Khiva and Samarkand

From the sensory overload of the Silk and Spices festival in Bukhara (which you’ll have a post on when Brendan can be bothered to write it), we began our journey to Khiva across the monotony of the Kyzyl-kum desert. The endless expanse of red sand couldn’t enthral me for long, so when Brendan tried to steal a baby from a young couple, it did at least offer some entertainment. In that moment, something just snapped in him. I have always felt there was some darkness buried there, somewhere behind his eyes. Unfortunately, when it came down to it there was little I could do to stop him. After surviving the cavernous potholes and the poo smeared squat toilet hellscape of our long drive, I didn’t have the energy to intervene in the kidnapping of a small child. That, if anything, would’ve been asking too much of me. Soon after the attempted child theft, the young couple got out of the car, tearing the baby from Brendan’s vice-like grip. We sat back in silence, contemplating the events of the last few hours. However, before we could discuss what we now call “the incident”, we were in Khiva. 

Khiva

Much like Bukhara, Khiva had some old stuff that we wanted to see. Unlike Bukhara, the bread is a bloody disgrace and you have to pay too much to see inside any of the buildings. We had three nights booked and after our first walk around we were a little worried that we might be tearing our hair out by the last night. 

However, we did spy a path, without a dreaded payment turnstile, up onto the city walls during daylight and decided to return under the cover of darkness. Not sure whether we were technically allowed up there, we felt like fugitives. However, in hindsight, we probably weren’t breaking any laws and wouldn’t find ourselves in some dank corner of an Uzbek prison. This was somewhat disappointing. Keeping up our image as rogue travelling types, willing to do the unthinkable just for the story, is extremely important to us. So, watch this space to see what terrible acts we (most likely Brendan) commit in the name of a good story. Anyway, the views from the wall were beautiful. In the foreground were the unlit labyrinthine streets of the outskirts and then the brightly lit minarets pierced the night sky in the background. We sat on the wall for a while and admired the view under a smattering of stars. Suddenly, the call to prayer started and its incredible sound blanketed the sleeping city, adding to our feeling of wonder.

Sat in our hostel’s courtyard garden we met Vincent (the most baguettey, wine loving, “‘ow you say in Engleesh” man we had ever met) and Adam (a Hungarian bloke who knows about everything that has ever happened in Europe). We wandered the small streets with them and found our way up the tower, taking it in turns to use someone else’s ticket which we had been gifted. The tower’s staircase was only wide enough to allow for one at a time, steep enough to warrant the use of all fours and completely dark save for the rare gift of a narrow slit in the outer wall. However, despite this unexpected trial by climbing, the view was completely worth it.

We spent most of our three days with Vincent and Adam. We played cards, drank lots of beer and Brendan and I tried really hard to pronounce our words properly so that Vincent could understand us. After an extremely close cards game one evening, resulting in the smarmiest French smiling face you can imagine, we were ready to leave them (and our shame) behind and head for Samarkand. 

The Train

From Khiva, we took a night train for 13 hours to get to Samarkand. Unlike the luxurious fast train which we had taken before, this was a Soviet style sleeper. It had a narrow corridor running the length of the carriages with small sections off of it containing the bunks. 

With no ticket to hand over or anything to worry about on our journey to Bukhara, we were unprepared for our terrifying encounter with “the Enforcer” within minutes of our arrival. He came to us as we chomped on bread (that had been given to us by a random kind stranger), stood there in his perfectly pressed uniform and stared. He stared so deeply into our souls that I felt my very life-force shrivel away from his gaze. No words had yet been spoken. After what felt like hours of dreadful silence, I stood to offer him anything and everything that he could possibly want from me. Fearing this movement may have been construed as a challenge, I mentally prepared for the Enforcer, with his body crafted from sinews of pure terror and bones of calcified evil, to reach effortlessly into my body and fish out a lung. My body was nothing but a shoddily assembled collection of meat to him. Pure unadulterated dread doesn’t quite cover how I felt. I stood utterly motionless. But then, Brendan flitted a ticket in front of his face. The Enforcer had seen what he’d come for. He decided not to remove any of our organs, said something about Mo Salah and left. 

With the Enforcer gone for now, we sat back with a worrying lack of water and tried to find things to distract us from our terrible thirst. As we passed through the desert, the sunset provided a nice backdrop to the hive of activity that the train had become. People were drinking tea, playing cards and children were bouncing off the walls. But then night fell and the children clambered into the tiny beds with their mums and siblings, while fat Uzbek men squirmed their way onto the narrow bunks. As everyone got settled in for the night the corridor became a tangle of limbs. They poked out at every angle and every height. As we departed the train at 03:30, we navigated this obstacle course of appendages with our large bags trying not to wake everyone up in our carriage.

Samarkand

Before arriving into Samarkand, we expected it to be much like Bukhara. We were wrong. Samarkand was a large, mostly modern city that was scattered with ancient wonders instead of filled with them. After settling in and getting a little sleep we set off for the Amir Temur mausoleum, where we finally learnt who this national hero of Uzbekistan actually was. He was an extremely successful conqueror with his military campaigns resulting in the deaths of around 5% of the world’s population back in the 14^thcentury. With Genghis Khan as his idol, he had a little more killing and conquering to do in order to restore the Mongol Empire with himself as the heir to the throne, but he gave it a bloody good go. Central Asia reaped the rewards of Amir’s (yes, we are on first name terms) far reaching campaigns. However, at the edges of his empire, which spanned from India to the Arabian Peninsula, he massacred millions and razed cities to the ground. All this said and done, he does have some very nice statues in Uzbekistan, so I’ll give him a pass for all the killing and ransacking. Inside the mausoleum was a beautifully intricate room with lots of the blue tiled decorations that are typical of Uzbekistan. However, what made us sit back in awe was the incredible amount of gold covering the walls and ceilings. 

The main attraction for tourists in Samarkand is the Registan. It’s much like the madrasas and mosques of Bukhara but on a larger scale and all facing into a square. It was undoubtedly impressive but the entrance prices were extortionate so we just wandered around the outside. This aimless wandering came to fruition one night when we fancied a stroll and happened across the most amazing lightshow we’d ever seen, projected onto the ancient buildings. The incredibly intricate display started with a fire flickering at the base of the building, then the embers rose as the fire intensified. The light from this imaginary fire slowly highlighted a cave with a man who lit a torch, which he moved to show the cave paintings dancing across the cave. From here we watched half an hour of the entire history of Uzbekistan, from the Greeks and Romans, to Hindu influences and of course the late great Amir Temur. Each segment was seamlessly linked with beautiful transitions and we were completely transfixed. 

Other than these two main attractions we hit up the mausoleum for the old president, found a cathedral that, while pretty, pales in comparison to the majesty of Salisbury’s gothic masterpiece and found a pint for less than 50p.

Final thoughts

Khiva and Samarkand were two beautiful cities that once again showcased incredible architecture, contained people that wouldn’t stop telling us how amazing Iran is and didn’t contain even the inkling of a strawberry daiquiri. To be completely honest, Brendan is at the end of his tether. First, he tried to pull off a child heist and now lacking in beautiful, sugary, alcoholic strawberry goodness, I fear extreme and uncompromising violence is just around the corner. He’s not the man he once was. Please, pray for me.