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Beijing, China

7:17 am

We arrive at Beijing West train station, via overnight train from Xi'an. The taxi stand is extremely organized, the taxis metered. But--the line is so long that it takes half an hour til we reach the constantly-moving point of taxi-passenger matching. One hint at the boggling size of this city (over 15 million people stretched over topographically-flat "chessboard" plains.)

8:30ish

The taxi takes us past Tiananmen Square and other familiar sites, dropping us across the street from our destination: the "hutong" (traditional alley) of Nanluogo Xiang. This is a renovated hutong--no longer a crowded residential community--now lined with beautiful plant-strewn cafes, uniformly gray street pavers, chic boutiques, corner stores, bars, and unassuming tea houses. My friend and former colleague Ling had taken me here when I was in Beijing for work in October, and I was impressed by its bustling tranquility as well as its mix of Beijing residents, Chinese tourists and foreign tourists. We find our hostel, drop our bags and have some breakfast while our room is readied.

10am-ish
We head out to explore. Our walk takes us further down the hutong, to a big street. Josh buys us some scrumptious puff pastry/donut hole concoctions. Kate and I peruse shops filled with ridiculous (amazing) screen-printed t-shirts that are often graced with little more than nonsense phrases, written as NoNSeNSE! in bold colors.

11:30
We find our way to Houhai Lake, a bar/party area by night that we can stroll around quietly by day. Josh and Scott try out some calisthenics machines while Kate and I sit on a rock under a weeping willow. We are all amazed by the air pollution, which nearly obscures the small island in the middle of the lake. Everything looks dreamlike in the humidity/haze.

12:30
Our hostel room is ready and we change clothes and shower (feels good after two overnight trains). We head towards the "center" of the city on foot, passing a half-block wide (and very long) park sprinkled with the occasional whimsical sculpture or bench. Beijing's greenery continually impresses me.

We come to Wanfujing, a pedestrian street that slightly resembles the Times Square of Beijing. Lots of big stores and malls. Video screens. Temporary sidewalk beer cafes. A mobile van set up for blood donations (for earthquake victims), busy with volunteers. Big tea shops. Electronics depots. Olympic paraphenalia. And--construction everywhere. Several enormous buildings that had been there 6 months ago are no longer intact. The scale and rate of change in the city is mind-blowing.

We stop at a steamed bun restuarant for lunch and almost order way too many buns. Actually, I think we did order way to many buns but somehow we ate them. They are served by the plateful--filled with meats or veggies--accompanied by diced pickled mushrooms and congee/millet soup. We can watch new bun-makers being trained in the next room.

3:00pm
We're in Tiananmen Square, looking towards the beginning of the Forbidden City and Mao's portrait. The place is teeming with tourists of all nationalities (mostly Chinese). Josh and Scott are impressed with the size of the square. We're too late to visit Mao's body in his masoleum today.  We head to Qianmen metro stop for another adventure north in the city.

5:00pm
We've found the Olympic Park! Its not very accessible. There's a proposed Olympic metro line to get here, but apparently it is not operational yet. We walked about a mile from the nearest metro stop, along the busy 4th ring road (that gives you an idea of how far out of the middle of the city the stadiums are--there are concentric ring roads, and we've passed the fourth one). The site is surrounded by a big fence for now. Roads, traffic lights, and scrolling signs are operational inside. But the grounds are still a mess--we watch workers unload a flatbed of sod, transporting the rolled grass on a big platform over the fence, unrolling it on the ground, directing the platform back over the fence, and repeating. The workers are as entertained by the camera-toting gawkers as we are by them. The "Birds Nest" stadium and "Water Cube" are spectacurly huge through the haze. There are several large video screens built into the sides of nearby buildings, presumably for watching events once they start. We (and most of the foreigners we talk to) are worried that the shock of the air pollution is going to overshadow the games.

6:30pm
Back at the hostel and headed to a Chinese Acrobatics show (which proved to be entertaining--tightrope walking, juggling, bicycle tricks, little tiny kids upside down on mini pogo sticks, contortionists, boys leaping through rings 15 ft high etc etc.)

9:30pm
We stumble upon a little tea shop, tucked into a side street near our hostel. Scott brings us in and we order "high mountain Taiwanese" tea. Turns out the woman who works there is from a family who grows this tea, and that her husband likes Beijing so they just opened this shop within the past year. She is passionate about tea so Scott and I have plenty to talk about with her. The shop is beautiful--simple old wood doors and window frames. Tables made from old wagon wheels set on their side and topped with glass. Stools are old barrels. Scott pours our tea diligently while a group of Beijing hipsters smoke and talk over small food behind us. Somehow it all works quite nicely together.

