My last count, the wedding dance routine actually raked in 4,500 Uzbek Som. Pretty fly for a girl I reckon! Anyway, we had been good and meandered far, far away like a repentant fly from all those silly parties. So we made another evening walk towards the 5th Century Ark in the Registan area during sunset. Nights like this gave you an opportunity to turn back the lines on your face as you dreamed in the cool breezy space of an uninterrupted, quiet walk through the neighbourhood. It's almost like going back in time except you didn't have the old costumes, the smelly Bactrian camels and the husky voices wrapping up another day of bargaining in the local markets.
It's been a while since we were invited into our first local Tajik family's courtyard to break the passing of another hot day, sitting on Mr. Mehmey's simple but lovely suzane while his sweet wife cooked us some delicious homefare. Tonight as we rustled amongst the swaying trees shimmering us with specks of fallen leaves that looked like light baby grapes while another group of boys playing football tried to squeeze out as much as they could from the dying light like a desperate baking housewife would from a lemon fruit. As we approached another locked old mosque, a voice called out to us. Faint but definitely female. We turned and a friendly woman in her 40s, sitting with her husband and a baby waved at us. As she smiled, her lips parted to reveal a row of steady gold coated teeth like glimmering tombstones. I noticed a lazy kitten was sitting next to her husband whom had handed me (now I discovered) his grandson, Ali. We were invited to enter their home housing four generations. Two cups of chai and bread, we learned about their history, how Layla had lost her three elder brothers and that there was no job paying good enough for her to support her old parents. She and her husband, together with both her daughters and grandson Ali will be moving to Moscow to work for two years. She told us it's a cleaning job and it pays well enough. The fact that she didn't have to be bothered by complicated visa applications helped her decision. It will be a while before she meets her parents again. Her old father sat quietly engrossed with the boxing match on television while the kitten haughtily marched forward to share a warm spot on his carpet. Quickly her daughter took out a giant plate of plov and salad while the other girl cut up a juicy slice of honey melon. This was the kind of hospitality that we were still getting a bit shy accustomed to as they were interested really in our stories of home, our lives and you're to enjoy and honour their homes as guests.
Yes we've met the odd drunk beggar that tried to appear to "buy" me a cold drink that resulted in me having to pay for the bottle and another one for him, while another pestered my hubby to pay him money because "Musulman must help another Musulman" while kids just run up to ask for pens, "bon bon" which I take for sweets. But generally people here offer everything from their hearts and it's a touching sight to see and a good reminder of days not too long ago, when we both lived in a town small enough to exert exactly the same thing given in the same position. There's never an day too hot to welcome a passer-by with a bowl of cold water or a wedding to fussed up to allocate who's supposed to sit with whom because that somebody isn't talking to that another body. You don't need to wait for your invitation card because everyone's invited. A world where your good gracious wishes and presence suffice.
Yes we've met the odd drunk beggar that tried to appear to "buy" me a cold drink that resulted in me having to pay for the bottle and another one for him, while another pestered my hubby to pay him money because "Musulman must help another Musulman" while kids just run up to ask for pens, "bon bon" which I take for sweets. But generally people here offer everything from their hearts and it's a touching sight to see and a good reminder of days not too long ago, when we both lived in a town small enough to exert exactly the same thing given in the same position. There's never an day too hot to welcome a passer-by with a bowl of cold water or a wedding to fussed up to allocate who's supposed to sit with whom because that somebody isn't talking to that another body. You don't need to wait for your invitation card because everyone's invited. A world where your good gracious wishes and presence suffice.
Yet it's also a weird world where a female could get up close to witness the unison of prayers and submission when we went past the Bollo Hauz mosque. Admittedly this was probably the closest I had been allowed to stand to a Muslim congregation in prayers but this should be done with sensitivity and alertness. There isn't any fast or hard rules but just as I was expected to wear the robe and veil in Dehli, I was free to stand by the local pond under a tree to watch, but found out that sitting down on the pavement wasn't a good idea because I was wearing a dress. There is a variation of acceptance and I suspect that if we had been to the other big mosque nearer to the Qalon Minaret, which is an enclosed area, I wouldn't be given this much freedom. Here, the entire praying square was opened to the public.
Back in the olden days, the Emir would arrive here and pray on the carpeted compound. Today, it's just young and old gathering to shop for a last minute hat, greet and meet, pray and off to lunch. You can see one Friday prayer and another but you can't say all of them are the same. There is something alike but different from each mellow but soulful azan that rings out to beckon the faithfuls. Even the same mosque touches that secret chamber of spiritual yearning how no snowflake or rain drop ever are alike. In the background, the Ark looked on like a hunting falcon, perched on its much damaged rubble pile, forlornly at a city that had been ravaged so much and rebuilt over years by the human hand and machine, and the sands of the deserts.
Back in the olden days, the Emir would arrive here and pray on the carpeted compound. Today, it's just young and old gathering to shop for a last minute hat, greet and meet, pray and off to lunch. You can see one Friday prayer and another but you can't say all of them are the same. There is something alike but different from each mellow but soulful azan that rings out to beckon the faithfuls. Even the same mosque touches that secret chamber of spiritual yearning how no snowflake or rain drop ever are alike. In the background, the Ark looked on like a hunting falcon, perched on its much damaged rubble pile, forlornly at a city that had been ravaged so much and rebuilt over years by the human hand and machine, and the sands of the deserts.
There is no more of the 80 hauz that used to dot the city like a pretty spring-time field. The local bazaar trading the much popular rings and gold jewellery in hues of rose and lightened canary beloved by the precious gems-studded ladies, and rolls of giant carpets akin to a land of Gulliver's version of Aladdin, play no more an active role as it would had been many years ago. Even the canal carrying the water from the Zarafshan had bowed out to a noiseless flow of mud. Restorations are keenly rolling in but people are leaving Bukhara.
We come and go but I'm referring to the locals. What will become then of this city of crossroads? When the glitter and glamour of its heyday have well and truly died a thousand deaths, what will be left when all that had been crushed and rebuilt give way to a man-made version of a city that had once saw the coming and going of Emir rule, tyrants, traders, Dervishes and religious preachers, ancient Zoroastrian and Buddhist temples built over lands claimed by locals to be high energy fields that now stood the broken tatters of mosques and locked synagogues that no more than a handful of hundreds of Jews left to keep it running, drained pools and dusty streets, steamy hammam and humble homes. As long as it remains this way, trickle by another, people will leave Bukhara, and only return when the tourists pour in like new money when the peak spring and autumn seasons return to an otherwise charming town that in years to come, will see the same traditional puppets hanging outside the main theater, the rolls of woven carpets standing like soldiers on inspection, and the odd tandoor oven under an old, old Mulberry tree.
We come and go but I'm referring to the locals. What will become then of this city of crossroads? When the glitter and glamour of its heyday have well and truly died a thousand deaths, what will be left when all that had been crushed and rebuilt give way to a man-made version of a city that had once saw the coming and going of Emir rule, tyrants, traders, Dervishes and religious preachers, ancient Zoroastrian and Buddhist temples built over lands claimed by locals to be high energy fields that now stood the broken tatters of mosques and locked synagogues that no more than a handful of hundreds of Jews left to keep it running, drained pools and dusty streets, steamy hammam and humble homes. As long as it remains this way, trickle by another, people will leave Bukhara, and only return when the tourists pour in like new money when the peak spring and autumn seasons return to an otherwise charming town that in years to come, will see the same traditional puppets hanging outside the main theater, the rolls of woven carpets standing like soldiers on inspection, and the odd tandoor oven under an old, old Mulberry tree.
