Tag Bukhara

Mike

Somewhere in the ruins of the Urgench fortresses the cell phone dropped out of my side bag and into the hot, desert sand. It was not until we were half way back to Khiva in the car that I reached down in a panic and noticed the phone was gone. It could have fallen out anywhere! I grabbed my camera and flipped through the pictures, pausing at each picture of me wearing the side bag and then zooming in to see if the phone was still a black bulge in the side pocket. With this method, I managed to narrow down the area where the phone was probably lost to two giant fortresses and a long dirt road path leading to a lake, an area covering several miles, at the least, and several hours in the opposite direction.

I sat back in the seat as the car bounced across uneven roads toward Khiva, and after a while whispered to Mike that the phone was gone. Strangely enough, the girl next to me, Olga, was going through her bag in a rising panic and eventually announced that her mobile phone was missing! We tore through the car, reaching under the back seat (I think something is living down there!) and under the front seats, shoving empty water bottles around as we peered underneath—neither phone was located.

Back in Khiva, Olga and I sauntered off with our heads hung low and waved goodbye at the driver, whose puzzled look Mike tried to quell with an explanation and a good-natured shrug. While Olga later found her phone in her room, I was not so lucky. Here is what became of the phone after it was deposited unknowingly in the sand.

Back in Bukhara two days later I got word that someone had found the phone and pushed redial: which directed them to a friend of ours in Tashkent. I heard all this via email, where my friend eagerly explained that they were waiting in Khiva with the phone for us! Khiva is 5 hours away and we had just come from that direction, luckily the finders of the cell phone were coming to Bukhara in a few days. I tried to call the phone but the call would not go through, I tried from various phones in Bukhara and ran around the city pouring sweat until one fluent local explained that I was trying to call an in-network phone from an out-network number—“Impossible!” So, I located an in network phone (which, incidentally, is a bee-line cell phone) then called only to get the message, translated to me, “Your phone is power off. Have a nice day!”

Before the phone mysteriously went to power off I had sent a few messages through to my friend in Tashkent about the tentative plant to exchange the phone, he had, in turn, passed parts of the message on the finders of the cell phone in Khiva. Long story short, we did not know if or when they would be in Bukhara, but Mike and I waited by Lyabi-Hauz pool from 5:30 until 9:00pm for two nights in a row wearing the clothes described to the finders, and running around to every British face asking if they had an excess of cell phones. We now have a reputation as crazies in Bukhara who wear the same clothing multiple days on end and rush around to every occupied table with wide, hopeful eyes.
It was heartbreaking to lose the phone and then the brief, glimmer of hope that had us running around in 90 degree weather and waiting anxiously by the pool for hours on end has left us even more defeated and cell phone-less.

This story, miraculously, has a happy ending. The British girl called in one final attempt as she was leaving Bukhara and left the phone at her hotel’s front desk. She even paid for that phone call since the battery on the cell phone had died. What a nice lady! And now we have the cell phone back and a great saga to tell of our first lost and found item.

Lauren

Shopping in old town Bukhara is an expensive endeavor. A meter of fabric is $8 USD, “hand made! Very beautiful!” while a T-shirt is $20USD and a carpet over $1000. Looking around in the souvenir bazaars there was nothing I could afford other than overpriced postcards. We decided to walk to the local’s market to see what locals paid for things and to stock up on snacks for the long train ride to Ashgabat.

The local market, the Kolkhozny Bazaar, is located on the extreme west side of town down several long, narrow roads closed to thru-traffic. We hiked down there one afternoon in sweltering heat, on the off chance that we could afford a token of our travels from this gathering of merchandise.

Walking into the bazaar from the eastern side we were shocked by the smell of rotting flesh. It was thick in the area and palpable—it is a smell unlike any other and one that will stay with you once you encounter it. We pushed through the smell and emerged on the other side in a matrix of alleyway shops all made of white plastic with snickers advertisements in the windows.

Walking through the matrix we came to an exit and walked out into a vast courtyard with the longest strip mall we’d ever seen in the distance. This strip mall housed food, clothing, shoes, household supplies and baby toys: everything you could imagine. It extended from one horizon to the other as far as we could see. We picked a direction and walked until our feet were sore, Mike bought a pair of 6000CYM plastic sandals and I was ecstatic to find that 2 meters of rich, patterned fabric cost 2,400CYM ($1.20USD). I bought some fabric and we picked out snacks for the border crossing and headed back to the hotel with our arms loaded down.

Back in old town prices for escalated the closer to the town center you got, and we smiled with the knowledge of our secret bazaar on the western fringes of Bukhara.

Bukhara market

For those of you who got the reference above to Tolkien, I salute you. (and for those of you who got the ‘I salute you’ reference from Gladiator, I…. well, awesome.) Having travelled from Bukhara to Khiva, we decided after several days in the walled city to return to Bukhara before making our grand entrance into Turkmenistan.

