Bukhara

Leaving the extremely relaxed Tashkent in our wake, we made tracks to Bukhara via train. Firstly, the journey took us through the flat agricultural plains of Uzbekistan’s eastern reaches, from which the snow-capped mountains at the nearby Tajik border rose seemingly from nowhere. One image that will never leave me is that of a lonely Russian Lada’s dust trail swirling behind it as it rumbled unsteadily towards the mountains. With nothing but a solitary barn in sight, from my window to the jagged horizon, I imagined the freedom the driver felt with the expanse of his home spread out so beautifully ahead. However, as quickly as it came, the snapshot into their life was gone and our train moved remorselessly onwards. Soon we left the mountains behind and passed through the drier rolling hills towards Bukhara. We pulled into the station and it was raining. This was both a strange contrast to my expectations and a welcome change. For one I was cooler and secondly and probably most importantly, Brendan and I would have something to talk about for a few weeks. Give us any hint of a change in the weather and us Brits will lap it up, like the queen loving, tea making, pitifully polite Englishmen that we are.  

The City

While Tashkent still has the lingering Soviet legacy looming in the background of its progressively modernising image, Bukhara feels so centred around its cultural history and Islamic faith that the cities feel worlds apart. Apart from the Silk and Spices Festival that Brendan will write about in a separate post, all we did was wander the streets staring around in complete awe at the intricacies of the architecture. So without further ado, here’s a photographic approximation of the the total wonder we felt everyday in the city.

Madrasas and Mosques

Lovely locals

Minarets and mausoleums

International modelling contracts here we come

Final Thoughts

The only thing that these photos of two incredibly uninformed people walking around ancient wonders doesn’t show, is the beauty of the bread in Bukhara. Fresh enough to burn your hands and soft enough to make me rethink my atheism. If God is real, He’s in Bukhara working in a bakery.