Uzbekistan October 2018

Uzbekistan and its neighboring “-stans” is that spot on the map — between eastern-most Europe, Turkey, Iran, Russia, China, and Afghanistan – that, although once a big player in the history of Europe and Asia, for most of us is a blank space. So we take this trip in order to put some color and pattern into that space. We also have personal reasons to go there. For Philip, this is a return trip, after 23 years. For Halina, Uzbekistan is the place where her Jewish parents spent about 2-3 years during WWII, escaping the Holocaust. 

Towards Tashkent, Monday, Oct 1

Schiphol airport is like a factory, efficiently churning out thousands of travelers. Frankfurt is a nightmare. No signs, wrong information, different terminal. We thought we were late for the connecting flight, but in the end we caught it easily, thanks to Philip who brazenly checked in at the business class line. The Tashkent airport is new and handsome. All the information we had about many forms to fill out, money to declare, the bureaucracy, etc., does not apply anymore. Progress.  

We get picked up at the airport and within 20 minutes arrive at our hotel Gloria. Our neighborhood is dominated by a wide boulevard with four lanes of car traffic each way, like a highway. But the hotel is located in a small alley, quiet, with birds singing and a small outdoor patio with tables and umbrellas. After settling in we explore the immediate neighborhood searching for some food while having no local money. Halina has her first Russian conversations, which helps. We end up in the neighboring Grand Mir hotel where a credit card buys us lentil soup and bread.

Tashkent, Tuesday, October 2.

Perfect summer weather: dry and in the 80s. No discernable pollution or diesel smells. We have one day to take in this city.

Tashkent is a sprawling modern metropolis crisscrossed by grand boulevards similar to ours and wide sidewalks. The residential buildings are mostly 5-7 story high, some modern some from the Soviet era. We head for the metro. Like the Moscow metro, this one is built to proclaim a communist glory: elegant, grand, quiet, fast and efficient. These people would laugh at the T in Boston. The turnstiles do not work at our station so there is a young woman checking if we insert the tokens before entering. Next to her an armed security man. As the day goes by we see many security guards stationed in key locations, and always in the metro. As a visitor I like it of course.

We get off at Komsomolskaya station for a few minutes to admire the wall paintings of the heroes of the space travel: from Icarus to Gagarin, to various scientists and cosmonauts. I look into people’s faces: such a mix! Darker, lighter, Caucasian, Mongolian, Pashtun-like, and everything in-between. The history of this region is written on these faces. We of course do not know how different appearances translate into social positions and the local ideas of beauty. Not too many scarfs on women’s heads and those we see are more of a fashion statement than a cover. Like in Istanbul a few years ago, women enhance their profile by piling up hair on the top (or some other material) under the scarfs. The men are slender and narrow-hipped and all wear freshly ironed immaculately white shirts and black or navy trousers, occasionally a tie. This must be the standard office attire. Women in the Metro stop and ask if we need help, twice in English once in French. I engage briefly in a conversation with a French speaking cultured lady, tell her how I learned Russian, and where we live. So good to be able to speak their language.

We are heading for a mosque relatively close to the Chorsu street market, but the distances are much greater than we thought. At a certain point we change our mind and decide to walk to the Chorsu market first. By now it is noon and very hot. We walk along another highway-like street, hugging a large park on our left. These enormous streets from a strange landscape. There are plenty of cars moving fast but it does not feel like the developing world roads: no honking, no traffic jams, drivers stay in their lanes and observe traffic rules, including stopping for pedestrians, no trash.

I obsessively read signs. It is a forever a surprising experience. Some are in Russian, some are in Uzbeki. But the Uzbeki words are sometimes written in Cyrillic letters and sometimes in Roman alphabet. So when I sound out the Russian writing I don’t always understand what I just read. But it is a lot of fun to be able to read Russian signs.

Nothing very interesting at this end of the bazar: mostly clothes and household items, probably Chinese imports. In the early afternoon we rest at a small café under an umbrella. Russian is spoken here and there is no written menu. Philip sips coffee and I order soup. I could easily subsist here on these thick soups, which arrive with a basket of bread.

It is very hot now so we get out of the market. Visit briefly the charming Kukeldash madrasah and the huge modern Juma mosque, with the mosaic and the wood carving we also see on upscale houses. By chance we find a connection between the mosque and the old town. The neighborhood looks dilapidated but at least it represents the history of Tashkent. On the outer edge we see signs of gentrification: one alley features large villas. In a few years we will see the old town converted to all villas, just like the old hutongs in Beijing, with all these BMW and Mercedes’s parked in front. Philip’s only memory of Tashkent from 23 years ago is the metros and blazing heat. He does remember the local market but not as large as the one we saw today.

We take a “taxi” (in reality a private car) to another famous mosque — the Hazroti Imam Friday mosque – and make another stop at a café, this time with a beautiful water fountain falling in a ring of fine droplets. The negotiations with the drivers are interesting: when a man whom we accost is not going toward our destination he stops another car and arranges for a ride for us. So nice!  But the price we negotiate ourselves. We spent a total of $8 on all the rides and cafes!

An afternoon rest in the hotel’s garden with a glass of beer. Halina tries to understand the Russian conversation of the people at the next table. We are both pretty tired so we read and Philip naps in his chair. A little later we walk our street again, looking for a place to eat. This area, which yesterday evening looked like a wasteland, is teeming with restaurants of all stripes. After dinner we walk some more. It turns out that our neighborhood is very close to what was once a Jewish Quarter, with Tashkent synagogue at its center. We want to locate it. On the way we pass a huge construction site. The drawings on the fence and the signs proclaim that this will be a complex of luxury towers.  The GPS tells us to turn right into a dark alley adjacent to the construction site. We find the small synagogue there and behind the fence we see a large sukkah. In front of the fence stands a huge metal menorah, maybe 25 feet tall.

It is clear that the synagogue, along with this entire alley and people living here, will soon disappear under the pressure of the growing housing complex. The construction will only accelerate the process that has been under way for decades: the end of the Jewish community in Tashkent. I wonder if my parents, the communists, had any contact with this Jewish community (at that time numbering several hundred thousands) during the war years. My guess is they did not. What a pity that I did not travel to Uzbekistan when Tata was still alive. So many unanswered questions!

Our walk back takes us along high end shops and restaurants and through dilapidated neighborhoods with semi-high rise flats. There are enough people in these streets to feel safe, but it is not pretty. We try to locate the Center of Lubavichim but eventually give up and head for the hotel, very very tired.

Traveling to Khiva. Wednesday, October 3.

After a slow morning we head to the airport for a 1 PM flight to Urgench. This airport for domestic flights is quiet and very pleasant. It is an hour-long flight and most of the passengers speak German and British English. A surprise awaits as when we discover that two men are holding signs with Philip’s name on them. Apparently, Philip mistakenly arranged a pickup with both the hotel and the travel agent. The two men are very agitated while the security guard asks us to choose between them. Solomonian choice. We solve the problem by paying the hotel fellow $10 for his trouble and go with the other guy. He gives us a wide smile sporting several gold front teeth. It takes over half an hour of fast driving to arrive at Khiva. We pass fields of recently harvested cotton plants, which we see for the first time. The landscape is completely flat.

Hotel Scheherazade us lovely. Not very big – maybe 20 rooms – with an intimate family atmosphere, comfortable inviting armchairs scattered with abundance, beautiful wooden carvings everywhere, and old fashioned parquet floors, including our room. Despite the intense heat outside it is cool in the interior without air-conditioning. The reception desk attendant serves us tea with cakes, then we unpack, rest, and go out to explore the neighborhood. Our hotel is within the city walls but not in the very center of the old town, in a regular neighborhood with kids playing outside. Just as we like it.

Khiva is magical. It is a well preserved Muslim town, full of madrassas, mosques, living quarters and shops, all encircled by ancient walls. The renovations of the past twenty years “sanitized” it and tourism turned it into a bazar designed strictly for tourist consumption. But despite all that, and the large numbers of tourists, it still shines with great beauty and allows one to imagine what life might have looked like here centuries ago. Today we only take a quick look, leaving a deeper exploration for tomorrow. One thing that strikes me is the sandy colors of buildings, walls, and the landscape. They are all monochromatically beige. The bricks used for construction are the same material as those I saw in the Turfan area of Northwest China two decades ago. They are made of the clay in this desert and dried in the sun. The beige background provides a striking contrast for the colorful (dominated by blue) tiles on structures.

We have dinner on a rooftop while admiring the incredible light of the setting sun reflected from the buildings. We chat for a bit with a Swiss couple at the next table. They are at the end of a two week trip while ours has just began.  After dinner we wander some more, have coffee and tea at a simple place for the locals right outside the main gate, and promptly get lost on the way to the hotel. As soon as we move away from the very center of the old town, where all the tourists linger, we find ourselves in a maze of alleys, pitch dark, convoluted, and deserted. The only light we detect is that escaping the closed doors and tightly shuttered windows of the usual family dwellings: blind walls to the outside. We actually find ourselves between two tall walls, with no clear way out. Finally we find a woman with two infants sitting on her front steps and, after admiring the twins on her lap, I ask her for directions to our hotel. She promptly calls her two older daughters, who lead us home, using, in this medieval place, a mobile phone as a flashlight. In the last minute I suddenly remember the marker and paint sets I brought with me in case some children need presents. With joy I hand them to the girls and they joyfully accept.

Khiva. Thursday, October 4

Khiva was a minor point on the Silk until the 16th century when Timor’s empire was already disintegrating and a tribe of Uzbeks settled this land and created the state of Kherezm, with Khiva as its capital and the seat of the Khan. In the early 18th century Khiva’s Khan turned to Peter the Great for protection against various local invaders but by the time Peter sent his 4000 troops the Khan changed his mind and found them to be a threat. He simply slaughter them all, to the last man. But that freedom did not last long. During the 18th century Persians moved in and in the second half of the 19th century Russian conquered Khiva. In 1924 the Soviets incorporated Khiva into the newly created Uzbekistan Socialist Republic. The economy of Khiva’s Khanate was thriving for three centuries on its famous slave market, until the 18th or 19th century. As the day progresses we discover that the most beautiful of beautiful structures we admire in Khiva date to the period of 17th to 20th centuries, though it feels more like coming from the 10-11th centuries.

Over this morning’s breakfast we have an interesting conversation with two Californian travelers, she originally from Italy. It is apparent that they are both academics. We talk about the drought in S. California, very appropriate in this desert town where the water is being drained for the cotton monoculture, started by the Soviet Union.

The light here is very bright, even in October. And the morning is cool. We walk in the bright sunlight between the adobe houses until we suddenly enter the tourist area through a narrow opening (no surprise we missed it last night in the darkness). Our first stop is the currency exchange office. The previous day this failed because she only had small banknotes; today we had first to wait patiently (she was sweeping the dust in front to the office) and when she finally opened she still had only bills of 5000 and some 10,000. For our $100 we get stacks of bills (one US$ converts to about 10,000 Som).  

Our first sight is the mighty “Kuhna Ark” which is a palace in a palace, with stunning open spaces with highly decorated ceilings and adorned with blue-glazed tiles in fantastic varieties. We then visit the Museum of applied art, with silk money, beautiful wood carvings, an impressive throne, among others. We also visit the museum of history with lots of old photographs; and a very interesting mausoleum, dotted with graves with a very special form. These sites are all in a very close proximity to each other and not very big.

We meandered somewhat from site to site, without exactly knowing what we are seeing and how to interpret it in the context of culture and history. We discuss between us if we should hire a guide, which solves some of these problems but creates others (such as becoming passive, and missing adventure and excitement). After lunch and another visit to a madrasah featuring more than 200 wood-carved pillars we get back to the hotel and sleep for nearly two hours.

