Tall & Stately in Bukhara

Strangely, most Bukharans are Persian-speaking Tajiks; Bukhara and Samarkand being two of the major centers of the Tajiki-Persian culture and history. During Soviet times these two Tajiki centers were annexed to the Uzbekistan SSR, much to the disgust of the Tajiks of Central Asia. Due to this cultural anomaly, Bukhara has been one of the main centres of Iranian civilization during its history. Its architecture and archaeological sites form one of the pillars of the Persian history and art.

The region of Bukhara was for a long period a part of the Persian Empire. Its inhabitants’ origins go back to the period of Aryan immigration into the region. Iranian Soghdians inhabited the area and some centuries later the Persian language became dominant among them. The last Emir of Bukhara was Muhammad Alim Khan (1880-1944).

We were staying in old Bukhara - in the Jewish quarter - although very few Jews are left. The ancestors of Bukhara’s modern Jews settled in the city during Roman times with the term “Bukharan Jew” frequently used to describe all Jews who come from Central Asia. There were a couple of Jewish schools on our rutted track and it felt funny to walk around mosques all day and then stumble across small blond children wearing the Jewish kippur and chanting in Hebrew. There used to be a large Jewish population here but many left to go to Israel and the remainder are dying out.

Just at the end of our rutted track was the Lyabi Hauz, one of the original water pools that were used for the city’s drinking and washing water – until they worked out that these stagnant pools of water might have something to do with the diseases ravaging the local population. Now, just slightly cleaner, it is surrounded by mulberry trees and chaikhanas (tea houses) with raised platforms for sitting on. At either end are crumbling medrassas from the 16th and 17th century lending the place a peaceful air, as it is filled with old men smoking pipes and drinking tea and young children playing with the fetid water.

We went for a wander round the town following The Book’s dubious directions, and discovered that in Bukhara they only sell playing cards suit by suit, which must make it tough to find people to play with! There are also a lot of old vending machines for soft drinks and coffee sitting outside people’s houses – interesting types of small business venture possibly? The roads in the old town are all dirt tracks and the houses made of mud bricks. They look very plain from the road as many of them have few, if any windows or ornamentation – but look closely and you can see that they still have the traditional carved doors and surround courtyards full of plants from which the family’s rooms radiate out. Lots of toddlers and school children were shyly waving at us and giggling, old women were gossiping and staring. We got lost several times but found a crumbling mausoleum built over the grave of a Muslim prophet that we were able (even as women) to go and pay our respects to. Good to see the effort the local community were going to, to keep the place going.

We took in the ancient medrassas, caravanserais and mosques - amazing - although very few are still in used post Red Army in the 1920s followed by Soviet rule. What was once the tallest building in Central Asia is there too, the Kalon Minaret - a 45m high tower from 1127 with early earthquake protection measures of reeds buried under the foundations 10m deep that was so awe inspiring that it was the only building spared destruction by Jengiz Khan in the 1200s. It is a cylindrical brick structure with a broad base, tapering towards the top and is decorated with bands of mouldings as it predates the invention of the tiles that decorate all later buildings. It is believed to have originally been built as a beacon to guide caravans, but took on a cruel mantle in later years during which successive rulers amused themselves by throwing anyone who displeased them from the top of the tower.

As our B&B had no hot water we went to a local women's bathhouse for a decent clean - it was VERY local! We got directions from a shy but friendly mother and daughter wandering through the back streets. Oddly they looked at the 2 of us carrying washbags and towels in the middle of Bukhara and knew where we wanted to go. The hammam was an ancient place partly underground with rooms of differing temperatures and pools of water on the floor with stepping stones set into them. It was great to feel clean again and to have been well and truly scrubbed by a large naked Uzbek woman – hard to know where to look when you’re being told to bend over and stand by a wall (in German?!). The local women were all very friendly and the children enjoyed seeing random Westerners and had to be told not to stare by their mothers. They were very keen to offer us the Full Service (including eyebrow plucking, make up and hair) – but we decided not to go that local….

We then went to a local café overlooking the main square to have a beer and watch the sun go down. Stunning. Sitting with a large ceramic flagon of local beer watching the tiles change colour as the sun set behind the square. Whilst relaxing there we met a US Aid worker briefly who invited us to a party at his place in Almaty (Kazakhstan) on Saturday night! Our social life was looking up…. Strangely, and this was later repeated, whenever (very rarely) we met a western man whilst we were with Sergei, he closed down and became totally monosyllabic. He was so open and friendly with us (we’ve had the full family history and his longing for a wife discussions etc…) but changed utterly in other men’s presence. Odd – we were definitely ‘his girls’.

