For the ride to Khiva, I had packed a 19th-century travel journal called "A Ride to Khiva." A classic of "the Great Game," it proved the perfect choice. Written by one of those hilariously imperialist Brits from that age, I found it quite marvelous to hear his opinions on the region and smiled to recognize how much was the same. One of his biggest hassles is dishonest cab drivers. How it resonated across the centuries!
The Great Game is what they called the political maneuverings between Russia and Great Britain during the period of Russian expansion East. The British desired to maintain and grow its Indian holdings or move into Central Asia themselves. There was concern on both sides one would control the 'stans before the other and launch an attack.
Historically, Afghanistan has been propped up by the larger powers, kept "free," as it provides a buffer between India and the "Silk Route." The Khanates who ran what is now Uzbekistan and Kyrgystan might have gotten in on this prop-up action, but they fought among themselves and proved too tempting (and easy) a target for colonization.
The Russians took advantage of this first, "won" the Great Game, and were in "completion mode" as late as the 1980s trying to take Afghanistan.
So... history and archaic language, and I was in a heaven of research and travelogues as the train made its way through the desert to Khiva.
The train was hot as hell, though I am here in autumn. I am told it absolutely roasts in summer, frequently reaching 120 degrees. In the book the Brit crosses in winter, which is the exact opposite extreme. He is frequently pausing to clear the icicles from his horse's noses, so they can breathe. I had water and walnuts, but I was uncomfortable. Stripped down to my t-shirt, though I noticed many of the locals suffering in their robes or the "casual business attire" many of the men wear.
Six hours, all told, with a mostly unvaried view of golden sands and dust. It wasn't quite the romantic dunes and colors of The Sahara, feeling and looking more like...desolation. A slight dehydration headache was brewing. When we pulled into the station I found it a great relief, with more than the usual buoyancy that comes with "arrival." Left the oven and found the late Khiva afternoon cool and inviting.
Eric and Bjarke had taken the same train. We're all on that Silk Road conveyor belt, and it was nice to see them again. As in Bukhara, we were going to share a taxi, but... my host was waiting for me with my name printed out on a placard! So long, suckers, no room for you in the car. I'll What's App you later. They were good-natured about it.
I followed my host to... a Damas!! The van I've been dreaming of since Samarkand.. here with its side door open, beckoning me inside! A reward (it seemed). I jumped in, and we were off to Ichan Qala, the old city inside the walls of the fort of Khiva.
Just outside the station there were the signs of "development." A large shopping center going up, many hotels and apartments, but they faded as we approached then entered the old city. Crazy twisting through dusty narrow pathways, the Damas almost scraping the old stone walls. At last we were "home," and I would not have found it by myself.
A nice little guesthouse dominated by a dining table. There was no "living room" to speak of. It was a kitchen, the huge table with its surrounding bench, and two private rooms. A cup of tea was placed in my hand, and I was shown which room was mine. I was then asked what time I would like to be fed. How civilized!
My headache hadn't quite gone away. It was the first physical discomfort of the trip. I had been warned the Silk Route would be slick with diarrhea, but I've either been lucky or careful. No issues, digestive or otherwise, but the dry ride west after three weeks on the road was enough to finally get me.
I was going to nap, but a knock on the door asked me to please come out and eat. A sweet old granny held a plate of dumplings. Maybe some food and tea would bring me back to life. I ate potato dumplings and homemade bread (decorated with the flower-pattern bread stamp!) and grapes and tomatoes. It was all served in a Goblin Market of abundance. There are never fewer than eight dishes at any meal.
I was fortified, and there was light, so I went out for a quick stroll. It's a marvelously corkscrewy, dusty place in which you can easily imagine people from ages past moving along and trading, and loving, and worrying and sweeping.
The most famous landmark is The Blue Minaret (which I have seen used a symbol for all of Uzbekistan much as the Opera House is for Sydney). Compared to the magnificent tower in Bukhara, it looked a bit like a factory smokestack, but I appreciated the effort they put into it. Making my way toward it (unmissable with all the old one-story buildings in Ichan Qala) I heard music and singing and walked right into a puppet show.
A real delight with celebrating people waving puppets, some wearing masks (puppets themselves) and telling old stories in chanted code. It felt like it was for locals or just for fun. There was no organized hat for donations and no one looking around for tips. They were just... having a nice time.
Cheered (though the headache had not left), I enjoyed the minaret and the surrounding environs. The view down the main street here really is like something out of an old story, ancient towers and crenelated stone walls surrounding. I've had the opportunity to be in European castles and the surrounding environs, but this seemed so much more... like something people would live in. More relatable somehow. I bought a small painting of traders on camelback arriving at the gates, because I would not have been surprised to look outside the gates and see them arriving.
Puppetry is a thing here, as I had just experienced, and I saw many artisans working with paper mache, molding faces. I found it all very beautiful. The evening cooled (though not my enthusiasm) and I made my way through the small maze back to the guesthouse.