Around 4 pm we hit the road again, this time heading for the Tosh-Havli palace. But first we retrace our steps of the previous dark night’s wanderings, along the inner side of the southern wall. We locate the field of graves we saw in the dark last night, built against the massive city walls at least 20 meters high maybe 5 meters thick. Back in the touristy part of town Halina negotiates 3 scarves made of camel wool and as transparent as lace. The women of Khiva dress beautifully and walk very straight. The fashion is velvet dresses in deep colors, decorated with embroidery and glitter. They put their thick shiny black hair in pony tails or pile them up on top, with lovely results. So pretty.

The Tosh-Havli palace is enormous, beautifully decorated with blue tiles and impressive ceilings. We move through a labyrinth of rooms, with here and there a sudden unexpected courtyard, completely deserted at this time, except for a few vendors of handmade goods. Khiva is overrun by tourists, but they are almost all congregated in the very center of the old town and in a few most famous buildings. So it is easy to find solitude.

What is amazing about Khiva is that some of the palaces here were built as recently as first decades of the 20th century. And the art is the same as can be encountered in the south of Spain, built by the Moors in the 12th-15th centuries, or as other masterpieces of Islam dating centuries earlier. It seems that the history of the rest of the world passed by this place with little trace. While Europe and Far and Middle East were shaking with revolutions, changing regimes, the Great War, collapses of empires, redrawing the world map, Marxism and the Soviet revolution, the people of this land went about their lives far removed from all this commotion. The great game between Russia, Ottoman Empire and Great Brittan was partly played here but without major impacts on the local live. Until the invasion by the Soviets in 1920 Khiva was ruled by its Khans and the rest of the world was not so important. In fact, it was only in 1924, when the Soviet Republic of Uzbekistan was created, that the borders were demarcated and a national identity generated. If it was not for enforced collectivization of agriculture, the imposed cotton monoculture, and the Stalinist purges, this region would have sailed through the Soviet period without much disturbance.

The Soviets also brought their language and alphabet (and almost 100% literacy). Until then, Uzbekis used the Arabic alphabet, introduced here together with Islam in the 8th century. In the 20th century they switched to Cyrillic alphabet and started writing from left to right, and in the 21st century they adopted Latin alphabet. Amazing!

And who are Uzbeks? First, the Alexander the Great came in 4th century BC and took this region away from the Persian Empire. But did not leave many traces. Turkic tribes settled here in the 6th century. The Arabs came in the 8th century and left behind Islam and Arabic alphabet, but did not stay otherwise. In the 9th and 10th centuries Persians came back to this region and made Bukhara the capital. That was followed by Genghis Khan and the Mongolian invaders in the13th century, followed by the great rule of a native son Timur who made Samarkand his capital. Uzbeks are descendants of all these winds blowing through this land, especially the Turks, Persians and Mongolians.

As the sun is setting we have a beer at a deserted kebab-place, and find a nice, sheltered, quiet, low-key restaurant. Halina reads from the guidebook about the history of Uzbekistan and how Uzbeks and their modern nation emerged. In the dark we find our way to the hotel easily, and spent the rest of the evening catching up with email and writing.

Vicinity of Khiva. Friday October 5.

This day is different from the others: at 9am a driver and guide meet us at the hotel for a day trip to Toprak Kala and Kizyl Kala. Both are old cities from the 2nd century, established by Zoroastrians, but they are quite different.

We drove through Urgench and through agricultural land, mostly cotton, into a desert landscape. We learned that cotton is picked four times between middle of September and end of October. Before each harvest the land is irrigated, which prompts the fully developed flowers to open and release their cotton. We stopped the car to take a closer look at the plants. Cotton in this raw state looks like cotton balls sold in drugstores: snowy white and delicate. Halina took a branch with her as a souvenir.

We also drove under unfinished railway overpass, which was supposed to be connected to this highway. The project was never completed and now it stands as a monument to corruption. After about 2 hours of driving we arrived at Toprak Kala. This settlement was built almost two millennia ago out of mud bricks and adobe finish. It is amazing that so much of it still stands under this heat and wind. It was one of 50 similar settlements of a few hundred people, placed in such distance from each other that if one was attacked it could notify the other by lighting a big fire on this flat land.  This settlement was abandoned when the inhabitants moved closer to the water source. All the interesting artefacts were unfortunately sent to the museums in Moscow and Petersburg.

We next drove to Kizul Kala, which is nearby as the bird flies, but for us required a huge detour. First we saw a Zoroastrian temple and then we took a sandy path steeply upwards to the top of the mud walls of a huge city. We could actually walk over the walls around the city; the walls had all kind of constructions like arches and tunnels, and the landscape reminded us of Monument Valley in Utah or Arizona. The digging for the mud to construct this city created a nearby lake that looked pretty large to us. The guide stayed behind but we both walked around the entire perimeter of the town, which was destroyed by an invasion. The guide told us a complicated legend surrounding that story. A slave boy became a General and wanted to marry a highly born girl, but she refused him because of his low origin. The General was furious and commanded his army to attack and rape the girl. The Khan did not tolerate this and attacked the General’s army. The general was captured was hanged in the middle of this city.

After the hike we started back to Khiva. It became clear that the guide did not plan on stopping for lunch and altogether behaved like he wanted to drop us off at the hotel as soon as possible. So we asked him to take us to lunch in some village on the way. His idea of local was a horrific restaurant/bowling alley in Urgench with glitzy decorations, stroboscopic light inside, awful music and not a human being inside. We were served dreadful over-salted grilled chicken wing kebabs and stale bread. Only the borscht Halina ordered was good. We drove back to Khiva, where the guide left the car early so left it to the driver to drop us off at the hotel. Hopefully we will never see this guy again.

By then it was close to 4pm. Halina fell immediately asleep while Philip hit the road again; he wanted to get a feel for Khiva as a whole, without distraction by all the tourist sites. He took pictures of laundry against the backdrop of a mosque, and of city life like a bunch of kittens warming on a stone, and the adobe houses and their inhabitants. On the way to the North Gate he hit a ceremony in a narrow street: two women were bowing, one was completely covered, music playing, a man talking in a loudspeaker, and a large crowd around. He could not figure out what was happening, and nobody could explain it to him. He climbed the city wall and walked a little there, then went back to fetch Halina who was just up and ready to go out. We made roughly the same trip again, and Halina made a larger walk on the top of the city walls. We then headed to our favorite Terrace restaurant with a view over the entire old city. The setting of the sun was beautiful but somewhat clouded through the upcoming change of weather. We enjoyed the company of an eccentric Englishman who was in need of people to listen to his travel and language stories; first it was another couple who was leaving, then us; and later a poor single Japanese man who was seated at his table.

Traveling to Bukhara. Saturday October 6

Today we are traveling from Khiva to Bukhara, which should take 6-7 hours. We were taken aback to hear that we had to pay our hotel in cash; we had not counted on that. Although we had sufficient USD to pay the hotel, if all the future hotels require cash we will not have enough. And this is Saturday, the banks closed for the next two days.

A different driver showed up with a better car than yesterday. After the hot several days today the temperature suddenly dropped to the 60ies and cloudy. The driver drove fast, partially the same route as the previous day, then turned to the SE towards the desert. The road is a superb 4 lane highway with hardly any traffic. The flat monotonous landscape became desolate after the agriculture and houses disappeared. After about a hundred kilometers we entered a desert: sand, tiny shrubs, dust everywhere. Very rarely a house along the highway or an oil rig.  Once we stopped for a toilet, not even coffee was available. At some point it started raining: a rare event in these parts. The monotony of the landscape put us into a sleepy mood so we napped on and off. Around 1pm the road suddenly became bad; the driver had to swerve a lot around holes and sometimes drove in the border. The traffic became more intense. Around 3 pm we reached Bukhara.

The driver parked the car in the center and walked with us to the hotel, which was in a maze of streets but quite reachable by car. The boutique hotel is quite nice with multiple courtyards; our room is spacious with a couch and two tables. We were really tired from the trip but Philip wanted to revisit Lyabi-Hauz, the pond overshadowed by century-old mulberry trees that are as old as the pond, end 15th century. He remembered sitting there with Joris 23 years ago in a 48 degree centigrade day, waiting for the heat to subside. We ate grilled chicken and washed it with beer at the outdoor restaurant overlooking the pond. The place had still some of the atmosphere Philip remembered but much has been modernized and “sanitized”.

We went out again searching for the famous Bukhara Synagogue, which we found in one of the alleys. At the time of the Soviet takeover there were 25,000 Sephardic Jews living here but over the decades this number melted down to about 500 today. But there is a thriving Jewish school for several hundred children, only about thirty of whom are Jewish. For the rest of the children this is a form of high quality international school. The Rabbi-Cantor-caretaker (all in one person) is an exuberant figure who entertained us with stories about all the dignitaries that had visited the place. The discussion was entirely in Russian, and Philip was impressed by Halina’s language skills although he himself understood just a few words.

The big draw is an ancient Tora, which dates back to the Babylonian exile and traveled with the Jews to Persia, then Iraq and eventually to Bukhara.  Nobody knows its age but it may be as much as 3000 years. It is written on deer skin and is in excellent condition. Hilary Clinton was here, she turns out to be ¼ Jewish; Madelyn Albright, president Karimov and the Attorney-general of Uzbekistan, and many others. The rabbi also told us that Hilary wanted to find out something about her Jewish grandmother, who apparently spent the war years in Uzbekistan. Despite many efforts nothing was found. That put to rest any hopes Halina might have still had about finding and trace of her parents.

From the perspective of historical chronology this trip progresses backward. Khiva has established itself as a cultural center much more recently than Bukhara and Samarkand. Khiva’s greatest flourishing took place in the 17-19 centuries and into the early 20th century; Bukhara’s greatest flourishing took place in the 8-10th century, and to a smaller degree during the 16-18th century. And Samarkand had it renaissance during the reign of Timur and his descendant, in the 14th and 15th centuries. But this order of seeing things makes sense from another perspective: we are moving from smaller and intimate to larger and more spectacular. Furthermore, as we discovered, one cannot talk about the history of Uzbekistan because this country is a creation of the Soviets in the 1920s. Rather, it is a history of separate cities-Khanates staged against the great empires that met in this region: Persia, Mongols, Russia, England, and the Great game of the 19th century.

 

Bukhara. Sunday, October 7

Today we sightsee Bukhara under the guidance of our charming 24 years old guide Munisa.

The great artistic and intellectual renaissance in Bukhara took place in the 10th and 11th centuries when it was the capital of the Samanide kingdom. The Mongol invasion in the 13th century put an end to it and the decline continued under Timur (Tamerlane) who made Samarkand his capital in the 14th century. Bukhara had its second renaissance in the period of the 16th to 18th century under the Persian domination.  That came to an end in 1868 when Russia conquered Bukhara, Samarkand and Khiva. Under Tsarist Russia not much changed in this region: the Emirs (successors of the Khans) continued their rule and the social institutions continued as well. But when the Soviets came in 1920 and Bukhara became part of the Socialist Uzbeki Republic, everything radically changed. The last Emir of Bukhara barely escaped to Afghanistan and his entire family, which traveled separately, was captured and killed.

Munisa, 24 years young and quite accomplished, turned out to be a great guide and won an international oratory contest for a reason: she is lively, intelligent, and a great story teller (see above). She starts the tour by taking us to a puppet maker shop at the beginning of our alley, where we observe how puppets were made; and of course we get a demonstration by one of the owners. We walk along the Lyaby Hauz, the pond that we visited yesterday, along the statue of Hoja Nasruddin, the “wise-fool”, to the first covered market — the money exchange market — which is a dome with several little shops underneath. We continue our walk, visiting various arts and crafts shops, through the second covered market, which began its life as the hat-makers market. We see women embroidering, a man chiseling a copper plate, and a carpet factory with a dazzling display of most beautiful carpets. We also watch carpets being made by young women. Munisa told us that the training of how to make carpets takes only three days. But of course she referred to the use of the tool, which looks like a crocheting needle. The selection of colors and the patterns are the skills that take much longer. In this factory the girls are given the patterns drawn on a large piece of paper in black pen and the choice of colors is left to them. We finger the silk threads in brilliant colors used for the carpets, all the dyes extracted from plants: pomegranate fruit and skin, onion skin, saffron, carrot, indigo, and so on. All but indigo, which is imported, are produced locally.

