Our cab stopped for at least twice before we were truly on our way cutting through the grainy sand dunes towards Khiva. A strong wind blew through the lonely road snaking across the boiling tarmac like devilish hands crawling to close in on a helpless victim imagined from the tales of jinn and the unseen. Our driver left us pretty much alone as the Swiss guy in front spoke fluent Russian and I relished in the break to absorb the spreading horizon, at times shutting the window when the sand granules hit a tad too hard all over my face and shirt. Terracotta tornadoes cut through the hilly slopes when the sand got picked up into a swirl. They looked like giant paper pillars worming up to a cloudless sky and it was truly marvellous to be out here.
At the half-way point, we stopped in a studio set that would have nicely fitted into a cowboy western. Beyond an algae-coloured tank stood two rusty columns announcing the demarcation of the male / female toilet. We unceremoniously pissed at the wide desert, uncaring and free like young birds taking flight for the first time. Lunch was to be fried fish. Here in the desert, in the middle of nowhere. I bet you it had six legs. Tasted all right if you had a penchant for fresh lumps of mud-tasting white flesh soaked in oil but we were still far in our journey and bravely I coaxed that earthy taste down my throat. Now I knew how it felt if I had been born an earthworm, eating my way through eternity in the great big pile of soil that was to be my world.
After dropping off the Swiss guy who was heading towards Nukus, we passed through momentarily another movie set - this time, think total isolation in the most desolated sense. Welcome to the Republic of Karakalpakstan. Another victim of the Soviet agenda. In short, if Uzbekistan suddenly disappeared, then this tiny "republic" might as well be as good as a bolt without a nut (or the other way around if it tickled your fancy). There was nothing in this wasteland. The Karakalpaks struggled with an identity reclamation and it looked like a long dreary road ahead. Swiftly like a gazelle our cab headed back into a hint of civilisation as we rumbled through the bridge that was to bring us back into the rule of Uzbekistan.
The hot noon felt like a vengeance. Everything took on a meaner demeanour and roads looked longer. We halted to a dusty spot in front of a cabbie stop. Immediately our car was being surrounded by half a dozen of cab drivers competing for the fairest of them all, hopeful for the prize of taking us to Ichan Qala, the old fortress city of Khiva.
Drivers exchanged. Hand shakes. Lugging out your backpacks, shoving them into another buggy. Away we went. Another 25km to go. A pit stop for some watermelon shopping (the cabbie, not us). We passed long lines of desperate looking drivers queueing up for the petrol shortage and industrious tea stall owners were already capitalising on this daily occurrence by setting up little umbrella-ed tables and chairs. I will believe it when we get there.
Finally the Kalta Minor minaret beckoned towards us as the little car chugged and sputtered its last dying breath. The West gate opened into a cool corridor that took us into a homely B&B which contained cute rooms but a view-to-kill when we hung out up in the roof top on thick carpets and pillows. We were to discover later that the nights were cooler and nothing compared to the simplicity of marvelling at the star-studded sky as the cricket chirps lulled you to a land far away in your dreams.
From the Kuhna Ark we took an imaginary tour of how the former Khivan Khan would have led a life of court and the surroundings taking shape of an Indiana Jones remake. You have your many mausoleums, Islamic schools such as the Islom Hoja Madrassah, the Juma Mosque with its forests of pillars bathed softly in the morning glow and its smaller companions, caravanserai that had been converted into relaxing cafe and shops for the trinket hunter, the usual suspects I would say. But what makes Ichan Qala endearing is the fact that it's easy to get around within these walls and I personally found (when you try hard to visualise away all the tourists and converted buildings) it to be a magic mirror giving a glimpse into an Uzbek Muslim town. The women here had none of the Russian audacity and were lovely, modest and shy. Men would avoid staring too much but their eyes didn't lie although not many would dare to be too obvious about it. Heck, you actually get a sense of real warmth from the way many will greet you.