Where ANOTHER meal was waiting for me. I was satisfied (and there was still the matter of that headache), but there was a great clamor for me to "sit, sit. Please to eat." and a disoriented-seeming European guest sat there alone, so I joined him for a cup of tea and some fruit.
His name was Kristian, a German from that country's southern regions, and we found one another very good company. There was a marvelous exchange over a persimmon.
Do you know this fruit?
"I do not know English word. It has many name. I have heard it called pear-simon."
I would like to try.
"Yes, but to be careful. It has the seeds. Do you call them seeds. As in a grape?"
Yes, seeds.
"Even when they are so large as in the pear-simon?"
Let me see. Um...
"You must quarter it."
Ok. Ok...so, these are seeds. I would say seeds.
"What is the word for large seeds?"
So maybe in a peach or avocado, we would call a large seed a pit.
"Ape-it?"
Sorry. Pit. A pit.
"You base this on size?"
I think so. It is a seed, of course, but at some point we call it a pit. Maybe when there is only one.
"Is this because of the hole it makes when you remove?"
Um...
"When you dig out is like a pit you dig."
Haha. I don't think the words are related, but I've never.. thought about it. Maybe!
At this point, our host asked if we had seen the show now playing on the television. It was called Central Asia's Got Talent, and a man was allowed to make a miniature plov without being eliminated by the judges.
I eliminated myself from the table after this and went to my room to nurse my head.
A serious note on this is that the "brain tear" I experienced mid-year was preceded by a terrible headache ten days prior to the event (which badly damaged my vision). Though it may have been a simple headache... my situation is such I have to take everything seriously. Would I wake up deaf? Blinder? Slurring my words? Thinking a persimmon was a puppy?
I took a hot shower and went to bed. In the morning it was not quite gone, cause for some concern. I washed my face, dressed, and prepared to explore as usual. I figured the goal of the day would be to buy a large tablecloth for home. If my brain was going to explode, there would be something nice to bury me in.
I was, as had now become the pattern, delayed by Grandma Uzbek, who pushed hot pumpkin-filled rolls into my hands and bade me sit, drink tea, and eat some cold eggs which had been waiting for me all morning. It was all very nourishing. I treated myself to another persimmon, and hit the road.
Having now seen most of what there was to offer and having some idea on what things should cost, I was at last a serious buyer for one of the larger pieces. Our home needs a tablecloth, domestic yearning has been awakened in me, and it was time to buy one. I was exactly what this town was hoping for. A sucker with desires and the means to act on them.
Spoiled for choice, the biggest problem was, "which one?" I wanted them all, the colors, patterns, and materials being SO PLEASING.
Of course, I settled on a pomegranate design, and after a few false starts I discovered the one, the cloth I would bring home to its "forever table." In a moment of pure covetousness, I also selected a large, weirdly shaped textile with a garden scene. Who knows where it will go? The back of the couch? Once I went from disinterested observer to curious onlooker to serious buyer, the taps were flowing.
The purchase required cash, and there were no machines in the old city, but not to worry, the weaver's husband was called. Which is how I met Maxu, an hilarious old man, fully embracing the character of the ebullient, avuncular local. Bear hugs and loud cries of "Salaam alaikum!!" to any and all who crossed our path. His role was to lead me to the ATM. He played it very well.
In appearance, he looked like the "Uzbek" character on all the magnets and salt shakers for sale in the market. It really was perfect.
We walked for a long time to a hotel. Every construction worker we passed got his greeting, they would raise a hand in response. Then he would turn to me, indicate the person he had just spoken to, and say, "My friend."
We passed a painter, (my friend!), a cobbler, (my friend!) and many more. The whole town was his friend. They all seemed to know him, anyway. It was charming as all hell. When we got to the hotel, they treated him a bit more coldly, but it did not deter his cheerfulness. Alas, the ATM did not accept VISA, and so.... we had to walk all the way back past old friends and new.
A bank on the other end of town had the only machine in Khiva that took VISA cards, and so... into Maxu's car we jumped. He drove like a fucking maniac, waving to people out the window. Honking. My friiiiend! Men in trucks waved back to him, men on bicycles took their hands off the handlebars to greet him. I was laughing and excited, yelling "Your friend!" as we passed them. In the thrill of it, I noticed my headache was gone.
At one point, he gunned it, and we crossed lanes to pass three other, slower cars. Fearlessly playing chicken with oncoming traffic. He shouted his own name at this point, "Maxuuuuu!" I don't know what will happen with my brain or with anything else, but it felt like exploding in the motorcade of Maxu, Mayor of Ichan Qala would be an absolutely top-rate way to go out.
The ATM worked, and when I handed him the money he called me his friend. Tears welled up in my eyes.
I love this and your brain!
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