Mubinjon our host was also very social. He was once an Olympic athlete – hence the grubby tracksuit top and the Olympic rings painted on the metal doors of the guesthouse which were the only thing marking it. He was an old romantic (and a bit of a perv) who seemed determined to set us up with proper boyfriends – but only of the same nationality. All this is undertaken with the help of Sergei’s translation (with melodramatic Russian embellishments) – he has set me up with “Tall & Stately” Tom who stayed here a few nights ago and who he insists “looks rich” and is on his way to Samarkand. I was offered his passport number – not sure how useful that’d be in tracking him down, but it would certainly freak him out if we found him!

We then enjoyed a huge dinner of plov cooked by Mubinjon one night which was interesting….if greasy. It’s the national dish and a bit like paella – heaps of fried rice with shredded carrots, raisons, baked garlic and bits of unidentified meat on top. The Aussie got dragged to the market to “help him” – in reality to pay for the ingredients…fair enough. I wasn’t feeling 100% but had a go at tucking into the plov – which is considerably more tempting when fresh and hot in the evening than cold the next morning for breakfast.

The next morning also saw the arrival of another guest, and this cheered Mubinjon up no end as he’d been looking quite down in the mouth about us leaving. Andrei had ridden into town on his motorbike from Samarkand and was quite a sight. About 6’ 7’’ and rather dusty with a shock of hair that stood right up on end, he was an Aussie having a mid life crisis (he explained) and very over excited to find out that not only did we speak English, but that Sergei had instant coffee with him! This slightly negated the taste of Mubinjon’s homemade sour yoghurt that he insisted we eat every morning to keep us healthy…. Sergei started off typically getting his hackles up at the sight of a western man talking to his girls, but actually chilled out when he discovered that Andrei was married (proudly showing us pictures of his wife and 2 young children) and was fascinated by Russia. Bizarrely, Andrei was a partner at Accenture Melbourne and, having been there since a graduate, had taken a sabbatical to fulfil his wish of riding a motorbike from Eastern Russia to Istanbul. He hadn’t actually passed his motorbike driving test either….but had rocked up in Eastern Siberia and set off. His first day hadn’t gone too well – falling off in the mud and gaining a fractured ankle that wasn’t diagnosed for a further 6 weeks…. But he’d had some adventures. He regaled us with stories of the highs of companionship from people with very little who invited him into their homes and dachas and (in one instance) had him stay for a week whilst waiting for bits of his bike to be fixed, he then joined the family working in the fields and on fishing expeditions. These experiences of simple kindness were echoed by everyone we met who’d travelled a similar route.

It was fascinating to hear of such a trip first hand, Andrei being a formidable figure of a man telling us how some days across the tundra were so difficult due to the depth of the mud he was having to carry his bike through that some times he sat down and wept. But on the other hand he’d had a guided tour around the national museum of permafrost (!), had the bizarre experience of having to call his wife (satellite phone) to get a part for his bike and have the mechanic in the bike shop in Melbourne on the other end telling him how to fit a vital part of the suspension – “just tighten it up, and then give it another tweak” – “but what if I do it wrong?” – “then the bike will break, but don’t worry, you’ll be right!” True Aussie spirit! It had also bought home to him the benefits of simplicity. His bike was top of the range and highly specialised, but when something broke outside a small village and he managed to find the village blacksmith he was impressed to find him dismantling a nearby fence for some wire and then crafting an identical part from scraps that works perfectly.

The night before, Andrei had gone off to an Uzbek wedding (as the guest of a random Uzbek he’d met in Tashkent) where he’d felt slightly underdressed (5 day old T shirt not being his outfit of choice) and was asked to give a spontaneous speech (they’d even laid on an interpreter!) as it’s good luck to have a foreigner at such an occasion… He loved being able to speak to us in English (he spoke minimal Russian) and kept apologising for talking so much!
It was a shame we had to leave that day as I think a few days with Andrei would have led to more adventures, but it was time for us to head to Samarkand. All that good work and cleanliness of our bathhouse experience was then undone by our next journey in a taxi smelling in equal amounts of urine, smoke and petrol.