The route from Khiva to Bukhara, which we had done not a week earlier, was easier on the return as we knew quite well what to expect: cramped conditions, sweltering heat, screeching Islamic music, a driver screaming on his cell phone, and multiple security stops. We bargained for quite a while with various drivers until finally one agreed, the largest and most intimidating of the lot, to take us for $18 USD a piece. We had heard others bargain for $15 a person, but standing in the 90 degree heat with all of our bags on did not inspire me to drag out the process. We later found out that the average price is $20 a seat, so we had done well to get $18 for a 5 hour cab drive across the desert.

You may be curious as to why I’m quoting in US dollars. Believe it or not, Uzbekistan runs nearly entirely on US currency. Everything in Samarkand, Bukhara and Khiva is quoted in US prices and you negotiate in dollars, even if you end up paying in CYM (the Uzbek currency). We wrote before that there were two rates of exchange in Uzbekistan, the official rate (1,400 CYM to the dollar) and the black market rate (1,800 CYM to the USD). Everyone uses the black market rate when talking about USD. It is amazing to me that everyone in this country uses the dollar. It’s a testament to how stable they think the US is in comparison to the limited faith they have in their own economy. You’d think the government here would focus on stamping out the USD in the country, as it’s a bit embarrassing for them as well. However, at a restaurant owned by the president’s daughter, prices are in Euros, not CYM—not a very good sign.

This time we were ready for the ride to Bukhara from Khiva, and I had taken a Dramamine in preparation for the bouncing (the cars have no shocks) and jolting that would occur for the next 5 hours. What I wasn’t ready for was a neon-yellow bee to fly into the window, into my shirt and sting me in the ribs. This neon buzzing machine scared the hell out of me for its intimidating color and twitching buttocks. Luckily, I’m not allergic to bees, having been stung literally hundreds of times in my life—twice already on this trip. We arrived without other incident and met up, accidently, with the German-Russians (whom we had met on the fortress adventure in Khiva) at Lyabi-Hauz, where they told us that Olga was popped on by a bird as the car sped through the desert (which is considered good luck in Russia!) while the window was mostly rolled up.

Khiva Shared Taxi Ride

Having decided to leave Bukhara, we endeavored to find a way to Khiva, a city on the western side of Uzbekistan. There was a train, but it took 24 hours and would depart from a city an hour from Bukhara at 3:00am. If one wanted to jump a bus to Khiva, you should wait on the side of the street and wave down passing busses and inquire if they were headed towards the west. The third and final option was to hire a shared taxi, which is to say that one driver will sell seats in his car and leave when all the seats are full. Our B&B owner knew a man who was leaving for Khiva that afternoon at 5:00pm, so we said we’d tag along for $18 USD. It would be a five hour ride.

The driver arrived and was a giant man with a square jaw and veins protruding from his forearms. HE had already found another local man heading to Urgench, a city near Khiva, and suggested we either pay for the empty seat or wait at the bus station to find a fourth person. We opted for the later. The car itself was a tiny Nissan with no seat belts and back windows that did not budge. There were no head rests and the air conditioner had been removed to make way for a large CD player, which jiggled around in the dash board while we drove. At the bus station we picked up a scrawny fourth traveler, who looked sickly and slightly drunk. We peeled out of the bus station, sending rocks flying up behind us. The driver and the two local passengers then did a short prayer together using the phrase, “inshallah” which means, “God willing.” This did not seem like something a driver should say about a straightforward drive to another city, they all bowed together and did the traditional prayer gestures (note that we had not stopped the car and now the driver was closed-eyed doing 100kph).

What should have been a straightforward ride turned out to be a test of my inner most patience. We were stopped by cops seeking bribes as well as several internal customs and border checks (regional rather than national). Before and behind our car people were crying as the seats were ripped out and their baggage overturned. For some reason, perhaps the fact that our driver knew every guard along the route, our car was sparred.

After 4.5 hours in the car we stopped and the driver told us we were then in Urgench. He told us to get out and threatened to leave us where we had stopped, which was in the middle of nowhere at a local family’s home and diner. We got on the phone right away with the lady from the B&B in Bukhara. She saved the day and negotiated for the driver to take us from where we were directly to the front door of the hotel we indicated for $5 USD. Seeing little alternative we agreed, though the extra $5 was pure robbery. Once at the hotel in Khiva, though, he demanded $5 a person, not $5 all together, and made an ugly grimace with his misshapen head as he continued to stick out his fist for more money. It was at this point that I lost it and barked out a stream of unintelligible information to this man and demanded that he get in his rickety little car and drive off before I really got angry. He thought this was cute, but seeing as veins were now popping out of my forehead he got in his car and left. The owner of the hotel demanded a ridiculous sum to spend the night, and I also snapped on her and told her I thought that the money grubbing was getting out of hand. We ended up paying $10 USD for the night at the hotel.

In all, it was a great test of patience for me, while Mike’s mid-western charm was turning from charming to placating.

