AmCham arrow Publications arrow Topics Archive arrow Topics Archive 2008 arrow Vol.38- No.9 arrow Travel: Central Asian Holiday: In Search of the Magical
Travel: Central Asian Holiday: In Search of the Magical PDF Print E-mail
Gracious people (greedy customs officials aside) and spectacular mountains and architecture make this a fascinating destination, even in the wintry low season.
 
By Brian Asmus

 

After two weeks in Bali the previous Chinese New Year partaking of Champagne and haute cuisine, going horseback-riding, and lolling by the pool, this year I was in the mood for something more adventurous. The cities of the Silk Road in Central Asia beckoned.

A Google search yielded a number of Central Asian travel agencies, and I chose Advantour because of the prompt, detailed responses from travel consultant Sevara Izrailbekova.

Anyone contemplating this trip should save plenty of time for visa applications. I contacted Travel Document Express in Washington D.C. in early November, but barely had everything ready by my end-of-January departure date. The visa and handling fees for four countries (Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Turkmenistan, and Uzbekistan) came to US$500. My Tajikistan visa ($36) would be obtained on arrival.

In the days before the start of my trip, the region was suffering its coldest winter in 40 years, with temperatures plummeting to minus 40 Celsius. But on my arrival in Kazakhsan’s Almaty in the evening of February 7, a light snow was falling but temperatures had warmed to a mere 0 degrees Celsius.

Almaty is experiencing boom times from oil and gas, so ultra-modern is the flavor of the day. The city’s limited sights are concentrated around Panfilov Park; the highlight was the Russian Orthodox Zenkov Cathedral (a bright yellow and blue). The next day, we set out for Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, a three-and-a-half-hour drive along a new, mostly straight road. The countryside had been dusted with a fresh layer of snow.

After crossing the border, I asked my driver why we were now moving so slowly. Kyrgyz police are all dishonest, on the lookout for any excuse to impose a fine on the richer Kazakhs, he informed me. Despite his precautions, we were later stopped by a plainclothes policeman. The reason? The driver had pulled over to ask directions to my hotel, which the policeman regarded as “suspicious behavior.” That we were able to go on our way again without paying a bribe was only because the driver had me show my passport while he spun a tale about my being an important American journalist and how it would be best to avoid international media attention.

The few sights in Bishkek consist of grandiose, Soviet-era architectural “gifts” to the Kyrgyz people. Still, the tree-lined city has a low-key, small-town congeniality that sets travelers at ease.

The following morning, I took a bumpy flight in a Russian-made propeller aircraft over the soaring, snow-capped Fan Mountains to the city of Dushanbe, Tajikistan. Inflight meal service was a tray (held on your lap) with a boiled egg, processed cheese, and a container of chicken pate. Not the worst fare I have encountered, and the other passengers were an affable lot with welcoming smiles and an ever-present floating vodka bottle.

At the Dushanbe arrivals hall, ready to get my landing visa, I found that the consular office was locked tight. What to do? After processing all the other passengers, the immigration official had me talk on his cell phone to an official speaking fluent English: “Sorry, can you leave your passport? You can come back in two hours to pick it up.” While it was not in fact ready in two hours, I did get it back in three – with the visa properly stamped.

There are even fewer attractions in Dushanbe than in Almaty or Bishkek (it is, however, equally pleasant with its broad, tree-lined boulevards). We headed to the remains of an eighteenth-century fortress in Hissar, a small village 30 kilometers to the west.

As the country had been suffering a severe power shortage due to the record cold weather preceding my trip, conversations centered around the selfishness of the Uzbeks (blamed for gouging the Tajiks) contrasted by the beneficence of the Chinese (who were constructing a power station). Nor have the Tajiks, who are related to the Persians, ever forgiven the Uzbek government for “stealing” its most famous cities – Samarkand and Bukhara – in a Stalin-directed redrawing of borders, or for severely restricting entry into those areas for Tajik nationals, many of whom still have relatives there.

Early the next morning, my guide and driver accompanied me on the one-hour, 30-minute drive to the Uzbek border station. With friendly waves and wishes for a safe trip from the Tajik border officials, I entered Uzbekistan, passed immigration and went into the customs shed. The official had to send for English customs forms. When they arrived, so did a short, fat stereotypically corrupt official. There was a problem with my application, he said.

Shaking his head and clucking disapprovingly, he said I had failed to register a digital camera, then feigned shock at finding two jade cufflinks and NT$600. At that point we got down to the real purpose of his search. I was led to a curtained-off room and told “Let me see your U.S. dollars.” His face lit up with naked greed when he discovered I had US$1,839, not the US$1,800 I had written on my form.

“A simple mistake on my part,” I apologized. He was having none of that. Getting nowhere, I decided to bring things back in the open, leaving the curtained area to plead my case in view of the other customs officials. I slapped down my Russian rubles – R$3,150 and not R$4,000 as listed. The difference was almost the same as the unreported US$39.