Through the morning we visit various amazing madrasahs and mosques. One of them is in reds and pinks, the colors not officially allowed in Islam but the khan or emir defied tradition and did it anyway. Halina buys a shawl of pure silk with Uzbeki pattern, and Philip cannot not resist a pair of scissors in the form of a bird.

We look at the impressive Kalon minaret, the highest of Uzbekistan, with a beautiful legend of how the foundation was made (milk, honey and egg yolk?).

Over lunch we talk with Munisa about life in Uzbekistan, especially the difference between the Soviet era and the post-independence period. She notes that, in addition to establishing strong education and healthcare systems, the greatest achievement of the Soviet era was to liberate women, throw away their veils, and make them equal to men in the eyes of the law. We look at this self-possessed confident young woman as the embodiment of this radical social change. Who knows, perhaps if the Soviet Union succeeded with its invasion of Afghanistan the Afghan women would have very different lives today. We also learn that “true” Bukharans speak a language most similar to the Tajik language, which derives from Farsi in Iran. It is very different from the Uzbeki language. It is ironic that people here use the term “after independence’ when referring to the post-Soviet period, maybe forgetting that it was the Soviet Union that drew a line on the map and called it Uzbekistan, thus creating a national identity and pride. It reminds me of Ukraine and Belarus, which did not exist as nation-states until they became soviet republics. And now they all talk about independence, national pride and identity. Their adversary created them.

After lunch we take coffee at the famous Silk Road Tea House, which serves Turkish coffee with a nice assortments of Turkish sweets. In the afternoon we visit the fortress/castle called the Ark, the origins of which go back to the 6th century B.C., with many additions over the years. It is impossible to describe each place we have seen today. And that is not the point. The overall impressions is that of splendor and serenity of these structures. What strikes me about this old city as well as that in Khiva is the total absence of any connection to nature. The buildings and their plazas are an uninterrupted surface of stones. Even the splendid decorations are, in the Islamic style, devoid of any images of animals or trees. It is all so abstract and geometric. God is not to be found in nature. God is in people’s minds and hearts.

In the midafternoon we say goodbye to our lovely guide and throw ourselves on the beds in the hotel room. Before dinner we walk some more, retracing our steps and taking in the old city and understanding more of the structure and the lay-out, and refreshing our memories of what we had already seen. We even revisit the carpet shop, but when we see a very large group of Italian tourists, haggard from the day of sightseeing, we quickly leave. At dinner we share a table with a quiet Japanese businessmen traveling alone but unfortunately his English is too limited to have a satisfying conversation. All we get from him is that he is worried about Trump’s tariffs on imported goods and that young Japanese do not get married because they do not feel financially secure. This was a long and tiring day, and I feel that the cold I caught on the plane to Tashkent is getting worse.

Monday, October 8, Bukhara and vicinity.

We meet a lot of tourists on this trip, all concentrated in a relatively confined part of each city, and almost all of them look like they are in their seventies. This is a grand geriatric pilgrimage of people checking things off from their bucket lists. We are part of that, of course. But it is really bizarre to be surrounded almost exclusively by the elderly, mostly looking rather tired and unkempt in their comfortable and dreary clothes and shoes. It would be more fun to blend with a mixed crowd of locals and tourists of all ages and styles.

This morning Halina’s cough is worse than ever and she is prepared to skip today’s excursion. However, when the new guide, Fira, a nice woman in her early 30s, appears she is quickly persuaded that today was mostly driving and not walking, and that she should come. On the way, Halina buys some cough medication in a drugstore (an extract from leaves of ivy plant).

In the beginning there is some confusion because the travel agency provided us with a guide but not transportation, while most of today’s sites are out of town. In order to avoid fuss we agree to pay for an inexpensive taxi instead but it is indicative of a somewhat sloppy management by the agency. The guide is nice but more “guide-like” than Munisa yesterday.  Our first stop is outside Bukhara, a memorial complex of Hazrati Bakhouddin Naqshbandi, a Sufi scholar and teacher who lived and taught in the early 20th century in Bukhara. Sufi is a more meditative, gentle, and philosophical than the two traditional branches of Islam, and we think more peaceful. Hazrati created this enormous complex but after his death it was disbanded; it is now under restoration. The ceilings are beautiful and the whole place is peaceful and here and there shaded by trees.

The taxi driver who drives like a madman and at a certain moment also starts to work on his email while driving (until Philip asked him sharply to stop) brings us safely but shaken to our next destination: The Chor-Bakr Necropolis, situated in another “village” which was reached by racing along an 8 lane highway. The necropolis was also under restoration and contained a number of interesting graves. The third stop, after another near-deadly car-race, was the summer residence of the last emir of Bukhara, early 20th century, the Sitora-i-Mokhti Khosa. The palace was an interesting mix of European and middle-Asian building styles. Poor Emir, he built it in 1913 and by 1920 had to run to Afghanistan to save his life. Did not get to enjoy it much.

The final stop is inside Bukhara: the Tchor Minor, which means Four Minarets, a mosque with four minarets which we quickly view from the outside because we cannot get in. Here we say good bye to the taxi driver and the guide. By now Philip is the one who is tired of all the mosques and sites, and of the tourist groups and merchandise. We find a place for lunch where freshly ironed table cloths make a lot of promises but in reality the beer is warm, the soup is cold, and the bread is stale.

By now we can easily navigate the restaurant menus, which do not different much from one restaurant to another. My favorite in Khiva was green handmade spinach noodles, with a beef goulash on top. In Bukhara my favorite is Monti, the steamed dumplings with filling, which is usually beef but also pumpkin and vegetables. It is very similar to Japanese gyoza dumplings. The dough is very delicate. Tandyr somsa is good also; it is dough filled with meat and other things and baked in a clay oven “tandyr” until it looks like baked bread. Palmeli is also good, a soup with meatballs. In general, their soups are very good, often served as creamed purees, or as thick goulash-like creations. And there are the Russian familiar soups: solyanka, vegetable, and borsch in Ukrainian style (with cabbage, tomatoes, potatoes and some other veggies). And of course there is the king of all dishes: plov: white rice cooked with vegetables, spices, and meat. I saw a man cooking plov in Tashkent in a huge cauldron. He used lamb meet and there was so much fat at the bottom of the vessel that it totally turned me off. But Bukharin plov is different. It uses lean beef and steams rice and vegetables separately, combining with been only in the last step. It is delicious.

And of course there are these splendid salads in an endless variety, and fruits, which we do not touch in fear for getting food poisoning.

We decide to take the afternoon off and go back to our hotel. Halina takes her new medicine and falls asleep over her book. Philip is tired, irritated and bored, even by his book; he later went for a walk alone which brought him after walking some back street eventually to the Silk Road coffee and tea shop, which our yesterday guide had discovered for us. Walking and two cups of strong Turkish coffee, one with cinnamon and one with cardamom, and the trays of sweets did the trick: he felt better and returned to the hotel, where Halina was also feeling better after some nice sleep and relaxation.

After dinner at the same Chinor restaurant as the previous evening we walk to Silk Road café where we share a pot of strong ginger tea. Afterwards we walked over and admired the beautifully illuminated Kalon minaret. We also buy half a liter of vodka in anticipation of a cold night in a yurt, tomorrow. This was our last night I Bukhara and it seems that we got over the low point of our trip.

 

Bukhara to Yurt, Tuesday, October 9.

We wake up to heavy sky and light rain. Check out of the hotel. Halina is feeling much better after a good sleep without coughing, this medicine is great. Today we have only a driver, no guide, which is fine as we get tired of guides rather quickly. The driver’s name Bekir. He is in his twenties, exudes warmth, has a spark in his eyes, and speak no English. This is Halina’s day when she needs to navigate in Russian the whole day. We are heading to the night in a yurt, somewhere out there.

The drive through the desert is familiar by now. The flat land that extends way out beyond the horizon, and the big sky follows it. At some point we notice mountains on the horizon, the first such sight since we came to this country. After maybe two hours we stop at a celebrated ceramic workshop and museum, where a young woman gives us a tour of the place. We learn about the different styles of ceramics over the ages and across different regions here. These ceramics are primarily in earth colors and are beautiful. On the wall there are pictures of luminaries who visited here, including Albright and Hillary Clinton. The guide tells us that they are a seventh generation of ceramic makers in one family and that the early soviet period was the hardest to survive because the authorities aimed to eliminate all private enterprise and have everybody become factory workers. Her father, who is in charge of the place, speaks fluent English and French and is dressed like American cowboy. We buy a few small items for gifts.

Another stretch of driving and we stop at a historical sight corresponding to a truck stop, only for caravans. In one round structure with a dome there is a water cistern fed by melting snow, rain, and water brought by clay pipes from the distant mountains. Across the road from the cistern there used to be a fort of sorts where camels ate and rested, or if needed were replaced, people could do ablutions in the baths, pray, eat and sleep. We encounter an American couple from D.C. (one of the few American tourists here) who are following the same exact itinerary as we do. They have a good guide with them and so we benefit from it.

It is almost 2 o’clock when we stop for lunch at a private house in a village. Once we enter we recognize our German neighbors from the Hotel in Bukhara and the American couple. The German woman speaks fluent Russian. The lunch is served outdoors on a patio next to a luscious garden. They serve is many types of salads, which I recognize as similar to Russian and Polish surowki’ and the local kind of very thick kefir, a relative of what we know as Greek yogurt. Then a vegetable soup, and finally for the main course Moti with meat and pumpkin. The food is divine, exactly my kind.

We are again on the road, again through a desert. This road has been built exactly following the ancient caravan road from China to Europe, the great Silk Road. It is so straight and uneventful that I count only two turns (both right) since we left Bukhara. But at some point the landscape changes: it becomes undulating, there are mountains on the horizon. One more stop – at the ruins of a fortress that some claim to have been built by Alexander the Great and others question it – and we turn into a dirt road which brings us to the destination. The yurt camp is not full, probably because the temperature has dropped precipitously. This is the coldest day of our entire trip and the night should bring us to a freezing point. The good news is that we get a yurt with four beds all to ourselves. There are plenty of covers for the night.

It is close the six o’clock and soon the sun will set so we go straight for the camel rides before it is too late. The rides are real fun if uneventful. The four of us following each other. My camel is last, which gives me a sorry opportunity to watch the other camels defecate and get their backs and rear legs covered in excrement. The ride is a lot of fun. The setting sun and the silence of this remote spot is amazing. We are really in Central Asia, following the Silk Road!

Dinner turns out to be the highlight of the day. There are four tables: one speaks English – us and the other US couple – one speaks Latvian, one speaks German and one speaks Uzbeki (guides and drivers). The food resembles that at lunch except that the main course is stuffed green peppers. They serve us this marvelous selection of vegetable salads, some fresh, some roasted, some pickled. I could eat that stuff three times a day, so we throw our caution about fresh vegetables to the wind and go for it. Each table has a carafe of vodka and carafe of red wine. And they quickly get consumed. I love this food. The atmosphere is festive. And then, a Khazaki singer shows up, wearing a splendid purple jacket and skull cap, and sings to us songs while accompanying on a string instrument, the name of which I do not remember. Looks like a lute. These songs are like ballads, have so many words. He has a rich wonderful voice and a classic look of his tribe: swarthy skin, a round face with high cheekbones, small nose and mouth, and narrow slanted eyes. One of  the guides is a vivacious party-loving character, determined to get the party going comes to our table and tries to get Philip, then the other fellow, to a dance floor, unsuccessfully. So I get up and go. And we dance!  I follow his movements, which are probably just for men, but that is all I know. Within minutes everybody gets up and we have a real dancing party. So joyful. At the end, the hat gets passed around for some donations.

