Samarkand

The acidic residue of vodka and regret lingered on my tongue. The great advert for Uzbekistan is the history of the iconic Silk Road. I imagined towering minarets, a skyline packed with history and perhaps jewelled treasures. I should have been more excited, but I couldn’t escape the nauseating feeling that I’d insulted the former Minister of Finance. Desperate for the taste of grilled flesh, we made for a street vendor packing large oval bread with delicious meats and onions. 45 minutes later they shoved a plastic bag into our hands and told us to leave. There had been an error of communication. The bag was sloppy. I opted instead for a lunch of Indian paracetamol and pomegranate juice.

Samarkand’s great madrasas are very impressive and they should be, they were almost entirely rebuilt in the 20th Century. This was disappointing news for the group. To try and raise our spirits we participated in a wedding photo shoot taking place. Men who very closely resembled Virat Kohli subsumed us in a crush of red heart balloons and cologne and it’s quite possible I’m now on a babushka’s mantlepiece. We came to regret resisting all the offers of tour guide services. There was only one sign in English and it read ‘Samarkand: no.1 tourist destination in the world’. Perhaps many of the people who read that sign haven’t left Uzbekistan and therefore are inspired by a sense of accidental accomplishment. I’ve been to the world and I have a few counter claims. I considered raising them with the local authorities but the Indian paracetamol wasn’t agreeing with me.

Ok, I’ve not been very nice about Samarkand. I went when it was cold. I was dying of flu. I was too proud to ask for guides and frankly I found the fact that they perform a Vegas-style light show in the main square offensive to my very soul. However, a powerful redeeming feature was the amazing tile work on display throughout the city, but in particular in the mausoleums. Because most people are now Internet People ™️ I was struck that I could experience these great cavernous rooms and their wonderful ceilings free from background noise that included things like “come with me as I explore this hidden gem”.

Our time in Samarkand quickly ended and we made our way back to the railway station. Whilst the streets outside were beginning to calm, the station was alive with busyness and men sitting in those electric massage chairs. There was nervousness, as we wondered what a 3rd class sleeper carriage might be like. In a moment of panic, I bought three large circular breads. In a moment of genius, I asked the coffee shop to charge my phone. It was hard to concentrate when we first boarded the train, because there were so many feet at eye height, sticking out into the walkway. Clearly the average height of Uzbek people has increased since the trains were first designed. After much squeezing, apologising, and a thrusting manoeuvre, we were safely in our bunks. Looking over at one of my travel companions, I could tell he was upset. I did regret having my enormous breads at that point. The end of the bed aligned roughly with my knees and throughout the night I’d occasionally feel the not unpleasant brush of a strangers face on my soles. I was awoken at 5am by what I thought was rain on the window, but it may have been the tears of one of my fellow passengers.

Safely off the train, I checked my Oura Ring data. It suggested my body was in a state of deep stress and that I should rest. But there was no time for that, we had another small former city state to explore. I don’t know if you’ve ever been told to pay for a museum ticket, only to discover there is no museum and the ticket doesn’t actually grant you access to anything. Well that’s what happens in Khiva. Every time we tried to look at anything, a wildly irate person made clear we had to reach for our crispy Ben Franklins. Not able to look at anything historic, we decided to try and buy some Uzbek clothing at a great price. Tired, cold and distressed, we stopped off for a quick emergency plov and departed Khiva almost as quickly as we had arrived.

Our next destination was Nukus and there wasn’t a train. But I did enjoy this book shop, that sold no books. Frankly we were in a desperate state. There were no taxis. A fraught conversation through google translate ended with the station’s janitor sending his cousin to drive us to Nukus. The drive wasn’t bad, until I realised the cars were natural gas-powered and that each year 12 explode.