No go, but he was less confident now that others were witnessing the exchange. “I’d be happy to have my driver call Tashkent to refer this to the central customs office,” I ventured. Bingo. That did the trick. His unctuous faux courteousness became foot-shifting unease. “Oh, no need. There is no problem.” Later, I would learn that Uzbek President Karimov had issued a directive to punish severely any customs officials or police hassling tourists. While Karimov may not get the best press in the West, he won a convert in me that day.

Central Asia’s finest architecture

A six-hour drive took us across a plain, then into foothills, and finally along precipitous mountain heights. The thin atmosphere of the higher elevations, along with the crystallized snow, provided a vista akin to flying at 30,000 feet. Had I come earlier, the mountain pass would have been inaccessible. I reveled in my good fortune.

Over the next two days, since this was low season, I was often the only tourist around. Samarkand is host not only to the famed Registan Square but also the Shakhi Zinda necropolis complex, Bibi Khanum mosque, Gur Emir mausoleum, and Ulugbek observatory. The rich blues and golds of the Gur Emir mausoleum’s interior dome and walls dazzled.

My guide, Victoria, was enthusiastic and well-prepared, but after a while the extended narrative of “built in 1320” and “made of white marble” and “beheaded in 1420” and “22.5 meters in height” made my head swim. I managed to retain focus on what I considered most important: the sheer aesthetic mastery of Persian architects.

Lunch was a light meal of chicken salad, soup, and some solid Uzbekistan red wine. The driver served the tea, pouring the first glass back into the pot twice before serving. “Moi, loi, choi,” he explained. “The first glass is mud, the second oil; only the third is proper tea.” Uzbeks, as a sign of respect, serve tea only half a glass at a time.

We also shared a round piece of bread, a local specialty that the driver assured me could not be matched anywhere else in the country, even using the same ingredients and equipment. I later discovered that he was quite right. Everywhere else I visited, nothing quite equaled the delightfully pizza-crust chewy outside or the flavorful glossiness of the surface.

Bukhara: beautiful and bumpy

A three-hour drive across flat scrubby plains punctuated with muddy fields brought us to Bukhara, whose twisting lanes and yellow-brick structures presented a far more “Oriental” city. The streets pitted with potholes necessitated dodges around pools of dirty water.

While the many notable mosques, medrassas, monuments, and fortresses were impressive, in between were vacant spaces where older buildings had been ripped down. The effect was like Soviet-reconstructed German cities after World War II; the natural flow had been disrupted. There is also a small Jewish quarter with a synagogue that dates from the early 1600s.

On my final day in the city, I received some unwelcome news. Ice on the Amy Darya River had put the bridge to Turkmenistan out of commission. Sevara worked immediately to come up with a solution, yet the dates in my Washington-issued visa could not be altered. Plan B was for me to drive to Khiva and cross at Dashogus. From there I would fly to Ashgabat, then fly the next day to Mary, where a driver would take me to the famed Merv archaeological site.

A heavy-set, English-speaking Russian driver with prominent gold teeth arrived early the next morning. The trek would take seven hours and we would need to get to the border in time to make the crossing and catch my evening flight. “Oh, you have Lonely Planet’s guide,” exclaimed the driver. “I am on page 221.” Yes, there he was: Bahadir Rakhamov, a teacher who moonlights driving taxis to make ends meet.

Genghis Khan leaves his mark

Border procedures went smoothly and I shared a van with some colorfully draped local women with large bags of pomegranates. Outside the border post (I had arrived half an hour early), I started to smart from the cold wind. No driver was waiting for me, and for the first time (because of the itinerary changes), I did not have any local contacts or phone numbers. While the locals were eager to help, I had to wait for my driver, who had my ticket to Ashgabat. “Why not wait in one of our cabs until he comes?” offered one of the other drivers. “It will be warmer.”

In a gesture of friendship, one of the drivers said “Jean Claude van Damme! America! Good!” When I replied that I thought he was actually Belgian, this was translated. Slightly disconcerted, he tried again. “Arnold Schwarzenegger! America! Good!” I reminded those gathered that he had been born in Austria. Hmmmm. “Sylvester Stallone. He’s American, right?” When assured that he was, the driver responded: “Good. I like him better than the other two anyway.”

Eventually, a smartly dressed, too-cool-for-words 25-year-old arrived to pick me up. With an insincere apology for being late, he pointed the way to the car without even offering to take one of my two or three light bags.

Two flights and 12 hours later, I entered ancient Merv. Like many Central Asian cities, it had been utterly destroyed by Genghis Khan. By some estimates the Mongol horde killed upwards of one million people. Most of the cities never recovered, and the region began its intermittent but unstoppable decline. What remains of Merv – known at various times as Alexandria, Antiochia, and Sultan Kala – are some eroded mud walls and a few buildings. The 38-meter-high Mausoleum of Sultan Sanjar is the most impressive.