This concert brings me close to my parents. I can now imagine their evenings in Uzbekistan during WWII, listening to these songs and feeling joy, despite the famine and all the other horrors of war. Oh, why didn’t I go to Uzbekistan ten years ago, when I could have talked with Tata about it?

We go for a walk in the darkness, gazing at the stars, and in this total silence of the nighttime desert, locating the big dipper which is much lower in the sky than on Cape Cod. After the vodka and the dancing the cold does not seem so bad. This was such a great day.

From Yurt to Samarkand, Wednesday, October 10

After about three hours of traveling, looking out of the window, dozing off, and chatting a little, we reach the village of Mistan, where we will lunch in a local home.

The lady of the house, a woman in her 30s or 40s, welcomes the women with a kisses on both cheeks. She has a broad smile and several gold teeth, which in Uzbekistan’s rural regions is a fashion statement, at least among her generation. We are led to an inner court with a vegetable garden and a sumptuous two tables set for lunch, where we are greeted by an elderly owner, and the second daughter and her two small children. This house belongs to this 83 year old patriarch, a Hadji, which is a title bestowed on someone who made a pilgrimage to Mecca. He really looks like a hadji: tall, straight, with a long white beard and a graceful demeanor. At this same time Mr. Hadji (as everybody in our company calls him) is very outgoing, shakes hands with each of us, and is interested in a conversation. The German lady from our hotel in Bukhara is here, speaking her enviably fluent Russian, and she gets immediately engaged with Mr. Hadji.

 

Before sitting down we watch the mother make plov in a large cauldron shaped like a wok, heated on a wood burning stove. We also help bake the flat Uzbeki bread. The bread bakes in a round-bellied wood-burning oven with a wide opening at the top, through which the flat pancakes of dough (stuffed with pumpkin) get introduced.  This oven is called “tandyr”. Wearing a large glove made most likely from asbestos Halina glues the dough pancake to side wall until it stick. When ready (about ten minutes), the bread falls off to the bottom.

We learn some things about Uzbeki families. For example, the youngest son inherits the house and its content from the parents, and in exchange is responsible for all maintenance costs, taxes, etc. as well as the care for the parents until their death. The Hadji’s wife died a few months ago and we think that now the youngest son runs this household, but they live elsewhere in the village. There are 6 children and each has 6 children, and all live in this village.  

The lunch is superb while Mr. Hadji keeps refiling our glasses with vodka and red wine. Afterward, we get a tour of the house and the stable with several goats (the cows were outside) and learn that after the dissolution of the Soviet Union, when all the banks failed, they keep their savings in cash in dollars. They also showed us the folded comforters, mostly hand embroidered, stacked up in two piles form floor to ceiling. These comforters get unfolded for sitting and sleeping.

After some more driving we enter Samarkand. The city is not as big as Tashkent, but much bigger than Bukhara, and our hotel turned out to be in an alley close to the crossing of two wide multi-lane boulevards, not unlike hotel Gloria in Tashkent. The hotel itself is lovely with a spacious room and a super-helpful manager. Quite a difference from a yurt and we both are happy to be back in civilization again and to take a warm shower and change to clean clothes. In the evening we take a look at this city by walking about 15 minutes to the recommended hotel Oasis Garden. We run for our lives every time we cross a street. In this city the stopping lights for pedestrians turn red the very moment when the cars get the green lights; and these cars know how to accelerate and race and scare the pedestrians.

Oasis is like an oasis: a luxurious and calm. We sit in large low armchairs next to low tables, which makes eating rather uncomfortable. There are several functions going on here, in the private dining rooms and the large function rooms, so we get to see a parade of the Samarkand society dressed in their best evening clothes.  After dinner we take a taxi to the Registan: the plaza where three gigantic madrasahs are facing each other. This is the most famous place in central Asia and probably the most beautiful spot in the Islamic world. At night it is fully illuminated and magical. We explore the walls of one of the madrasahs by walking around it, taking a close look at the glazed tiles laid out in geometrical patterns. We experiment with taking photos of our shadows on the tiled walls.

Walking back from the Registan to the hotel we see in the distance the illuminated dome of another great mosque. It all looks a bit unreal.

 

 

 

Samarkand, Thursday October 11

Philip had a sleepless night and woke up grumpy, but Halina’s cold is definitely on a retreat.  Today is our “free” day without a guide or a driver. The weather is cool and sunny, perfect for exploring the city.  We leisurely walk to the Registan. By daylight it looks very different but just as impressive. First we visit the Ulugbek madrasah, on the left side, the oldest and most impressive one. What Philip forgot after 23 years, is that beyond the impressive façade into the courtyard there are three more facades, just as impressive as the first one. This madrasah is two-story high, with the upstairs rooms used in the past as dormitories for students and guestrooms for pilgrims. The beauty of these buildings is overwhelming and cannot be detracted by all the vendors. In fact, I like this bazar-like activity within these monuments because it gives it life in this otherwise outdoor museum. Inside our attention is drawn to an impressive collection of old photos from the 19th and early 20th century. A powerful 19th century earthquake largely destroyed Registan. The old photos from the first decades of the 20th century show the sorry remains of the buildings, surrounded by horse-drawn wagons, people conducting business, life. It is disappointing to think that we are seeing the replicas, but we also acknowledge that during the Soviet period the Russians did a really impressive job restoring it all.

The second madrasah, Tilla Kari, is smaller but also very beautiful. The most impressive is the mosque behind one of the inner courtyard facades, with breathtaking gold-painted inner dome ceiling and very beautiful design. The third madrasah Sher Dor is equally impressive but by now we are saturated and must leave this place. We are searching for the old Jewish Quarter.  

The urban planners and government officials responsible for tourism in Uzbekistan have this insane idea that tourists want order and cleanliness (and who knows, maybe many of them do). So they sanitized the place, bulldozed the local markets, nicely paved the streets, installed flower beds, and put up a 20-30 foot wall to separate the section with tourist monuments from the old city. There are a few small doors at certain locations in the wall, which connect these two worlds. We find our door with the help of the guidebook and by asking the tourist information next door.

Crossing through the door is like going through a looking glass: one long step and we are in a world several centuries in the past. The old city is unassuming: low structures along the narrow street, few windows looking into the street, in the typical style of these regions, pavement (where there is one) is cleanly swept, schoolchildren in uniforms pass us by, the aroma of freshly baked bread follows us. Occasionally the front double doors of households open for just long enough to let us see the inner courtyard. Some doors are very ornate and elegant, suggesting much richer households that their anonymous blind exteriors suggest.

A father with two children, a girl 7 and a boy 9 stop because the daughter wants to practice her English. We exchange the usual “where are you from” and “my name is”, “how old are you”. The father notices my Jewish star golden pendant and immediately offers directions to the synagogue.

Sephardic Jews came here from Iraq and Afghanistan more than 2000 years ago. They bought up the land on about a dozen streets and created a community. When we knock on the synagogue’s gate a kindly looking man of 64 opens (people in Uzbekistan often ask for my age and tell me theirs). He takes us around to show the small, simple, and lovely synagogue, which is just a large room. He tells me that he has 3 children and 11 grandchildren in Israel. His place is here. In the 1970s there were 35000 Jews in Samarkand but now there are only 230. They still have a minion of 16 families. They all have children and grandchildren in Israel and America. The grandchildren come to visit. This synagogue was built in the XIX century by a rabbi with an Ashkenazy-sounding name, who donated the money. They have books in a cupboard from all over. In the front of this disorderly pile we see a book printed in Warsaw in the 1800s.

In the conversation in Russian I tell him about my parents spending the war years in the Tashkent area. He is familiar with that story, so we get to reminisce about those years. In 1942 many Ashkenazy Jews came here from Poland, Ukraine, Lithuania, and other German occupied eastern territories of USSR. The locals welcomed them, tried to help. They were entrepreneurial and industrious people, the caretaker says. They opened businesses and some manufacturing facility, settled down. The locals bought them a little cottage adjacent to this synagogue and turned it into an Ashkenazy Synagogue. It is a simple room now, but they continue carrying for it, repainting, cleaning. They took care of orphaned children. After the war some people stayed and died here, some married local girls and boys, some left. I return in my thoughts to my parents. Being communists, they probably did not want to have much to do with these religious people. How ironic: when the needed help the most they did not turn to their own people because of ideology. I am sure that the story is more complicated than that. Oh, how I wish that I could talk it over with Tata!

On the way out I put money in the donation box.

After lunch in the tourist side of the great wall we walk by one of the most famous mosques, the Bibi Khanym mosque, without stopping because we want to spend our remaining energy on the Mausoleum Shah-i-Zinda. We cross by pedestrian bridge a major highway and saw high up against the hill an enormous cemetery. The mausoleum’s lane is adjacent to the cemetery. The steep long steps preclude the older tourist crowd from coming here. We therefore encounter mostly locals, women dressed in their best, sparkling dresses and headscarves. We see the first woman on this trip with a covered face. There are many mausoleums here of significant people from the past. Some structures are simple, others stunningly decorated. At the highest point of this hill we are led into a room where a cousin of Mohamed is buried. This is the most holly of all the tombs. We enter the small chamber, sit on a bench along the wall along with others, a man intones a short prayer for the dead, people respond. Everyone is welcome: women, infidels.

The afternoon rest in the hotel is barely enough to gives us energy for the evening. We have tickets to a performance of Uzbek dances in historic regional costumes. We find the theater without much problems, walking for about twenty minutes through the University district which is always a pleasure: modern and alive with people. The dancing is mediocre, the choreography uninspired, but the costumes are beautiful. At the theater we meet again our US friends Nancy and (???) from the yurt night, who apparently have the same tour operator. We go to dinner with them in the nearby Platan restaurant: good food, a lot of people, loud music, difficult to carry a conversation. We walk home.

 

Shakhrisabz, Friday, October 12

Today our destination is Shakhrisabz, the place where Timur (or Tamerlane, or Amir Timor) was born and where he intended to be buried. We drive through pleasant outskirts of Samarkand, south through a landscape with agriculture and poplars coloring in the autumn sun, into undulating hills. This is the Urgutz(?) region. It is a verdant land, full of fruit orchards, corn and vegetable fields. At some point we enter a real mountain landscape, stony and reminiscent of Corsica. We pass small settlements, vacation villas and summer camps for kids. The road becomes a hairpin ribbon cut into the mountainside. At some point a crazy driver suddenly appears in a hairpin curve from behind a truck and drives straight into us. We survive but even Bekir is taken aback. As we approach the top of the mountain we encounter small stands selling local very special type of kababs, but we will not take a chance of eating them.  

We reach our destination just before 11am and meet our local guide, a young woman in her early 30s who apparently was a last-minute-stand-in. The intended guide was cancelled at the last moment for reasons unknown to us. She is pleasant but very ignorant and cannot answer any questions that go beyond what she has memorized. In fact, we later discover that she had the most basic facts wrong, such as the belief that President Karimov is still alive (he died in office in 2016). We first visit an impressive building, the Ak-Saray palace, which looks like two gigantic towers (the arch in-between collapsed 200 years ago).

A huge statue of Timur stands in the middle of a grassy field, in what used to be the middle of the palace, the completely sanitized remnants of what used to be ruins, a historic bazar and residential neighborhoods. In place of the bazar and the surrounding neighborhood a park has been installed of a similar austere design as in Samarkand: perfectly geometric stone or brick paths cutting through a lawn where not s single blade of grass is out of place, neat rectangles and circles of flowerbeds, a fountain, and recently planted trees. This place is at least as big as the Washington, D.C. Mall, with the monument at one end and the Timor’s tomb at the other. The remaining two sides have luxury and widely spaced residential buildings, two story high, and some commercial spaces, all identical architecture.