The Emir's Ark in Bukhara

It was in front of The Ark that Stoddart and Connolly were executed at the Emir’s request in 1842. It had all started innocently enough when Colonel Stoddart was sent to Emir Nasrullah’s domain to reassure him that the British invasion of Afghanistan would not continue into his fair kingdom.  Stoddart arrived with a letter from the governor general of India (rather than the Queen) and, contrary to custom in Bukhara, rode into the castle on horseback rather than walking. These were his two primary offenses to the Emir, who promptly threw him in prison for his disgraceful entrance. This was no ordinary prison, the Zindon prison has a special cell for the worst offenders that is lovingly referred to as the bug pit. This pit is roughly twelve feet deep and only accessible by a rope lowered down through a hole in the center of the ceiling. Into this hole the prison guards gingerly poured daily doses of scorpions, rodents and other vermin. Stoddart was to languish in this pit alone for a year.

In 1841 Captain Conolly traveled to Bukhara to request Stoddart’s release, but, likewise threw the man in prison on trumped up and ridiculous charges.  At least now Stoddart had company in the infamous bug pit of Zindon. Likely the Emir would have let the two languish in the pit indefinitely had the British forces in Afghanistan not been repelled and defeated in 1842.   Believing the British to be a weak nation with an unsuitable army the Emir, nicknamed “the butcher,” paraded Stoddart and Conolly through a large crowd in front of The Ark where they were instructed to dig their own graves, and on June 24th had them executed via beheading to the sounds of drums and reeds.  The Emir’s calculations about the British proved correct as no reprisal for the executions came from the British government.

Having visited The Ark and Zindon, we were shocked at the horrible conditions of the bug pit, but more so by the giant debtor’s prison cell which, at any given time, was completely packed with people owing money to the State. A small museum on the premises showed how the Soviets later used Zindon for political prisoners.

In another part of the city the world’s tallest minaret was erected by Arslan Khan in 1127 called the Kalon Minaret. Having killed an Imam after

a fight, the khan was terrified when the Imam appeared to him in a dream and demanded that his body be buried where no man could walk on it. Thus, the terrified Khan commissioned the minaret. Legend also says that when Ghenghi Khan invaded the region he was so stupefied by the sight of the tower that he had it spared while the rest of the city was burnt to the ground. In later times, this happy and historical minaret was used to execute prisoners, who were tossed over the side into the public square below.

Bukhara

We arrived in Bukhara this afternoon and were a bit shocked by the strange reception we received. Having met the owner of a B&B on the street in Samarkand, we decided to accompany her to her place in Bukhara.  We were going to the city anyway and she was very friendly. This morning she drove past us in a cab, waved when she recognized us and then jumped out and offered to share her taxi to the station.  We were in the middle of negotiating a fare with another cabbie but decided it was wise to just go with her, as it would be quicker.  She talked with the various cabbies on the street a moment and then hurriedly got in the cab.  Once we drove off, she looked over at us and said, “that man said he would kill me.”  We asked what she was talking about and she said, “he said if I took his tourists away (meaning us) he would come to the hotel and kill me.”  It was an odd thing to hear so suddenly so we, naturally, agreed when she followed this up with, “perhaps he crazy. I don’t know. I hope he no follow us to the train station.”  And that was all it took to have me death gripping my bags and looking out the window behind us the whole way to the station.
After arriving in Bukhara safe and un-murdered, we decided to stay with her one night and explore the city. As we were leaving her yard, she ran up and gave us a series of tips that effectively scared us off walking around at night.  Essentially, she told us not to talk to any man in Bukhara because they could not be trusted. Especially a man named Niecco down at Lyabi-Hauz, who had pot marks on his face. Niecco was fond of taking tourists to his house for tea and dinner and then robbing them and beating them silly. Our hostess also explained to us that if we wanted to take a cab anywhere we should use one of her neighbors because every other cabbie was corrupt and would either fight us and steal our money or else cause a scene until we agreed to pay a ridiculous sum to shut him up.  We were informed that the police would be of no help. As she walked us out the door she told us a story of how she had to hide from a murderous cab driver behind a dumpster so he wouldn’t find out where she lived. Fun.   Before you start to wonder where we booked ourselves for the night, her hostel is in the guidebooks and came highly recommended by other backpackers, its full of letters previous visitors have sent her and her young children were climbing the mulberry tree in the courtyard when we walked in. As we set of through the courtyard she yelled after us a final reminder, “Remember, don’t talk to anyone! And, don’t let anyone follow you here!”

Out for the afternoon we encountered no problems and were not particularly worried about running into Niecco or his friends. However, as we walked around The Ark we found that the backside of the building is the hottest spot in Bukhara for junkies. The area is littered with needles and, strangely, lice combs. We also walked past the hood of a car overturned behind this world famous monument completely engulfed in flames. It started to get dark so we set off in the direction of our B&B when I started to notice that all the street lamps were off, looking at the base I noticed that the wires had all been pulled from the poles. It was ‘Uzbekistan’s Children’s Day’ so the streets were teeming with children and ice-cream wrappers, yet the city had an eerie abandoned look because there were no adults, it was as if the children from The Lord of the Flies had built up a massive castle in the desert and were now running around the alleys playing games.

Did I mention that Bukhara is world famous for its torture, prisons and public executions—but that’s another story. Needless to reiterate, our first night in Bukhara was a bit strange.