10:30pm
We head back to Houhai lake for dinner. Atmosphere is great (lakeside dining), food not so much. We watch a man try to dock his row boat ten times as the dock-minders push him out to middle of the lake again and again. We're not sure why this is happening, but it makes for some dramatic moments. People pour past on the small sidewalks--young American students with beers in hand, expat kids, Chinese friends, expat/Chinese couples. They are all here to have a good time. They pass by shops selling communist paraphenalia, colored laser pointers, souvenirs, candied apples, cigarettes, and almost anything else you can think of. Touts line the sidewalks, shouting the evening's specials in Mandarin and English, almost interchangeably. We settled at an outdoor shisha bar lined with couches and watch the goings on for hours, club music pumping and neon lights flashing across the lake. Things degenerate at a similar pace to the one we are familiar with in Adams Morgan (Washington DC). The late-night bar scene seems to share many elements, no matter the country.

2am
Our walk back to the hostel is quieter than the one on the way out earlier in the evening. The streets are mostly quiet, lights out in the houses and small stores. Nanluoxu Xiang is still hopping in spots, though. A guitar bar has spilled out into the tiny intersection it overlooks. A grinning performer is surrounded by one flood light, twenty patrons, many beer bottles, and a pair of speakers. Several bars are gearing up to show the first quarter final of Euro 2008 (soccer--which Scott ends up watching--another story). The rest of us head back for our first night of sleep in a still bed in three nights. Another Beijing day is soon to start....

Zoe
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Kashgar, Xinjiang Uygur, China

We arrived in Kashgar, the meeting point of the northern and southern routes on the Silk Road, on Friday night. We spent our first evening eating a gigantic meal and, well, planning our hopscotch through China. Last minute, you say? True -- but that's the way it had to be. Most Chinese trains, we discovered, can't be booked more than five days in advance, so there was no way to plot an exact route or schedule. And even the planes, which can be booked further in advance, become significantly cheaper two to three days before departure time. So last night we figured it all out: Urumqi is next, the capital of Xinjiang province and the most inland city in the world. After that, Dunhuang, Xian (the Eastern terminus of the Silk Road and home to the seat of countless dynasties) and Beijing. With planning out of the way as of last night, we had today to explore Kashgar.

This is not your typical Chinese city. Uighurs, a Central Asian muslim people, not Han Chinese, are the most dominant ethnic group here. the Uighur language is spoken more commonly than Mandarin or any other form of Chinese and Arabic script is at least as common as Chinese characters. Most Chinese folks see this as a kind of Wild West, the last outpost on the final frontier.

Coming from Kyrgyzstan, we had quite a different view. Yes, the city has some obviously Chinese characteristics -- a gigantic Mao statue, a beautiful, Chinese-style "People's Park," Euro 2008 soccer coming in on CCTV and the ubiquitous "Beijing 2008" ads. But it was clear to us also that Uighurs are at least as tied to the Tajiks, Uzbeks and Kyrgyz whom we had encountered as to the Chinese who govern them two unofficial time zones away to the East (Beijing official time is used here, which can really mess with your head when the sun is going down at 11:15 in the evening!).

Our morning stroll took us through the old city, a confounding maze of streets and alleys all seemingly devoted to a different craft. As we wander through the "knife street," Josh examines a classy razor and runs it up his arm, pondering how it might feel on his face. We dodge a few donkeys and pop into the Id Kah Mosque, the oldest in town, only to be ushered out because of the start of prayers. Around a few corners, we notice that an entire block is being gutted and scrap metal from inside the buildings are being used to produce axes, saws and other metal goods on the street. At the end of this street, we see a horse tied to a pole for no apparent reason. Soon, everything becomes clear. Two men in the store forge a horseshoe and then one of them hammers out holes for nails. Meanwhile, two other men use ropes to hoist the horse up from a horizontal crossbeam and suspend its front and hind legs. The horse's old shoes are removed, dirt is scraped clean (sometimes painfully for the poor horse) and the brand new shoe is hammered on. We watch in amazement, taking a break only to turn to the neighbors to ask for a $0.10 naan , fresh baked fresh in the tandoor on the street. Kashgar's old city is a fascinating tourist attraction, but it is no performance. It is a fully operational community whose people maintain its traditions for their own sake.

I should mention that we spent the a good portion of the rest of the afternoon wandering through Kashgar's "Sunday bazaar," reportedly the largest open market in the world. Many cities claim the largest market, but I believe this one. It's gigantic. Every aisle is a few hundred meters long, and there are at least 20 aisles in each direction. Iranian saffron goes for $5 per small bag; local "Kashgar" saffron is $3 (Zoe has to tear me away, hinting at similar or better deals further East). After three hours strolling through the old city and one in the bazaar, this capital of commercialism has worn us out. We're ready for a gentle Communist touch.

Where to for that? To the People's Park, of course! With tall, leafy trees, amusement park rides and a gigantic Chairman Mao looking down over us, how can we lose? We settle into a chaikhana to drink some tea and play the card game casino, our favorite way to pass the time (Zoe, Josh and I thank our respective grandparents for teaching us this wonderful game!). After a quick dinner, we grab our bags and jump in a taxi. I flap my arms wildly to signal our destination, and it's off to the airport we go.