The word that comes to mind is “scalping”. They scalped this land in some misguided belief that tourists will like this clean and perfectly organized space, with the great historic monuments sticking out of the landscape completely out of context and meaning. According to our guidebook the UN was so angry when they found out what happened here that they promptly designated this area as “Endangered International Heritage”.

We walk along the grass, along new low residential houses, towards a few other buildings; among them the Kok-Gumbah mosque, which is impressive because its walls are not decorated with glazed tiles but are painted with geometrical figures. We also visit the tomb of Timur and his sons and a grandson. Timur himself was never buried here because when he unexpectedly died in Samarkand in the middle of winter his body could not be transported to Shakhrisabz through the mountain range, and had to be buried in Samarkand instead. His most important grandson Ulugbek is also buried in Samarkand. The guide tells us that in 1973 a Soviet archeologist Gerasimov opened the supposedly empty vault of Timur and found two skeletons of a man and a woman, whose origins are unknown. This defies the wildest belief so we make a note to check out this story.

Timur is still an enigma to us. He was a great conqueror in the 14th century who considered himself to be related (though indirectly) to Genghis Khan. As not a direct descendant he was not entitled to the title of Khan but instead had a title of Emir. When he died at the dawn of the 15th century his empire included all of Central Asia, southern parts of Turkey, Iraq, Persia, Northern parts of Egypt, including Alexandria, and northern parts of India, including Delhi. In his campaigns in Europe he conquered Georgia and came very close to Moscow and Kiev, and what is now Rumania.  Timur gave rise to an Indian dynasty and one of his genealogic descendants built Taj Mahal in India. No wonder he is venerated in Uzbekistan. But the veneration seems out of proportion to the age of this story, by now six hundred years old.  We make a note to study this question later.   

The most pleasant surprise of this visit is the small courtyard next to the still functioning modest mosque, where three chinar trees, planted by Timur in 1373, are still alive, and sprouting new shoots. Many men are sitting in front of the mosque, chatting and presumably waiting for the 1 PM prayer time. One of the men asks where we are from and when we tell him America, he is clearly impressed. So few Americans visit Uzbekistan that we are a novelty. The most numerous tourist groups we have encountered are: Italians, Germans, Japanese and French. The Chinese and Dutch are much less numerous, and we come at the tail of the distribution.

At the southern end of this field we get picked up by the driver and on the way back we lunch in a very pleasant restaurant, open air under the awnings with vines, where only the locals eat. Our guide talks about her father who was killed not so long ago in a terrible car accident; and whom she adored. It turns out that our driver’s father and her father knew each other.

The trip back is uneventful and somewhat sleepy. We arrive tired at our hotel and are able to catch the last rays of the sun on the roof terrace. We follow a familiar daily ritual of taking a rest, with one difference: we now had some vodka to share. We walk to dinner; the restaurants we selected could not be found, so we end up at the Platan restaurant, where we had such an excellent dinner yesterday. Not surprising it fully booked, but they set up a table for us outside, which is actually very pleasant, away from the loud music inside. We walk back to the hotel through quiet dark streets of Samarkand.

 

Samarkand, Saturday October 13

Our last day in Samarkand. Our bags are packed when Bekir picks us up at 10 AM. The plan is to see the remaining sights in Samarkand and then at 5:30 to catch the fast train for Tashkent. Our driver doubles up as a guide, which means a day of speaking Russian for Halina. We feel somewhat saturated with sights and do not have high expectations, but we are wrong.

Samarkand as a city makes more sense to us than Bukhara. It is crisscrossed by the same grand boulevards as Tashkent, with 3-4 leans of traffic each way, but the rest of the streets are on a human scale, including the modern buildings that are no more than 4-5 stories high. Cutting into the modern streets are alleys that look like all the other alleys in the developing world cities: dusty, with broken or missing paving, with a lot of temporary-looking fences and walls, peeling paint, and bric-a-brac thrown about. Our hotel is located at one of such alley. Walking in one direction we enter another alley lined with university buildings, full of students and occasional men and women in very conservative dark suits. They must be professors. Walking in another direction we enter a grand boulevard and, by crossing it, a large park. This park is the antithesis of Central Park. It consists of a perfectly geometric network of stone walks crisscrossing green lawns and trimmed with flowers. Very few trees to be seen. They use basil as an ornamental plant. It is allowed to grow to 1-2 feet in height and to bloom. The flowers are deep purple. The aroma of basil fills the air. Altogether, our movement from one neighborhood to another (of course with the help of GPS) is uncomplicated.

Nearby is also a large traffic rotary which opens up at one side to what must be the most elegant avenue in this city. It starts with a large monument of the great Timur. The boulevard’s design resembles Commonwealth Avenue in Boston near Public Garden: a pedestrian median framed by tall handsome trees on both sides, with park benches underneath, and two traffic lanes on both sides. Except that this boulevard is twice as wide as Commonwealth Avenue, and it has two more walking paths on both sides of the median, separated by wide ribbons of lawn. At night soft lights illuminate this boulevard.

But crossing streets is a hazardous sport in this city. The infrequent traffic lights do not last long enough for many very wide streets. And once the light turns red, in a fraction of a second all the cars take off like a pack of wolves at high speed. Since it gets dark here at 6:30 PM, our evening walks turn into runs for life whenever we need to cross a street. Another really dangerous feature of these streets are drainage ditches. These are about one-two feet wide and equally deep cement traps separating sidewalks from car pavements. Some contain running water but most are dry. If we do not watch out every time we cross a street, we can easily break a leg by falling into these ditches. This is a totally unfriendly city for handicapped persons.

Our tour starts with the nearby mausoleum where Timur is buried, together with his famous grandson Ulugbek and a few other family members. A beautiful mausoleum full of gold and at the same time simplicity. Timur’s body was examined recently by archeological experts and authenticated through his injuries (right arm and left leg) and his height (6 feet). Ulugbek’s body was also authenticated because he was beheaded, apparently on the order of his own son. We find a map with the conquests of Timur. We also learn that his son and grandson were both his successors and apparently ruled for 40 years; Timur’s son died two years before his grandson Ulugbek.

Our next stop is the astronomical observatory of Ulugbek. This is a great discovery and one of the highlights of our trip. He built this observatory by digging a deep trench with stairs into a hill, and from there he could study both the position of the sun and the stars. He devised fascinating instruments to monitor the skies; apparently he already knew that the earth was a spherical. The discovery of this place sometime in the late 1960s is in itself a miracle; the writing describing the observatory were translated from Persian into Latin and finally rediscovered in the 20th century (Ulugbek’s “Zij” was written either in Persian or in Turkish, not sure). An expedition started to look for the most likely location of the observatory, based on old descriptions. The museum is fascinating and we go through it twice. We also make a note that we will study the lives and works of both Timur and Ulugbek when we return home.  

Ulugbek did not study the rotations of Earth and Sun in relation to each other, leaving that job to Nicholas Copernicus half a century later, but he made a map of the stars and estimated the length of the calendar year with a precision greater than anyone before or after him (about 4 seconds off from the current estimate). He also built a madrassa in Registan, where many mathematicians and astronomers studied. Some contemporary historians of science consider Samarkand to be the astronomy’s center of the world in the 15th century. The museum displays images of other great astronomers of those days, but it is a very puzzling thing: They acknowledge Polish astronomer Jan Geveliy (in Latin Johannes Hevelius) in Gdansk and English astronomer at Oxford University John Greaves, both of whom lived in the 17th century, but do not mention the somewhat earlier astronomers (by several decades) Galileo and Nicholas Copernicus, both of whom lived in the second half of the16th and the first half of the 17th centuries (Ulugbek lived in 1394-1449 and became the emir in 1447). John Greaves was involved in translating Ulugbek’s works into Latin.

One more visit today is the Afrosiab museum, which displays a chamber that was found with murals from the 2nd century; royals and ambassadors and messengers on horses and camels, beautiful birds, all with splendid colors. An audiovisual presentation helps us understand it somewhat and we admire the e-reconstructions.

We make a brief stop at a mausoleum where an 11 foot long leg of some giant St. Daniel is buried. Nothing interesting. And then we go to the impressive modern train station, say goodbye to our lovely driver/guide Bekir (in addition to the usual tip I give him my Russian-English dictionary and a set of paints for his little son). The train is filled to capacity with tourists. The usual languages surround us. Two hours later a man picks us up in Tashkent and takes us to “our” Gloria Hotel. A bowl of soup in the restaurant, a sip of vodka in the room, and a quiet evening.

Tashkent, Sunday October 14

What a difference two weeks make!  We left Tashkent in a summer heat and return to cool autumn weather and warm clothes. This is our last day on this trip. We have a long travel ahead, starting with a 2 AM drive to the airport, so we need to conserve energy.

Tashkent feels familiar and friendly, even though we spent here only one day before. We like this city. After a slow and leisurely start, we take a taxi to the Timurid museum to learn more about Timor. The museum was built by president Karimov, the founder of the independent Uzbekistan in 1990. It is not really a museum but rather a monument to the great national hero and modern Uzbeki nationalism. It is large and built in the Soviet style of grand staircases and aggressive decorations. Our guidebook already warned us that most of the original artifacts has been long ago taken to Moscow, St. Petersburg and elsewhere. On the wall at the top of the main stairs are two quotes, in huge letters, from the writings and speeches of President Karimov. One of those explains a lot about the cult of Timur. The quote says something like that: If you want to understand the greatness of this country and the Uzbek people, what this nation and its people are capable of, just look at the accomplishments of Emir Timor. In the 25 years of his presidency Karimov created a sense of nationhood for Uzbekistan (which had never existed as such) and built a strong national pride by skillfully building on the achievements of Timur. Every guide we encountered on this trip spoke enthusiastically about Karimov.

After the museum we walk across the Amir Timur square, a nice park with grass and low trees that used to be a shadowy place with century-old trees where old men played their games of chess. No more. We then take a taxi to a highly recommended department store but very quickly get out of it and instead take a stroll along a park-like lovely street, where we take coffee and tea at and outdoor café. At this time of the day the sun fills us with warmth. An accordion player sits next to us and when Halina gives him money he plays for her old Russian songs which she likes. Many people give him money.

Our last destination is again the Chorsu market, which we reach by Metro. We have been here on our first day in Tashkent but at that time it was very hot. The market is unbelievably large,

especially taking into account that in addition to the endless stands it has multiple two-story trading halls with roofs but not walls and also a department store. Everything is here: food, clothes, appliances, jewelry, and on and on. In the built structures we find one large hall with only rice and beans, another with breads, and another with sweets (we buy a chunk of halvah), several with fruits and vegetables. Sunday is apparently a market day because the place is crowded with people. It is nice to observe the locals with their shopping and their comings and goings. We find a small eating place where we have another excellent thick soup of noodles, broth, veggies and beef, together with bread and tea. Simple but a great treat if you are tired, thirsty and hungry.

The rest of the afternoon and evening we stay close to the hotel, including dinner, as we find out that none of the neighborhood restaurants serve wine  or beer.

 

Tashkent to Voorschoten, Monday, October 15

Alarm clock at 2am. Hotel wake-up service fails us; they woke up the wrong person in room 208 instead of our 308. The taxi promised by the travel agency does not show up on time, so we take a taxi.

After long flight through Istanbul we arrive in Voorschoten in mid-afternoon to a beautiful fall weather.  It is great to be home.

