That night we crossed the Oxus, dim in the fading light, which helped to preserve the great river’s mystery, which had held spellbound dozens of writers and explorers. But in this parched part of the world, water is far more important than lore, and the river’s output was abundant to support a number of empires, most notably those of Alexander, and Genghis Khan (though centuries apart). In modern times, overirrigation had greatly diminished its flow, dramatic proof being the Aral Sea, now one-tenth its previous size.
The morning dawned to skies as magnificent and blue as the
day before. It was still early when we
arrived in Bukhara, beginning the day with a visit to the Kalon Mosque and its
adjacent minaret, now off limits, but the scene of a handful of legends
involving the ingenuity of the few who survived being thrown from its 47-meter
height. The courtyard of the mosque was simply immense, and could handle ten
thousand visitors, but we had it to ourselves this day. Between the sky and its dome and the
tilework, it was like a multihued demonstration of the color blue.
The next two days I spent wandering, exploring all the
hidden corners and back roads. A carpet
seller explained heft and weave, all in a flawless London accent. Sellers
huddled in the crumbling Abdul Aziz Khan Madressa, their business pitch much
more solid than the edifice around them; Char Minar stood alone in a sunken
courtyard, quiet and atmospheric and somehow reminiscent of a space
shuttle. Historically there had been
snakes here, but I found that difficult to believe, considering it was now
hemmed in by houses; I stroll through the labyrinth of covered bazaars, the
sellers friendly, unaggressive. I returned
late to buy a drum the following day, but seemed to have chosen the only
salesperson in town who took Sundays off;
(I’d eventually but one in a caravanserai, from a musician whose 10
years old son out tapped a few licks before handing it over.) I also bought a hand puppet for my daughter,
its creator considered a national treasure.
Nearby, a European couple sat on the sunken steps before the Ismail
Samani Mausoleum, dazzled by its 1100 year beauty.
A walk at dawn took me down the alleyways, away from the
polish of the UNESCO funded main
sites. I popped into a few madrasa and
found that I had them to myself; making it far easier to find contemplation at
a time before the symbiotic dance of tourist and merchant got underway. My feet led me to the infamous Bug Pit, where
a pair of poor, cocky Englishmen found ample time for contemplation, and
hopefully reflected on their arrogance, which ultimately got them killed. I sat out front after my visit, looking over
at the hulking Ark across the sands, most of the once proud structure reverting
back to desert. In her spreading shadow,
three boys played with a Spiderman doll.
I cut back through the carpet marker, locals mainly, as the
sellers had no real interest in me. I
settled eventually with a coffee by the pond Lyabi Hauz. I attempted to get
involved with my book about Ibn Battutah, but was often pulled away by people
who wanted to take a photo with me. The
most persistent were a group of girls, in high school probably, who had dressed
up for a Sunday on the town. (I’d run
into them twice more before the day was over.)
The final evening , our group watched a concert in the
Namozgohk Mosque, where on a massive carpet had been laid across the courtyard,
and a series of local dances were performed.
It was difficult to assess which was more beautiful, the movements or
the costumes. Between dances, four
models drifted through wearing a stunning array of clothing that ran across the
centuries. Swallows flitted above,
alight on the bounce of the notes emitting from the percussion and
strings. It was a magical evening, culminating
in a dinner in the sprawling home of an apparently successful merchant, who
joined in on stirring a massive pot of plov
bubbling away in a fire pit at the center of a courtyard. The Uzbeks had proven to be wonderful hosts,
as open and inviting as their spacious architecture. But sadly we’d be crossing the border that
night.
On the turntable: Dave Douglas, "The Infinite"
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