You probably have heard about the Khivan Khanate's past history of eye-gorging tales, legacies of Alexander and the Mongols (hence the blond haired and blue-eyed mix with Oriental looking features amidst the more potent and ebony allure of the local ethnic tribes), Shem the son of the Prophet Noah, flinging of "adulterous" wives off the minarets, carpet weaving and mud-walled dwellings. But nothing beats one of the highest noteworthy mentions that I have come across and it takes the form of Pahlavon Mahmud, man, legend, the stuff of gods.
His resume reads:
"...born in Khiva, a furmaker and invincible wrestler... a poet-philosopher in the East, patron saint of Khiva and also the wrestlers in India, Pakistan and Iran... one of the most prominent Sufic founders, wrote the Masnaby Khanz Ul Xanoik and poetic science... revered as well for fighting and winning against an Indian wrestler to free the Khormian slaves..."
Not bad for an inflated title business card.
Indeed visitors today in his articulate mausoleum (including us) couldn't helped but be taken away by the beautiful inlaid tiles. Each one is designed and arranged, fired and nailed in a fashion that covered the entire interior from roof to floor. Truly a labour of love that would have been seen as only complimentary to such an important man. Now it may seemed to be another yawn. So what if this dude did all those stuff he was accorded of praise? Surely Uzbekistan alone had many talents alone in the circle of art, music, philosophy, religion, sciences, male and female achievers alike? But check out my wrap-up session and you will see for yourself. For truly if Pahlavon (never mind that his name meant "warrior") was being portrayed in like by the painting I had been tempted to pose next to, you shall understand that Uzbek ladies probably had very fertile fantasies of the dream man. No wonder the regular Joes here feel like crap!
We stayed in Khiva for two nights and begun our journey back into Tashkent for the grand finale of this leg. Ah, Tashkent. The city where you asked a dress seller if he knew of a nearby foreign currency exchanger. His positive answer returned "Yes" - and us continuing "Where please?" - stoically he replied "I am". You almost got a hint of God speaking in his booming voice to you when you get down on your knees to pay obeisance. The dress seller should have thrown in "I am the way, the light, the truth... and I can shorten your hemline as well as give you good US Dollar rate any black market vendors could out there".
Speaking of black market, we decided the only suitable set to describe our (leading man star: my husband) next blockbuster to be a mix of The Italian Job, peppered with some sunset Korean drama series romance.
Somehow in between our leaving Tashkent to head off into the deserts, we came back to find all prices of even the hostels were hiked up. Gas crises? Dodgy Government monetary policy? The summer heat wave? More tourist admittance? We got off into our first B&B selection and walked probably the longest single road to nowhere in a city only to arrive at Ali's house to be told that he was... "not providing any registration" with some ums and ahs here and there. In between looking longingly to join the floating melons in the pool (the melons here were to big for most of the fridges made) and contemplating going to another OVIR episode, we headed out towards the Metro. As if God himself approved of that move a cab stopped in front of us. Passenger got out, we negotiated to be taken to the next back-up plan candidate. Another B&B in the train station. Got there, got out, got our helpful cabbie to phone them. They only accept Uzbeks and Russians. Nyet tooooreest. Only locals. Damn you LP, send your Uzbek writer to return and update the lodgings and the bloody map too because there is just too much editing error (e.g. some embassy icons noted the South of town but the top of the map will have more arrows pointing you to the opposite direction i.e. North - like duh!). We decided to try third time lucky at our original B&B at the Chorsu Bazaar. More zipping around town, my internal fuel tank was running low and secondary engines were shutting down. Pausing in front of the humble lodging I ran up to ring the bell, only to be told that they were full for the next few days.