Cuba 2017

Wednesday, March 1

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The started with narrowly avoided disaster when we learned right before the plain boarded that Philip did not have a visa for Canada. Thanks to the kindness and quickness of the flight attendant, who used her cell phone to fill out an instant application on line and got an instant visa, we managed to get on the plain in the last moment. The travel was long. Between the earlier than planned departure from Boston and a seriously delayed flight to Havana we hang round the Toronto airport for almost ten hours, occupying ourselves with work, meals, conversations, reading and boredom. We arrived in Havana at 2 AM to a recently constructed airport, efficient processing in the empty passport control hall, and no road traffic. The first thing I noticed upon exiting the airport building was the specific aroma of a tropical third world country. Actually, I noticed that pungent sweetish smell earlier, in the gangway from the aircraft. Long ago, in 1989, when I was going for the first time to Thailand I read somewhere that I should pay attention to initial smells upon my arrival because we never forget those. That turned out to be so true. As soon as I arrived in Havana I thought about Bangkok.

At three AM our hotel Marques de Prado Amena looks good, strikingly similar to the Moroccan riad in which we stayed while visiting in Fez. The square central atrium open to the sky and is filled with armchairs and tall potted palm trees, the arched columned balconies bordering it on three levels, the rooms opening to the atrium, the extremely high ceilings, and cool stone floors. And a lot of blue color. Actually, these are two hotels connected through back walls, with front entrances on two parallel streets. Both were once private aristocratic residences. While having the same design, ours is the more modest of the two. Florida hotel through which we enter and exit has a ballroom, which now serves as a restaurant and its frond doors are large enough to allow horse drawn carriages to enter the central atrium. The women who lived here once upon a time were so sheltered that they never had to go outdoors. We drop the luggage, brush teeth, and gratefully go to sleep.

Thursday March 2

Our room on the second floor has no windows but because it is located in a side alcove connected to the main balcony we have privacy even when the door is open. The air-conditioning is efficient and quiet, the shower is great, and with its dark old fashioned furniture this is a lovely room. We make it to breakfast just before closing time at 10 AM. The breakfast spread is very large, and although I have no appetite for the strange salads with strange ingredients, the fresh papaya and the many kinds of exotic tropical juices meet my expectations and fond memories of Cuba of 2001. The challenge of this trip is that we will inevitably compare everything we see and experience with our first trip sixteen years ago. And I am fully prepared for disappointments, hoping for a rediscovery of the best memories.

Our hotel is located in the very center of Havana Vieja, close to the main tourist sites. Hordes of tourists are strolling in their typical semi-catatonic states: looking around, slowly moving their feet, walking without apparent aim. Mostly very young, student age, and older people like us: with time and money to spare. While we expected the tourists the reality of them is stark. This is not the Havana we remember. We join the human river for a couple of hours, visiting the main sites, lingering over mineral water in a café. The buildings in the three main squares have been cleaned up and renovated and are beautiful. It is very warm, everybody walks on the shady sides of streets.

As soon as we leave the main tourist routes we confront the same dilapidated buildings and courtyards filled with run-down shacks, clutter of unknown origin or use, darkness and poverty. Some building facades, with nothing behind them, look like they are ready to collapse any minute. Colorful people everywhere, occasional electric scooters and a lot of tricycle rickshaws. In addition to the antique cars from the 50s, we see less old run down cars from the 70s and 80s. The striking difference from the past are the hawkers — rickshaw drivers, restaurant managers, shopkeepers – greeting us uninvited, vying for our attention. This is an unwelcome change. Their absence was what distinguished Havana from other developing country destinations when we last visited.

Around 2 PM we stumble upon a very nice retro-type lunch place, full of young people, all tourists. The food is excellent and cheap, served with imagination and care. I order a smoked salmon platter and they bring a huge mountain of very fine lox that would suffice for three generous Sunday breakfast for both of us. All for $10. How can they afford to serve so much for so little? Philip comes up with a theory that some Canadian company is dumping this surplus smoked salmon in Cuba in order to maintain high prices in Canada and the US. This makes sense. The lunch service is slow, we watch the people, and by the time we finish and walk some more it is four in the afternoon. Exhausted, we get to the hotel for a nap and rest.

Then, again, go out, this time toward Malecon, the grand promenade along the sea. Getting to it requires crossing a boulevard full of heavy traffic and the increase in the number of cars and the noise is striking. But Malecon promenade is exactly as we remember it. A sweeping crescent moon bay with a fort to our right and the skyline of Havana to the left. The sidewalk is crumbling in places, people are leisurely sitting on the stone wall. The sun sets around 7 PM at this time of the year so we luxuriate in the soft light of the end of the day. A man puts in a full skydiving suit and gets in the water, strangely in the approaching darkness. We watch him swim until we can no longer see him, then we walk for a while. But the car noise soon becomes a nuisance so we turn back and head toward Prado, the grandest of all promenades, which runs perpendicularly to Malecon toward the center and Old Town.

Prado is as grand as ever, dark for a while until the old-fashioned street lights are turned on. Not too many people are here. Teenage boys are pirouetting on skateboards. And all the ancient cars of Havana are passing by. They display all colors, from light pink to black and look well loved. I wonder who they owners are and who the passengers are: tourists or locals? No way of telling. We spend a long time on a stone bench, working through our private tensions and disappoint­ments, then head toward the center in search of some food and amusement. We pass the hotel where we stayed sixteen years ago. Looks the same, including the diner next door in a private home upstairs.

As we approach the center the night-time Havana puts a grand display of opulence for us. All the grand hotels in this area have been renovated and are full of people. The antique car taxis are waiting for tourists. The small public garden, called Park Centrale, which I still remember, looks the same as always. This city was built by and for the plantation owners on the backs of human toil and misery but in its beauty it offers no apologies.

We turn into the very touristy and somewhat seedy Obispo and settle over a beer and Mojito in a large establishment opened to the street. The live band is pretty good. A middle aged non-distinguished British couple dances a superb salsa. The food in this place does not look safe so we move on. By now it is late and we end up in the bar of our hotel, over a bland vegetable soup and two mojitos.

Friday, March 3

The second Havana day. Breakfast in our hotel is less than mediocre: burnt coffee, a huge display of not too fresh food, everything tastes suspiciously adulterated, even butter. But the place is beautiful and the atmosphere is pleasant. We already know that the many hours of walking yesterday cannot be repeated today. It is simply too much. We start the day by going to Park Central, with the National Theater and City Hall next to it. This time we take a street parallel to Obispo and it is a radically different world. The less than half hour walk brings us into contact with local life. We stop in a café for some real coffee. The café looks very much like the Old World Budapest Cafes. Philip has a great idea: let us take the Hop-On-Off Bus, which stops right in front of the Café. This turns out to be a really great idea.

The route is long, probably 1.5 hour without stops. There are no earphones or maps and I cannot understand the explanations offered by loudspeaker. All I get is that Prado is a one kilometer long and Malecon is 8 km. The route starts along Prado, then Malecon. We pass side streets that give me a glimpse of some neighborhoods in the City Center, which is adjacent to Old City and much larger. Some of these neighborhoods look like a war zone: parts of buildings missing and laying in ruins, terrible neglect everywhere. The shabby buildings we noted on Malecon in 2001 look sixteen years shabbier. It is hard to fathom such neglect, and hard to understand how it happens.

In other places we pass through the areas of pleasant villas, the university, large hotels, and so on. Our first hop-off stop is Plaza of the Revolution. This is a ridiculously huge expanse of asphalt with a large concrete hill in the center, steps leading to an oversized monument of Jose Marti, leader of Cuba’s successful struggle for liberation from Spanish rule, and it all topped with a very tall concrete kind of obelisk. There is also a museum which we do not bother with. Marti looks pensive and serious. I guess the artist wanted to show him as an intellectual, which he was, but to us he looks as though he has a premonition of the future struggles of his countrymen.

On the other side of the concrete hill there is a building housing, I guess, the Party headquarters. Its architecture looks like Gestapo headquarters in Berlin. What possessed Castro to build these monstrosities? They are a reminder that with all the positive ideas I have about Cuba, this is an authoritarian regime. The housing blocks overlooking the plaza show the stylized faces and writings of Che and Fidel. The wait for the bus is torturous. This parking lot, we estimate more than 15 acres, does not have a single place to hide from the scorching sun or for sitting down. We just have to stand and wait. Some three young Germans found a piece of a curb to sit on; I asked them to move a little and make room for us, which they do with a smile.

Once we are back on the bus we are determined to stay, but the next top is hotel Panorama right at the edge of a beach and otherwise in the middle of nowhere. So we get off in search of lunch and some seashore. It turns out to be a good idea. The restaurant in the hotel (which mostly serves large British tours) is excellent and we enjoy the luxury of the place. Then we make it to the shore, just across the road. There is no sand here, just the same porous rock that lines up Malecon. This is a very windy day, the breakers are ferocious, and it is fun to watch two teenage boys who came to swim egg each other on while they both lose the nerve to go in. The wind in our hair is a miracle.

We walk back just in time to catch a next bus. The way back is fun, sitting on the upper deck in these gusts of wind. Once back at the Central Square we stop briefly for some pastry, which looks European but does not taste the same, and we walk home, taking one of the parallel streets to Obispo. In this afternoon light, and with tiredness in out bones, we see more clearly than ever the poverty and neglect of this street. It is really impossible to figure out how a city can fall into such a disrepair. Castro screwed up royally by not liberalizing the economy and by selling his soul to the Soviets. He could have kept Cuba flirting with socialism like India and Yugoslavia did, after all the Soviets needed him pretty badly as a gateway to Latin America. Ah, what do we know about the real history behind the scenes!

I take a rest in the room for a couple of hours while Philip camps out in the lovely lobby. In the evening we head toward the Old City and have dinner in a very nice outdoor restaurant next to the Cathedral, of course with music. In contrast to last night this is a refined cultured crowd. The service is extremely slow, like in all the other restaurants so far. It must be the local cultural norm. Tourists in Cuba are truly a mixed international crowd. During these two days I heard the following languages: Swedish, Norwegian, Finnish, Dutch, German, French, Italian, British English, American English, Russian, Polish, Portuguese, Spanish from Spain, Chinese, Japanese, and what we diagnosed might be Rumanian.

After dinner we stroll some more. Havana is really beautiful at night when all the rubble and scars on its buildings vanish into deep shadows and in the warms of street lights all the remains is the beautiful facades and streets laid out around many green squares. In this light Havana reminds us of Budapest, also with its many squares and ornate building facades interspaced here and there with some horrible soviet-style buildings. Obispo Street is full of life but I am ready to go back, while Philip heads out for more nightlife.

Saturday, March 4

We make the morning slow today, before picking up the rented car and heading toward Remedios. And then the trouble starts. At Saratoga hotel where according to the contract confirmation we should pick up the car they tell us to go to Inglaterra Hotel diagonally across the Central Square. We are smart enough to leave our luggage at Saratoga; and sure enough, at Inglaterra hotel they tell us to go to Saratoga Hotel. Several calls and tense waiting later we discover the worst case scenario: we have been fleeced. The company that took our money and reservation does not exist. And neither does the car. The kindly manager tells us that on this island cars are at a premium and that he cannot produce a car on a short notice at this peak season. And he has no suggestions for us, sorry. And no, do not try to taking a public bus in Cuba. Apparently, ever since President Obama reestablished diplomatic relations tourism has gone  through the roof in Cuba, while everybody concluded that they want to see Cuba before it becomes Americanized, and so have various kinds of fraud.

What to do? We sit down at an outdoor café to process this disaster. Try to get to Santa Clara by bus and hope to rent a car there?  No, that will not work: it is unlikely that we find a car there, and even less likely that we will be able to drop it off in Havana. Plan B: a taxi? It is 200 miles to Remedios, through Santa Clara. Philip goes out to talk with the taxi drivers loitering across the street. There are too many taxis in Havana so there is hope. After some give-and-take negotiations a senior driver among them agrees to take us to Remedios for $180. We take this great offer trusting that in Remedios we will find someone to drive us to the next destination, and then the next one, and back to Havana. Of course, the idea of driving around in the countryside is no longer relevant. We are lucky to get that far. The four hour drive is very pleasant. Something to be said for having a car with a chauffeur. The car is comfortable, with air-conditioning. Our driver does not speak a word of English, which spares us the conversations across the front and back seats but also does not allow us to learn more about Cuba. The highway has not changed since 2001. There are no cars on this three lane completely straight road, not even commercial delivery trucks. How does this economy function is a mystery. At regular intervals we pass security check points manned by policemen or soldiers and the driver visibly slows down. Once we stop at a gas station, use toilets, get sandwiches (also for the driver). The landscape is very flat and green but along this highway there are no villages and not much agriculture that we can identify. Not even the sugar cane fields.

