Even though you tie a hundred knots - the string remains one.
(Maulana Jalaluddin Rumi)
(Maulana Jalaluddin Rumi)
Samarqand, Samarkand, Marakanda. A city that has seen and been so much in the course of history. It is greater than the imagination put together under the influence of Western and Seljuk Turks, Arabs, Persian Samanids, Karakhanids, Mongolians, Khoremzshah, Amir Timur, the Shaybanids, Russians from Peter the Great to the Red Army of the Bolsheviks, with even today's corrupted Islam Karimov. You may have read about the Guri Amir, Registan, Bibi Khanym, Shah I Zinda, ancient Afrosiab with its prophetic past, chaikhana and charming courtyard stays, the wonderful Metro system. You may only see it too late when the new town rambled through the rubble of the older parts of town, where lines of Poplar and Mulberry trees in their hundred-year old trunks, chopped and flattened for modernity, bringing away the secrets of time as they burnt into dust.
It is also the path to Shakrisabz, Hoja Ismail, Urgut, Zerafshan, and Nurata of the Great Iskandar / Alexander's fortress fame en route to Bukhara. Some travellers may comment that they hated this town because of "over restoration". Some you will meet, fall in love with the fairytale of former Bactrian camel-threaded routes, the night air filed with the clanking of chai cups being washed while merchants downed their fatigue with cold salad and yoghurt, sabre-long sticks of shashlyk, bowls of Dimlama kebab as more carpets were laid out in the wide esplanade in front of the lazy gaze of towering caravanserai. Yours truly belongs to the latter.
However you spelled it, whatever you chose to argue the right or wrong of it, this city beguiled in a slow way. Take a few days to rest in one of the many home stays in the older part of the Jewish quarters that overlooked a hill of an Islamic cemetery while the haunting calls of the azan in the nearby mosques lulled you into contentment. If Samarkand is to be the gateway to what was to come, I couldn't wait for the future. All my life I had wondered how it felt to stand in front of these giant minarets, in the middle of a madrassah compound, look through the geometrically carved windows that led into more private courtyard sheltered by roofs of vines. Although the richness of the former rubbled glory days of trade in the Silk Route has long gone like last winter as sea and air navigation took its helm, magic, one will learn quickly never dies. The dedication and creativity of Samarkand during the height of its importance stand true today in the restored facade of these amazing spread of mosques (some still in use since the 15th and 16th centuries), religious schools, mausoleums and bazaars. I can wax lyrical about the breathtaking Timurid architecture but I shall leave it to entice your fancy to come and marvel at these sites in one of the many sunrise or sunset of your life.
What I know that time has nurtured for not want of restoration is the spirit of the people. Come here to open your heart and liven your eyes. Many of the locals we met spoke of an interesting mix of Uzbek-spiced Tajik language not too different from Persian Farsi. Of course we have met ethnic Uzbek as well, one in amongst the many "new friends" you bumped into over a friendly gaze and a sharing of cold water when the temperature soared. Anwar and his wife of 14 years, Zuleikha, and their two bubbly boys met us at the Registan. As with many a time, we got curious stares and questions of ourselves. Really friendly city and we enjoyed learning as much about them too. Anwar, it turned out was a high-ranking policeman from the Ferghana Valley. In between the ooh's and aah's of visiting the Registan, we also shared about the recent Osh incident, which Anwar showed live videos in his mobile phone of just the most hideous, illogical shooting of inter-ethnic discord. Not very pretty images of corpses and blood. He showed us too of a half-foot wound on his right abdomen, a mark of his contribution in halting and the arresting of the ones causing unrest in the incident of Andijon in May 2005. His family showed us all the way to the bazaar, waited and guided us, got us back to our place. The price? Lots of photo-taking and a warm, genuine handshake. Another night, we dined at the historical home of a fifth generation descendant of a Sufi, famous and respected in this region.
