Khiva

23/08/09

Bored to tears in the beautiful city of Buxoro (Bukhara), I had to make a move to keep my wits. Not to say there was not a lot to see, it’s just that all the ancient buildings are full of carpet shops, t-shirt stands, jewellery sellers, hat racks, postcards, and other tourist crap. The shops and stalls are not only an uninteresting nuisance that ruin most photographs, they are also impossible to avoid and have taken over EVERY SINGLE HISTORICAL BUILDING in a manner most disgraceful.

I got up at five in the morning and headed for the mashrutka stand to get the local prices. In spite of my early start, I was running a bit late and had to hop in a cab, a routine that is quickly becoming my worst nightmare. The driver and I agreed on a (high) price, but then he stopped to pick a guy up on the way. I am no stranger to this game, so I simply watched what the Uzbek man paid and deducted that from the agreed upon fare. The driver was enraged and started screaming at me. I pulled my bag out of the back while he shouted angrily from the front seat.

He began making threatening gestures, and jumped out of the car as if to intimidate me into paying up. I stood there and looked him in the eye without flinching. He grabbed the shoulder strap of my day pack and I seized his wrist and twisted it until he released his grip. This put him in check and just to be sure I kept giving him a look as if to say “bring it on.” He shut up and got back in the cab. I am so sick of this shit I swear one of these guys is cruisin’ for a slap.

Some of the Uzbeks were laughing at him, unsympathetic as he was clearly trying to take me for a ride. The guy who had shared the cab decided to take me under his wing, and soon we were off in a minivan style mashrutka, en route to Khiva via Buruni and Urgench. The Uzbek was an older man and we sat communicating in broken and very limited Russky. Having answered all of his questions to the best of my ability, we rode in silence, while he alternated between chain smoking and hacking his lungs up until finally we stopped for breakfast. We sat and ate stewed meat that tasted suspiciously similar to the way Canadian dog food smells. He ordered some vodka and insisted that I share some. I resisted, seeing as it was still before eight in the morning.

Back in the mashrutka, we made our way smoothly through checkpoint after checkpoint , until up aheard we were confronted by a full on roadblock guarded by the police. There was much discussion in Uzbek, but I was able to surmise the plan involved saying “Salaam un alaiyakum” and pressing a few thousand sum ($1.50 – $5.00 CDN???) as the driver shook his hand. It didn’t work that smoothly, but after thorough document inspection we were on our way. Almost.

Just as we were loading back into the minivan, one of the cops came up with a suitcase in his hand and a silly grin on his face. Of course he was provided the front passenger seat as the rest of us contorted ourselves into the remaining space to accommodate the large man who moved to the back. A few hours later, we were in Buruni.

This is where my day got interesting. The same Uzbek guy from the first taxi made it clear that I should stick with him. Having nothing but time on my hands, I figured ‘why not.’ It soon became apparent that we were waiting for a ride from someone he knew. I did not know where, but I was feeling curious enough to find out. Soon his son and grandson showed up in a refurbished Lada and we cruised off toward Urgench. To my surprise, we pulled into a driveway and I was invited into the house where the daughter in law served up a massive meal of plov (a national rice dish), bread and salad. I ate until I was full, but was encouraged to continue until I had consumed a ridiculous amount of food so as not to offend my well intentioned hosts.

After this, the bottles of vodka came out. The old man insisted again that I have a shot with him. Seeing as I could no longer complain that the sun had only just risen, my refusals fell on deaf ears and I ended up downing my first sip of alcohol since I was among the Mongols. This pleased the old man and he poured me another. I could see where this was going and had no inclination to get wasted, particularly since I still had a long way to go before reaching my final destination. I wet my lips but didn’t drink a drop, and this seemed to send the message fairly effectively. More vodka for him.

After taking down his address in both Cyrillic and Latin characters, I hopped back in the Lada with his son and was transported to the Avtostasi (taxi stand), where the son insisted on paying my fare to Khiva. I tried to refuse, failed, then thanked him a million times before cramming into the back of a Daewoo Tico – one of the smallest cars known to man.

I was really blown away by the kindness of that family and it did wonders to resurrect my positive impression of the Uzbeks. It is easy to allow yourself to suffocate under an avalanche bad experiences with two-bit con men, taxi touts, souvenir sellers, and other predators. I was delighted to have such a nice experience and really felt good as I rolled into Khiva.

Khiva is like an open air museum, an ancient walled city in the desert, meticulously restored and devoid of any sign of life. The buildings are beautiful, but the streets are empty. It is hard to imagine the once thriving bazaars that gave this city its reputation as a slave market. The medressas and domes sit lifeless, awaiting the occasional tourist.

It is hard to distinguish between the parts of buildings that are original, and those that have been restored, mostly by the soviets. The city would not be standing without extensive restoration including the outright reconstruction of some places on account of earthquakes that periodically shake the region.

After a few hours wandering the streets, stopping to eat some shashlik (shish kebab), I’ve had my fill and will head for the desert tomorrow to get a change of scenery. It’s not that these old buildings are not beautiful, it’s just that I feel they lack authenticity and I have yet to see something that really blows me away. Unfortunately, in spite of its potential to capture the imagination, Uzbekistan has to be the most boring place that I have ever visited.