Once we pass Santa Clara we get on a secondary road for the last 30 miles of the trip and everything changes. The landscape is hilly, the road is windy, there are villages, bicycles, horse drawn carriages, pedestrians. There is life. We arrive in Remedios before 4 o’clock and check into Hotel Barcelona, which was not here in 2001. There are four hotels in Remedios, compared with only one sixteen years ago. It is a very beautiful place, with the same center courtyard architecture as in Havana. On the two upper floors hanging plants send their long tresses down, giving a feeling a tropical garden. All is immaculate and the room is fine (no window, again). We quickly leave our luggage and hurry to see the center we once admired so much, right around the corner from the hotel.

Here it is, the same exact square as we remember: the church, the community center, the café, the pastel colors, the colonnades in front of all the establishments. Just as it begins to feel like it is possible to revisit old memories a horrendous music begins to blast from the man-size loudspeakers set up in the center. The sign over them says that this is the work of the cultural program for the town of Remedios. Some insane cultural director decided that this little sleepy town needs music on Saturday afternoons! We sit at a café bemoaning the situation, when something else happens: the church bell begins to ring. This is not a regular ringing: measured, rhythmic, slow. It sounds like a very angry priest is pulling on the ropes faster and faster, louder and louder, to drown out the loudspeaker music. For the next minute or so the two are having a big fight: one gets louder than the other, crazy, and deafening. And then the priest stops, we wait, and sure enough the cultural direction lowers the volume of his music. We ask our waitress what is going on in Remedios. Crazy, she says with a shrug and a smile. The little boy at the next table who intently has been watching us nods in agreement.

Well, so much for keeping the place frozen in time to suit our fond memories. We take a walk to see Remedios beyond the square. Last time we were here we could not do it because we spent most of our time dealing with the damaged tires in our little rented car. Remedios is set entirely on a grid. Except for the two-three story hotels all the buildings are a single story in height. And all the streets look to our visitors’ eyes the same. One could easily get lost in this maze if it was not for the church tower serving as a beacon. One could easily get lost in this maze if it was not for the church tower serving as a beacon. As we move further from the center the streets and houses get shabbier, until at some point we walk on a dirt road amid poverty.

Poverty looks the same everywhere: dilapidated shacks, temporary structures turned permanents, wobbly fences and roofs, various items and broken parts that might be of use one day strewn around, stray dogs and chickens under our feet. I cannot tell if there is real plumbing here. Tell the Minimalists about the liberating simplicity of not owning much! Tell the happiness scholars about the importance of community and family over possessions! They have never experienced poverty and the value of material objects that looks like discards but may be useful one day. I do not feel comfortable meeting the eyes of the people we meet here, feeling like a gawker an their deprivations. On the other hand, what do we really know about this place and this society? The elementary school we pass may be a great equalizer of opportunity. The bread factory we pass serves everybody here. The tomato stand sells these great tasty tomatoes which we buy for about 2 cents per pound.

Our hotel offers fine dining but we find a restaurant for the locals. It is a large hall full of people, mostly families. The menu is in Spanish and nobody speaks English. The dinner of grilled chicken, rice, salad, bread and beer arrives in minutes. We enjoy it immensely. The cost: $9 for both of us. The lunch was $6 for the three of us. How are we going to spend all our cash at this rate?

Around nine o’clock in the evening people begin to stream into the main square, mostly the youths. The middle aged and older people fill up a dance hall on the square. Just as we started to give up on live music in Remedios a large band materializes and people start dancing salsa. They are of course great dancers. Some tourists are here as well, looking like they came to Cuba specifically to practice their advanced salsa skills. We also go to the dance floor, sticking to our basic steps. Philip would like to do more advanced moves but I do not go there, mostly because I never really liked how we did them, without adequate grace. It is really great to be dancing salsa in Remedios!

On the way back to the hotel we pass the crowds of the local youths who obviously want nothing to do with the dance hall, salsa, the entertainment of the elders. Some are glued to cell phones but mostly they just hang out. This is the difference from 2001.

Once the band stops the mechanical music takes over until late into the night. We can hear it from our room.

Sunday March 5th

It’s our 12th wedding anniversary and no better place to celebrate than in Remedios, Cuba. Philip has bought a volume of poems by a young American Cuban artist which he dedicates to our union. The poet writes in two languages from his jail cell (I do not remember his crime or his jailer). Each poem is printed side by side in Spanish and English. Our breakfast is much, much better in this hotel than in Havana; and we enjoy the quiet atmosphere after the German group that poisoned the previous night and early morning with their low-class loudness has left.

This is going to be a slow, rainy and lazy day. We walk over to an outdoor place to have some coffee; and are starting our walk when we meet an Italian girl who is negotiating with a driver of a 8-seat motor rickshaw about a trip to neighboring Cairabien. She asks if we are interested to join and share the cost and we say yes, always looking for an adventure. The ride of about 10 km is in a vehicle that is a hybrid between motorcycle and mini truck, consisting of two benches for four people under an open tarpon roof is quick.

This village is like Remedios, but completely run-down and in that sense the polar opposite. It is stormy and rainy and we agree with Maria from Milan to meet again in two hours, which seems a short time but turns out to be more than enough. We walk through what could be called Main Street with colonnades and a few nearly-empty shops, and a restaurant. After exploring a few adjacent streets, with run-down houses we decide to have some food first.

The so-called Espana restaurant has little to offer beyond overcooked chicken and rice. The people who serve us make a point of ignore us completely, we do not know why; and we do not try to engage them. After lunch we walk around and reach a broader street called 5th Avenida, which ends at the seashore. Ironically, to call this run down desolate street Fifth Avenue. Sure enough there is a statue of Jose Marti. It is rainy and very windy. We encounter run-down former storage houses or whatever, all apparently deserted but since it is Sunday we cannot be sure. After a while we find another street which brings us to a little fishing harbor; with many boats painted in many faded colors. Hardly any people to be seen. Maybe we could have had a lunch with fresh fish here, instead of that pathetic chicken. We walk further, taking pictures and talking about what went wrong in this country, and how it could have been otherwise; and what causes all this economic misery. Why do they allow buildings to deteriorate to that state? Cement is not that expensive. We return to the meeting place where Maria is waiting. She tells a very different story: about the beautiful architecture she saw, and the many fish restaurants we did not see. Amazing differences in subjective experiences.

 

Back in Remedios Halina does not feel so well (possibly after that suspicious lunch) and goes upstairs to rest while, Philip wonders around the town, feeling somewhat bored by this place where not a lot is going on and not a lot is to see. We dine in style in our hotel. At about 10 PM the rain finally stops and we take a nighttime walk through Remedios. At night all the shutters are closed and the streets are dark and deserted. But we can hear the sounds of life behind the tightly closed doors and windows. We stop by the bread factory and for a long time watch trough the large window the four men making bread in a quarter of perfectly coordinated motions. An old woman is standing next to us. We smile to each other. I can feel that the humidity is going away and the weather is changing. It will be a fine day tomorrow.

Monday, March 6

We wake up to a lovely cool day and take our last walk through Remedios. On this Monday morning the town is teaming with life, especially on the streets with commercial establishments. People move briskly on bikes and on foot. In this light the streets seem well cared for and modestly prosperous. Since all the buildings are one story high and have no glass in widows we can see the life of Remedios on a full display. We pass a preschool, an elementary school (uniforms are red skirts, white blouses and white socks) and a middle school for girls (their skirts are yellow, just like those we saw in Havana). We pass a nursing home with a dormitory-like sleeping arrangement for about 30 people, we pass City Hall, a bookstore, and bike repair shop. Further out we pass a prosperous family compound with what looks like a small farm in the back. It becomes clear that the sleepiness of Remedios was a Sunday phenomenon and that this place is very much alive. People smile to us. I could easily stay here for another day, just exploring this place. I find the geography of this town very confusing because there are about ten different streets radiating out of the main square and these streets are connected at to many other streets, all laid out on a grid. It is a spider’s web, but more complicated. The result is that one makes many right and left turns and very quickly gets disoriented. But Philip somehow keeps track of our directions and knows how to get back to the main square from any location.

Our last stop is at the tobacco shop where I buy Montecristo cigars and by 10:30 we get into the waiting cab, all negotiated and arranged on our behalf by the hotel manager. The vehicle is a blue thing from the 50s. Well, I got my wish to drive one of these ancient cars. It is noisy, the springs in the back seat are uneven, and I can smell the faint presence of gasoline fumes. Our driver is a smiling kind man.

Off we go, first to Santa Clara, which takes an hour because of slow traffic, then westward on the main highway, then south on a secondary road toward Zapata National Park. Philip has been wondering how we will get to Guama Hotel, as the map does not show any roads. The mystery is solved: we need to wait here for another hour to be picked up by a boat, which will take us to the hotel, 8 kilometers up the river. We enjoy a lunch of crocodile at an open air cafeteria. The taste of Crocodile is somewhere between fish and chicken: it is very tender and slightly sweet, like fish, but essentially it is meat. These crocodiles come from the local farm.

The boat ride takes us though a river landscape very reminiscent of the Amazon rain forest we visited in Brazil. After a while then the river opens up to a large lake, and on the other side of the lake we find our hotel. The campus of the jungle hotel is scattered on a mini archipelago of mini islands, each hosting anywhere from one to 4 cabins, all connected by a myriad of wooden bridges in the shape of Venice’s bridges: a few steps up, then a few steps down. The wooden cabins are circular, with thatched roofs, a narrow balconies encircling them, and are built on stilts sank into the riverbed. Each cabin has one set of steps leading down to the river and one connecting it to land. Raised wooden walkways crisscross each mini island and provide connections to the bridges. In order to get from our cabin to the main dining hall, which is within a stone throw distance from us, we cross four bridges and take numerous turns in this labyrinth of paths. The accommodations are rather basic, as one would expect of an eco-lodge, but the bathroom has all the conveniences.

After walking around for a while we rent a flat bottom pedal boat and investigate the world up the river. We are in a rain forest full of birds. This is really a birder’s paradise. The current is slow so we can easily move in this clunky plastic boat. At some point we come across a site of a long ago Indian village which has been reconstructed for tourists in an unusual way. The village area has a series of monuments depicting daily chores in the life of its inhabitants: fixing fishing nets, carrying water, playing games, daydreaming, grinding seeds for flour, and so on. In the central hut a chief and another man are talking. There are no people here, just us and the statutes, so we tie the boat and wander around.

The sun is low now. It is time to go back. The short time we have before dinner we sit on the steps to the river, watch the daylight disappear and listen to the sounds of the jungle. Magic. As we make our way to the dining hall all the walkways are lit up with lamps in the shape of old fashioned gas lamps mounted on 2-3 feet poles. In the pitch dark of this jungle night these hundreds of lights magnify the magic.

At dinner we see other hotel guests. We count 18 people, all small private groups of two or four.

The night is very still here except for the wind.

Tuesday, March 7

With all its magic, there is nothing to do here. There are no chairs or benches where we can sit and listen to the sounds of the jungle, and this little archipelago does not provide grassy surfaces for sitting either. The promised swimming pool does not work and the promised kayaks do not exist. There are no hiking paths, just the river, swamps and a jungle. But this is OK because we always planned to spend a day at the beach in this area. The boat to the mainland goes once in the morning and returns around 3 PM. After breakfast we get on the boat. From what I can see, most people spend here only one night, maybe two. While waiting we chat with two Danish women who are on the same arrival and departure schedule as we are. One is much older than the other; they look like a married couple rather than two girlfriends. They are heading to the crocodile farm and some other short adventure. We hire a taxi to take us to the beach in Playa Largo, about 10 km from here. The beach is modest, strongly reminiscent of the Brazilian Parakeet beach we visited several years ago: narrow, some debris scattered around.