Darn the dimpled dope! Time for executive decision: should we bang it out in the Sheraton or try one of the unknown middle rangers? We headed to one of the latter, only to be welcomed by a frosty Russian unwilling to negotiate. U$52 for a ex-Soviet reject. Hey, at least it came with a fridge and flushing toilet and one towel! Oh did I mention the tiny sachet of shampoo was thrown in free too! We booked in for one night. The other middle rangers weren't any friendlier or better / cheaper. Upon registration, we were being handed with a set of "rules" to read and asked if we had well and truly understood them. It felt like we were signing in to go for some detention camp where we had absolutely no rights. Momentarily I recollected our ride in the bus earlier from the airport where it was hot and many people here lunging in towards us. Amongst them, a few hot big mommas wearing their sleeveless dresses. Think big bellies, peroxide-dyed hair bunned up like angry hornet nests, gaudy make up that will shame Rupaul, and sweaty unshaven armpits jarring at your face (think stubble, three day-old). Okay, so maybe the Russian ice queen may be not so bad after all. We had to hand over for photocopying all our previous registration. I began to look around the ceiling for video cameras. Walking up to our second-floor corridor, it was a Tom Clancy movie, Jack Ryan in the room at the end, I the spy hired to pass the bogus document hidden in my lipstick case.
Anyway, if you got to this far I have to give you a big hug for endurance sustenance. So back on the Italian Job. As you can imagine, we absolutely hated to pay U$50++ for five boring days in Tashkent. More so if you have Turkey calling on the other end. Iran was an executive decision made - we bumped it back to the last end of this trail so that we can capitalise on the cooler weather. After a lunch of watery greasy burgers (you can get some pretty unimaginable things called food here) that was enough to sit down an elephant, hubby slapped on some sunscreen to head out into the field. Hours passed, wifey took a nap (ah, my delectable life!) and he was back. There was no way to read if the effort had been triumphant but we went out to sample Kim's House for some bim-bim-bap. In between lousy (but good looking actors) drama series and a weird display of Russian acting like good ol' Korean waiters, we slurped down our rice condiments and soup, relishing in a breakaway from a two-month diet of roasted mutton, fried mutton, boiled mutton, stewed mutton, and the usual salad-soup-pastry trinity.
Finally we rolled down the stairs like water-filled balloons for a walk in the evening as my sweet hubby took my hand and began his tale:
1) Got out from the room to ask the reception's ice queen if there is an "Avia Kacca" around and got a duck quacked "nyet";
2) Walked out onto the main road and there it was, an aviation travel shop;
3) Enquired about tickets and told to head to Turkish Airlines directly (we wanted to know if we could bring forward our travel dates);
4) Hailed the first cab, zoomed off to the Northeastern part of town;
5) Got into Turkish Airlines, five men absolutely doing nothing, the rest of the females were chatting and typing away;
6) Finally got one lass to do the clicking and checking;
7) Short version: it's cheaper to pay the additional premium for changing our travel dates if we trade in Uzbek Som, the Government rate is so dodge that even after conversion and back into US Dollar, our total ticket price plus the premium is 40% cheaper than what we originally would have paid for the ticket alone (at a later date) in US Dollar;
Still with me?
8) It's 3:30 in the arvo, hubby had to be back and the ticket paid, printed, locked in on the day's rate by 5:00 pm;
9) Dashed out to the South of town with the help of another rocket cabbie;
10) Got the US Dollars for exchange and hailed another speedy bee towards the Chorsu Bazaar;
11) Black market rate of the day 2,200 Uzbek Som for U$1, hurray! We now need a bag;
12) Ran and caught another cabbie back;
13) More versions of male and female staff lounging around and ignoring the waiting customers;
14) Hubby got the attention of one staff and was told to have the money counted in a machine;
15) That took 15 minutes and it was 4:50pm;
16) Ticket locked in; and
After the great big heist and imagination of a handsome, darker but younger version of Kojak, running around purposefully, with a few slo-mo shots, sweat glistening under the glaring sun, one or two more shots of close-up of his Agent Smith’s sunnies, zoomed out again, cabbies honking and clashing with the fumes from passing trucks, he ran with a bag of money to only slam it down at the counter, determined to win his lady a way out of the madness...
...and 1.5 Million Uzbek Som later, we are, ladies and gentlemen, flying off to Istanbul tomorrow.
That itself, is worth the many reasons for the rest of the journey. My husband, a legend in his own right with his resourcefulness and quick of wit. You my dearest readers will forgive this blatant display of admiration. Pahlavon Mahmud, eat your heart out.
