame that forms a part of so many war memorials in the former Soviet Union. Along either side of the statue were corridors with the names of the 400,000 Uzbek soldiers killed during World War II. Samarkand had an identical monument, but this type of thing never fails to move me. Whether Uzbekistan is or was a ‘mighty’ nation, and no matter the present state of its politics, it’s difficult to forget the sacrifice that some of the more forgotten parts of the world have made. Just to put things in perspective, Britain lost some 450,000 men in the war and America 420,000, so the Uzbek contribution, in manpower lost anyway, is equally tragic.
Wrap-up Part I: the negative, pettifogging bits:
* It was too damn hot; do not go to Uzbekistan in July and August – temperatures got as high as 44C/111F. The primary reason there weren’t so many tourists? The heat. This time of year, apparently, has the fewest tourists and I soon saw why.
* The food, surprisingly, was downright lousy and the beer execrable. In Uzbekistan, brewing beer is definitely a science and not an art. Uzbek plov is supposedly legendary, but I gave up after 3 attempts. Not only that, but no matter where I ate, whether touristy or well off the beaten path, I had constant gut rot. It was so bad and unpleasant, in fact, that even now, some 2 weeks after my trip, I’m still suffering from a dodgy tummy.
* Although some of the people were pleasant - mainly teenagers, who were exceptionally friendly and chirpy – most were charlatans and crooks out for my money. What little Russian I know saved me a bundle of money, but people almost always tried to take advantage of me wherever I went. I have numerous examples but will withhold them in an attempt to suppress the more negative memories.
* Transport: cramped, shared taxis and flying saunas are not fun. (in this case, I am perfectly happy to ignore one of my guiding maxims in life: ‘Travel for the movement only, not the conclusion; that way you will be a part of the journey and not a victim of it’ - Owen Sheers. Some of the movements on this journey almost killed me.)
How’s this for a backhanded compliment?
I’ll take a compliment any way I can get it, so this will suffice. In most hotels I stayed, upon producing my American passport and trying my best to make the necessary arrangements in Russian, I was often met with perplexed stares and, in English, ‘you speak so good Russian for an American!’ This is not an indication of my language ability, more the lack thereof of the Americans they’ve encountered. Of this I’m certain. But often in my travels, I find Americans getting short strift. I didn’t meet too many travellers, but the few I met were French and British. None of them spoke a word of Russian.
And now for the final word
Did I have a good time? I did indeed. I’d been dying to visit Uzbekistan for as long as I can remember, so I’m definitely glad to have gone. But it was a tough trip too, and certainly far from relaxing. In the words of Laurens Van Der Post in his Journey Into Russia, I find one of his sentiments that resonates loud and clear in my own head:
One of my greatest defects as a traveller is that I am not sufficiently moved by ruins and ancient monuments. I find the buildings of the past seen out of context with the age and civilization which produced them strangely unreal, as if they do not conform but even tend to contradict the things which gave them being and life in imagination.
Any damning comments about the glories of Uzbekistan are no fault of the country or its people: it’s all down to me. A few years ago, when visiting the Alhambra in Granada, I was utterly uninspired and found it strangely unmoving. That was a site that I had long been eager to see. And suddenly, fast forward a few years later, and I was strangely unmoved by much of Uzbek’s faded former ruins and relics. Seen out of context, I couldn’t get a feel at all for what these places were really like centuries ago. I wanted to live and breathe the past, I wanted the architecture to hit me, I wanted the old images of bustling, frenetic marketplaces to take over my imagination. But nothing. I felt empty about it all, like I was going through the motions, ticking off boxes, barely understanding what I was taking photos of at times.
Let me offer up a whopping contradiction and say this: I feel that to truly appreciate a place like Uzbekistan, more than many other destinations in the world, one really has to know a fair bit about its history. Saying that, I realise that it may sound like I’m grasping at straws to describe a place that doesn’t have much going for it. Far from it: even without a knowledge of the past, Uzbekistan is a marvelous, exceptional, stunning place. It can well and truly be appreciated without any knowledge of its history. My problem is that I felt like I knew so much about its past, built up some massive expectations and was then inevitably disappointed because I failed to fully comprehend and appreciate what I was seeing.
Perhaps in my senescent state I’ve become bitter and cynical about the things I see. Perhaps I’ve forgotten how to appreciate the past. Or perhaps I expect too much out of the past. I really don’t know. But by all means, I highly recommend Uzbekistan. Just don’t get into a taxi with a maniacal, sex-crazed 22 year-old on heat; unless of course you’re into that sort of thing.
The Kazakh steppe: 14 hours of excitement
Emma and I in Almaty: insert your own caption