White sand, turquoise water, gentle waves, palm trees and these other trees with very large sturdy leaves, like plates, giving a lot of shade. Concrete military fortifications are decaying in the wind. We spend several hours on the beach under a tree, have lunch in a bar frequented by the locals. The wind is getting stronger and air getting cooler as the day progresses. On the way back, while looking around to find a taxi, we notice a middle aged couple getting into a car, so I ask them for a ride. There is only one road here and we are at the very end of it, so everybody must be going in the direction of our hotel. Yes, indeed, they welcome us to their car. They are from Marseille. I have met on this trip more French people than in any previous trip. Either the tastes of the French toward foreign travel have changed over the years or they are especially fond of Cuba.

We meet our boat returning to the hotel at 3 PM. After an afternoon nap we take the pedal boat out again. I really like moving along this river and listening to the sounds of the forest. The river is meandering this way and that, branching out here and there, but it seems impossible to get lost here. Like yesterday we end up back at our hotel campus.

A dinner at the dining hall among mostly new faces of tourists. Multiple languages. I would like to chat with the other guests but the dining hall tables separate us into small traveling units. Unfortunately this place does not have a lounge conducive to human contacts. Also, I have noticed that surprisingly many tourists, especially the French and Italian, do not speak fluent English.

Wednesday, March 8

The best time of the day here is morning. Waking up to the symphony of birds and the stillness of the pure air is so special. It is too bad that they could not organize this hotel in a way that would allow us to spend some more time here, in this marvelous nature.

After breakfast we collect the luggage and wait for the boat. We get into a conversation with a nice couple from the Netherlands. Attractive people, worldly, dressed in expensive clothes, the man is probably an executive for Shell. He speaks fluently several languages, including Spanish, which I note wistfully. As I get into the boat with my suitcase I am reminded what I noticed earlier: that people who operate the boat do not lift our luggage, even when they can see that I am struggling with it. This must be their sense of social position: a boat operator is not doing the work of a luggage carrier, even if that means allowing an older woman huff and puff.

At the dock Alberto, our driver for today greets us. The front desk man organized our drive back to Havana and before that a drive to Zapata, where another person will give us a tour of Zapata. The driver is a very pleasant and earnest young man with bad teeth. He gets into his lemon yellow 1949 Chrysler Plymouth with wooden carved door handles, intact burgundy leather on the rear seat and a cardboard instead of glass in the window on my side. It takes only a few minutes to get to the gate of the National Park where we learn that at this moment they do not have jeeps or English speaking guides (cannot enter the park without a guide). We thought that the hotel man made these arrangements for us, but his English was so rudimentary that of course we did not understand.

What to do? In the end, another guy with a blue antique car presents himself and we take a Spanish speaking guide. Who cares about the language when all we want is to get the names of birds and help with seeing them. The trip is very reminiscent of the first time we were here in 2001 except that in March there are no mosquitos and water is very low (which means fewer birds, especially the coveted pink flamingos).

On one of the stops we run into our Dutch fellow travelers, who are here in their own car, with another Spanish speaking guide. ‘You could have come with us’ he says, but of course they did not tell us that they decided to come here, probably after Philip told them of our plan for the day. We meet them again at the end of this 20 km ride on a terrible road and get cheered up by this man with a very gregarious demeanor, perfectly suitable for his job.

Zapata is an amazing place. It takes an amazing place to turn me into a bird watcher. We see so many kinds of water birds, with egresses and herons most populous, but we also see some pink flamingos and pelicans. And I am fascinated by these huge termite nests on the trees. Upon exiting the park we are handed over to Alberto, stop briefly for lunch and set out for La Habana. Alberto is a gregarious guy who apparently knows everybody. He waives or honks to drivers of other cars, horse drawn carriages and pedestrians we pass. Then we hit the highway, the same straight, flat, empty highway. These old cars are marvels to looks at but riding in them is tiring. The engine is noisy and all the windows stay open, magnifying the noise. Two hours to Havana, following almost three hours in Zapata, is more than enough for one day. As we enter the city I watch how Alberto gets directions form people. He stops at a curb, calls to a guy “Hey, Amigo”, introduces himself, shakes hands, and only then asks for directions. I admire his social skills. With little trouble he finds our hotel Colina on Calle L.

This time we stay in the Centro, not Havana Vieja. Our hotel is across the street from the University of Havana and the neighborhood is full of students. This is a real living neighborhood in comparison with the old city, which was a museum surrounded by slums. There are plenty of tourists but they are still a minority. Life of Havana happens here, not in Old City. We first attend to our emergency cash crisis by finding an ATM machine, then sit in a lovely little café where two beers cost $3. It is quite a cool day which allows us to stroll around. We pass an outdoor karate lesson for elementary school children and then find ourselves in a neighborhood of once beautiful villas, some of which are being renovated. The US Embassy is nearby and we think that these renovations have to do with the reopening of diplomatic ties with Cuba.

Dinner at an outdoor restaurant on a patio of one such villa. The prices are extremely low in this part of town. My sword fish is uninspired but Philip’s chilindron (pressured cooked goat meat with tomatoes, onions and some herbs) is fabulous. My digestive problems, which slowly started this morning and got worse over time, do not allow me to share in this feast. Half way through the meal four young man, maybe students, set up a band and we enjoy the lovely voice of their leader. They play for us Commandante Che Guevara, which was super popular sixteen years ago but we do not hear at all on this trip anymore.

Next to hour hotel there is a little cement wall, more like an oversized curb, which marks the edge of a small city park, a green patch of trees and benches, dozens of which dot Havana. When we return to the hotel we find the entire long wall filled shoulder to shoulder with young people on cellphones. They are using the hotel WiFi system. There are more people in the park, on benches, doing the same. Complete silence and blinking bluish screens. Cuba in the twenty first century.

Thursday, March 9

My digestive problems got worse and I spend much of the day in the hotel room. It is a pity because the breakfast buffet is the best so far in Cuba. I fill up a plastic bag with small rolls, a honey container and a couple of bananas and that is my food for the day. This hotel is a standard socialist architecture, probably considered upscale once upon a time. The rooms are spacious, with large windows, and so is the lobby. But today this place is very tired looking, worn out, the paint peeling in the corners in our room and the bathroom smells of mold. But I enjoy having a large window with a view on street life.

Philip spends the entire morning on getting us checked in for tomorrow flight. First finds a place to buy internet card, which requires standing in line of half an hour, fending off people who try to cut in front of him. Then the endless attempts to get on line in the hotel lobby. Complications with his Canadian Visa. Then more complications when we discover the consequences of my entering Cuba on the Polish passport: I need to leave Cuba on Polish passport but being a Pole requires a Canadian entry visa, which requires a week to obtain. At the end of the morning Philip is quite exhausted.

Since I am beginning to feel better we settle in the outdoor patio-café in front of the hotel. This is a perfect place to watch street life in Havana Centro. The patio is shielded from the sun by a large overhanging roof supported by columns. It is a relatively cool and sunny day. Masses of people move right in front of us and there is a major intersection to the left of me so I can watch the car traffic. In these couple of hours I probably inhale more fumes and dust than I do in a year in Newton.

Women in Havana are not especially beautiful (of course there are beauties among them) but they move nicely: with confidence and grace. At some point I feel well enough to venture across the street to check out the university campus. University campuses are always places where I feel comfortable. Two students approach me and show me around two main buildings, kind-of founders’ halls, including the balcony where Fidel was giving speeches.

Now Philip is ready to move but I need to lie down. So he takes a taxi to the Old City to see the museum of revolution, which I would love to see again but must forego. After visiting the museum Philip walks back most of the way, observing street life in this impoverished neighborhood. Eventually he finds a bike-rickshaw but after some blocks of leisurely making photographs he ends pushing the heavy bike up the hill jointly with the driver!

As the evening descents I feel well enough to take undertake our last walk in Cuba. We go toward the Synagogue Beth Shalom, partly walking partly by taxi. This is modern architecture from the sixties, currently under major renovations. Pictures of the congregation life line the walls, including the visit of Steven Spielberg. In the office I donate $100 to my brethren in Havana.

The Berthold Brecht Center next door is a theater and a cultural center. We have a beer there; watch the locals do the same. Then we slowly walk back. It is very windy and cool and the city seems friendly and open to us. We pass another one or two of these postage size parks. Have dinner in a trendy hipsterish restaurant while watching Dirty Dancing on TV.

I have come to like Havana very much.

By Philip.

This is our last day in Cuba. My first task is to check us in for the flight back to Toronto the next morning. It turns out to be a big production. First logging in on the internet turned out to be a truly hellish experience, with multiple times a connection being made and broken. The next challenge was finding the right website. Most websites of Air Canada conveyed a message that checking in from this location was not possible. When that finally worked, the check-in was refused because Halina, traveling from Canada to Cuba on her Polish passport, needed a visa to re-enter Canada. By now, my internet card had lapsed; and I went to the lobby to buy another one. No luck, the lobby referred me to a place some blocks away. I started walking; ending up in an upscale hotel where they only sold cards for their guests. The adjacent shopping center, to be reached by walking basically around this 1-block hotel, did have a pharmacist (who could not sell me Imodium but some abysmal bismuth tablets). After asking many people about buying a WiFi card I found the kiosk not far from the hotel, with a very long line of people and little progress. This is because the clerk wrote down all personal data from each buyer. I also learned something about how in Cuba lines are formed and maintained. Just as I came close to the front of the line several people materialized, claiming to be ahead of me. Since I loudly objected, some lady explained to me in broken German that people “save” their place in line and go to do other errands, only to return just in time.

 

After finally securing two internet cards (for a fraction of the price paid in a hotel) I went back and started all over again. It turned out that Halina’s visa for Canada would be delivered in 5 days. I called Halina in her room to consult her, but as it turned out later there was no phone in the room. I did not want to lose my internet connection so I decided on my own to change Halina’s nationality to US; and that way I could finally check us in. My plan was that the next day she would check in with Air Canada on her US passport, and then go through Cuban border control with her Polish passport, and next through US immigration control in Canada with her US passport again. This scheme turned out to be working the next day but cost us quite some sweat.

 

The whole procedure cost me the entire morning; I sat for about two hours numb on the hotel terrace with coffee and a sandwich before I was able to move again. I next needed to check in for our last and final flight from Toronto to Boston: this I managed for Halina but not for myself, reasons unknown.

Close to 4 pm I was ready to go out myself, but Halina after her walk was too tired to go with me. I took a taxi to the museum of the revolution, and enjoyed seeing again the great monuments like the Granma, the aircraft, the tanks and ambulances, and the pictures and stories inside the museum. Afterwards I walked towards the south, crossed the Prado which was full of pedestrians at that hour, and walked the poor streets south of Prado close to Malecon (which I could not cross because of traffic). I finally was able to get a bike rickshaw who took me back to L Street. The road near the hotel became so steep that we ended up pushing the rickshaw together up the hill.

Friday, March 10

We depart in the dark at 5 AM in a taxi which is really a wreck. It basically misses all the interior walls. Nerve wrecking passport dance at the airport ends well and we get out of Cuba without a glitch. In Toronto we go through the US border patrol where thy office asks us where we are coming from. As previously agreed I simply answer Cuba. There is a moment of hesitation, a second look, and he lets me go. It could be more complicated for Philip but the man gives us no trouble and we are again in the US. This little blue booklet called US Passport is a blessing, the best thing to have in the world. I hope that it stays that way.

Snow greets us in Boston! Never mind, it is good to breathe the sharp winter air of home.