What I know that time has nurtured for not want of restoration is the spirit of the people. Come here to open your heart and liven your eyes. Many of the locals we met spoke of an interesting mix of Uzbek-spiced Tajik language not too different from Persian Farsi. Of course we have met ethnic Uzbek as well, one in amongst the many "new friends" you bumped into over a friendly gaze and a sharing of cold water when the temperature soared. Anwar and his wife of 14 years, Zuleikha, and their two bubbly boys met us at the Registan. As with many a time, we got curious stares and questions of ourselves. Really friendly city and we enjoyed learning as much about them too. Anwar, it turned out was a high-ranking policeman from the Ferghana Valley. In between the ooh's and aah's of visiting the Registan, we also shared about the recent Osh incident, which Anwar showed live videos in his mobile phone of just the most hideous, illogical shooting of inter-ethnic discord. Not very pretty images of corpses and blood. He showed us too of a half-foot wound on his right abdomen, a mark of his contribution in halting and the arresting of the ones causing unrest in the incident of Andijon in May 2005. His family showed us all the way to the bazaar, waited and guided us, got us back to our place. The price? Lots of photo-taking and a warm, genuine handshake. Another night, we dined at the historical home of a fifth generation descendant of a Sufi, famous and respected in this region.
We walked out one evening for a stroll in the old quarters. Not really knowing where we were going but kids playing in the alleys were greeting us in the newly learned English phrase of "hello-goodbye" (said together all at once) rung out at every corner. With eyes like minted coins they gleamed and glowed at you with laughter and curiosity. Their mothers, mostly Tajik women with beautiful features, are young and even younger at heart. Many of their husbands invited us into their homes for a quick snack of salted trout and the local pivo. These are lovely homes exuding with love and happiness. The bare walls outside hardly did justice to the flowering gardens, canary birds singing in their gilded cages as an old grandmother threw more buckets of water to the pebbled courtyard ground to cool it off. We didn't want to overstay our welcome and asked to leave. A quick photo-taking and then an invite to do the gesture of thanksgiving common in any act of finishing a meal or a train journey beginning - the Amin prayer. Nonetheless we were trying hard to suppress our giggle as it was quite the oxymoron of a Muslim performing the Amin prayer after drinking cold lager. It's not that this particular family was an incorrigible Muslim family. They are a decent couple with a dentistry business, lovely daughters, take care of their guests, and you'll find it's a common sight in other families you shall meet. It's just the way it is. Fold it another way, it's still the same.
As we continued towards a loud melee in the garden that intersected the roads in front of another old mosque, a few men invited hubby and I into a party. We will in time learn that it was the "pre-wedding" party that the bride and groom had absolutely no presence at all. Everyone attended it to have an excuse to have a good time in a joyous occasion. Get this - we were complete strangers to them, hardly spoke a coherent line of Tajik, all I had in my hand were three dried chillies given from the garden of the first house we were invited to. We weren't even dressed formally! Hands gesturing more welcome, palms pushing us through to the main table under the trees, a hundred pairs of eyes looked and followed these two newbies in town walking towards a huge spread of fruits, bread and meat, rice and sweets, with twice the times of that in bottles of wine and Vodka. I'm not talking about just the men's tables. A sly glance towards the women's tables confirmed that they had their rounds of Vodka too albeit only discreetly. After all, the men filled up the quota of the loud and boisterous. From the air two shot glasses emerged and were continuously filled despite my effort to practice what Valentin had advised me in never refusing the first time and cleverly (yeah right) refusing the seconds without offending my host. The hot lemon glaring bulb from the video cameraman swoop down at us while the wedding band striked up another ear-splitting but feet tapping tune. The wedding dancers (yes!) began their seductive gyrates and whirls under the shadiness of the Mulberry trees. More shots. More fatty (but so good!) mutton brew. More men began arriving at the table to bid us their greeting, heck even the community's President arrived. All kind and politely behaved, but make no fun of their Vodka intake. In the land of the Uzbeks, mixing it with tonic water will get you a bawl of laughter. These men were probably pissing Vodka in their pants when they were two!