My guide, a middle-aged woman named Lena with a son studying French in Kiev, shared some of the region’s many superstitions, such as rolling down a hill to get pregnant. “If you stop rolling, then someone has given you the evil eye. You have to try again. If you roll to the right, you have a daughter, to the left a son.” Between bites of chocolate candy, she also advised that to get your wish fulfilled you must pray and then walk three times around this or that monument, or set two broken tiles or bricks to form a triangle, cover your head while making a wish down a well, or tie wish strings to trees or grates near the burial sites of important religious figures. The list seemed endless. There must be an awful lot of lucky people in Central Asia, I thought to myself.

Her reverence for the saints did not, however, extend to respect for the grounds. Despite reproachful glares from the devout middle-aged women who were invariably watching, her candy wrappers littered every site we visited.

For lunch, we patronized a local fish restaurant that reminded me of Taiwan. Plastic chairs and tables were set up outside. The “chef” chopped the fish – carp, perch, or catfish fresh from the canal – with a hatchet, before stir-frying the pieces in a big wok filled with cottonseed oil. “Cotton is white gold to us,” said Lena. “You sell the cotton, and use the seeds for oil and the husks and stems for feed for cattle.”

Peeking in the back, I saw the owner negotiating with two local boys for the latest catch, which were still flopping around on the ground. I told them the Chinese belief that the fish making the biggest fuss are the best tasting. They nodded in agreement at the sensibleness of that view. “The Chinese are very smart and industrious,” said the owner.

Ashgabat: All is vanity

Back in Ashgabat, the blue-green-gray mountains of Iran piled up in three layers to the south. Ashgabat is a city filled with white marble buildings, all constructed to plan. Had Albert Speer been able to construct his Germania, it would doubtless have looked something like Turkmenistan’s capital. Lena pointed out various monuments with her characteristic sarcasm, noting the “three-legged,” “five-legged,” and “eight-legged” monuments rather than using their official titles. “We even have a 40-legged monument,” she told me, eagerly awaiting the chance to share what that might be. “It’s the statue of 10 horses over there in the park,” she gleefully revealed.

For all its grandiose monuments, Ashgabat is pretty dull. The late leader was quite puritanical. If nightlife is what you want, this is not the place for you. That night, with a loud wedding party in the main restaurant, I dined in the second-floor disco. While racy Russian music videos blared on the screen, I sat – the solitary patron – in dismal dimness for two hours over a heavily mayonnaised salad, bland tomato soup, and two glasses of wine. The six waiters chatted among themselves and chomped on sunflower seeds.

I was not entirely disappointed, therefore, to fly out the next day to recross the border to Uzbekistan. Before that I would tour the ruins of the ancient city of Konye Urgench, an hour and a half away by car. What is left of Gutlug Timur – numerous mausoleums and the massive minaret – is spread out among fields and grazing grounds. Genghis Khan had done his usual thorough job. Quite frankly, after visiting numerous similar sites, I was getting a bit jaded and ho-hum. But then I walked into the Turabeg Khanym mausoleum and saw the most sublime dome I have ever seen. Its swirls of geometric patterns on a deep blue background had me fixated.

Halfway back, the driver stopped to buy melons, which vendors had spread out along the roadside. In the summer, you can get 10 for the current price of one, he said.

Khiva: Ichan Qala fortress

Two of the Russian teacher’s friends were waiting for me and drove me into Khiva. When I checked into the hotel, I found I was the only guest. This truly was low season.

After the Russian feel of Samarkand, the shabbiness of Bukhara, and the desolation of Merv and Konye Urgench, I was thrilled to discover that the center of Khiva is a very picturesque, intact walled city – the Ichan Qala fortress – with turquoise domes and tiled minarets popping above pale adobe walls. The city outside the walls, though, is a maze of pot-holed streets in even worse condition than those in Bukhara.

Walking for several hours triggered my appetite. Stopping at a small eatery, I pointed to a cucumber-and-tomato salad and mutton-and-bean soup, to which the manager added a few lamb cakes. The price? US$2.

On my last night, Khiva took on added allure with the arrival of a full moon in the clear sky. I could feel my skin tingle as I took in the vista. Times like these make worthwhile all the tedious hour spent in lines at airports, bouncing in cars, or struggling with luggage.

Bahadir picked me up at 6:30 p.m. for my flight to Tashkent. It seemed colder in the building than outside. I chatted with a Japanese woman, the first fellow traveler I had seen or conversed with in more than two weeks. The propeller plane was similar to the one I had taken to Dushanbe, but I had become more blasé about safety risks as I plopped down into my foldable seat. It began to snow. Tashkent is a modern city, with little to excite the senses after the wonders of the previous weeks. Half a day was more than sufficient to check out Amir Temur Square, Independence Square, the Khast Imom complex, and Chor Su bazaar.

Departure meant dealing at the airport with a broken ticket-printing machine, endless lines, and a chaotic mass of people trying to get through customs (they still check currency declaration forms) and immigration (people keep cutting into line to join their “friends” in front of you). But I couldn’t work up any anger or irritation. Rather, my thoughts were still full of my experiences on the trip: the genuine hospitality, sense of humor, witty sarcasm, simple dignity, and endless superstitions of the people, as well as the mountains and plains, desolate deserted cities, and masterful Persian architecture. I had been touched by magic.
 
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