By the second course in which I dug through my plate of plov according to the custom "outside to the inside, leave the meat last", our new friend Abdul Halim insisted that we couple took to the dance floor. Oh the blessed sweetness of summer! Those big mommas were already dancing up a storm! I must say in hindsight, I should have been more professional and stayed out to photograph these ladies. Screw the rules. I didn't want to let this moment passed. I wanted to be part of life itself, not an observer for once. So we lifted our hands, we showed a fusion of the twist with some traditional Malay dance. We did the South Indian harvest dance. We did the Punjabi wedding dance. It just went on to spur the big mommas and with their concentrated masks of sublime sensuality and poker-face smile, they allowed their shoulders, hips, hands to do the talking. We were from so different a place yet we were all dancing as one. From the haze of the Vodka coursing through my veins, the heat of the evening, the loud music and many bodies twirling around me, I saw the darned light bulb again and decided if the poor bride ever watched her pre-wedding video again, I needed to at least assure her that Malaysians were really not crazy wedding party crashers. So I took in one breath and gave my "Malaysia, Truly Asia" smile at the cameraman. You got to love times like this where you know you would probably get kicked out of the nunnery for such debauchery but heck, I wasn't planning for the nunnery anytime. As sudden as the dancing began, it slowly ebbed away. I made a hefty 200 Uzbek Som that half an hour - just for dancing! This, I would use to buy a chunk of local vanilla and chocolate milk candy in the Shiob Bazaar a few days later. So remember, you read it here first. If ever you are in dire need for a meal and some spare change - don't dismiss the wedding (I'm just kidding!). We had everyone waving at us and acknowledging "Ah, the happy couple at the wedding last night" the next day. Village walls talk! There wasn't a string of venom in it, just good hospitality that you shouldn't take advantage of. When the people here give, they seriously give.
Another hot day. What to do? We decided to explore by foot. Again we got lost. The day's pretty quiet once you get closer to noon. I had no idea what time it was, nor what day I was in. A short stroll upward showed us a shaded block and we decided to take a breather here. Passing the main gates, we saw an old grandmother with her granddaughter. By this time of our travels we had taken to greet anyone we meet with the polite Asalamualaikum. It was just a given and you can add the customary hand to the heart style. So there we were - fanning ourselves from the sweat we worked up. Then much to our surprise, the little girl brought out a bowl of water for us. It was the sweetest and kindest thing any child can do. Nervously and shyly she walked towards hubby, spilling some on the dry concrete and making a fizzy sound. Her grandmother came out and asked in Tajik something we couldn't comprehend. More smiles and she came over, opened her garden pipe and let the initial sprout of water washed through like a geyzer. Then we washed our bowl and filled it with the cooler part of the stream. Rahmat was said profusely. After all, we urban bunnies weren't used to having such generosity and I was, least to say, very moved. They went in again. A moment or two passed. An old man walked past with a purpose. Another old lady crouched through with her walking stick. The old grandmother appeared again, this time with a quarter of watermelon cut and half a moon of the Uzbek traditional bread. We tried to indicate that she shouldn't go through the trouble. I was nearly in tears because it only reminded me of a time so long ago when I grew up in a place small enough for such practice to be a necessary commonality. More "hello-goodbye" from the neighbouring kids (news spread fast here!) and everyone had come out to see the funny tourists with their funny sun hats.
On our way back to our home, we passed by the Guri Amir's compound. The usually pristine site was packed with cars this day. I realised then it was a Friday. That cute little mosque by the corner was actually a living, breathing building. And we were standing respectfully under the patronage of the many Mulberry trees in front of the mosque while we observed the faithfuls performing their ablution and prayers. In the hottest of the days since we had arrived in Uzbekistan, that space in time was blessed with a cool breeze rustling the Mulberry leaves. As each Muslim man gave himself in penance and prayer to his God, not even the trees or the ancient sites surrounding this tiny little mosque dared to squeak. Not even the two travellers who stood in unison, understanding that no matter how different the strokes of race, gender, religion or nationality, we all are touched by the same unseen, unspoiled in a place we all looked to somewhere within our hearts.