We arrived in Urumqi at 1 a.m. and agree that the "Aviation Hotel," is our best bet. Zoe negotiates a great rate at the hotel's desk at the airport, and soon we're ushered out into a free shuttle. It's not long before we drive right past the Aviation. Uh-oh. We pull up to a dark building and one of the men in the shuttle runs out to turn on the lights in the lobby. The driver says we've arrived at our hotel. When we insist on heading back to the Aviation, the driver tries a number of tactics to convince us that we've arrived at the right "hotel." We're put on the phone with an English speaker who asks repeatedly if we have a reservation. Then we're offered a slightly better rate than we were at the Aviation. Finally, after it's clear we will go nowhere but the Aviation, the driver gets back in and gets the shuttle going again. We head out of our way to drop off one of her friends (probably to spite us) before we finally arrive at the Aviation. The staff, who have no idea who we are or what we're talking about, pities us and offers us a set of rooms. Our Urumqi odyssey is over.

More on Dunhuang soon, if we get a minute! For now, goodbye from Beijing!

Scott
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Kashgar, Xinjiang Uygur, China

Its 11:30 after a long day of travel (which seems like every day), so I am going to keep this brief. We have arrived safely in China after crossing the Torugart Pass from Krygyzstan.  It took nearly 7 hours on the road, not including time spent negotiating four checkpoints (two in Krygyzstan, two in China)

Sorry for the sparse blogging, but we've been experiencing major technological challenges.  First and foremost, the Yurts we were staying did NOT have internet access... or electricity at that.  We all blogged in Bishkek for over an hour, only to have the internet go down before any of us could post. We managed to back up a few entries to floppy drive, but have been unable to find anywhere else that actually has a floppy drive.   In Naryn, the electricity was out in the entire town. So it goes.

It seems that between 24-hour train rides, contentious border crossings, and sparse access, we're not finding very many blogging opportunities.  But there are many great stories and pictures, and they will find their way onto this blog soon.  Expect great stories about the waterpark in Tashkent, drinking fresh Kumys (fermented mare's milk), getting caught in a thunderstorm... while on horseback, and much much more. 
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jksz/1/1213373220/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jksz/1/1213373220/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jksz/1/1213373220/tpod.html Mon, 16 Mar 2009 17:32:01 -0400 A Horse, a Yurt and Two Dead Communists: 5250 miles (or so) on the Silk Road

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Bishkek, Kochkor, Naryn, and Tash Rabat, Kyrgyzstan

This post comes as a summary and not a blow by blow, as our access to internet was limited throughout our time in Kyrgyzstan....

We touched down in Bishkek after a short flight from Tashkent.  We immediately noticed the numerous U.S. Air Force planes next to us on the tarmac.  The US has leased space at the Manas airport for a whopping sum of around $2 million, which has led to some tense interactions between Krygyz folks and American Servicemen (including an alleged murder by a serviceman a couple years ago).  The next thing we noticed was the complete shift in car models dotting the road.  Instead of old, dilapitated Russian Ladas everywhere, we saw Passatts, Jettas, and Audi Taxis. 

After a quick evening in Bishkek and cold responses from our compatriots at the very cheap and very hot youth hostel, Scott negotiated a shared taxi ride to Kochkor (three hour trip through the mountains) for $6 each.  Our taxi driver, Kochkin, kept our attention with stories of his land and his insights on the benefits of stability and jobs during the Soviet Era, a sentiment that almost every person we met repeated.  This has led to spirited reflection and discussion on the communist system, a conversation which seemed to have died 15 years ago with the fall of the U.S.S.R.; yet the reality of poverty in Central Asia adds a new wrinkle to the debate over "how in the world do you make this massive global system work for all?"

Statues of the national bird, the eagle, greeted us at a number of turns on our mountain drive and brought forth a revealing sentiment of "hey but that is the symbol of America." An obvious question arises: how does the American tradition of the eagle compare to the thousands of years of eagle hunting history in Kyrgyzstan? Then again, perhaps ours is also that old and spans beyond the European presence in the Americas. 

Alas, we did not get to view any eagle hunting but our amazing tour organizers, Community Based Tourism (CBT), did set us up with a trip up into the mountains outside of Kochkor which required a three hour horseback ride to a "jailoo." The jailoo is an open alpine plateau where yurts (a traditional living structure for nomads) are set up by herders to provide them a summer home as they take their cows, sheep, goats, and horses to pasture up into the mountains.  Let me just say that essentially our horse ride up and our stay at the Jailoo was like riding through Middle Earth from Lord of the Rings or Narnia.  Seeing streams flowing down from the still snow-covered mountains evoked the spirit of renewal and reminded us all of ancient water cycles.  The drinking of kumys, fermented mares milk, came straight from the source and tasted as you might imagine (like sour milk). It was enjoyable but we didn't purchase bottles for the road...

Needless to say, there were several moments at which we needed reassurance as each of our horses slipped on the steep slopes and our bottoms were too sore for the horses uncontrollable galloping.  As we wandered back down the mountain at the end of our stay, we discussed the probability that our hosts held more assets than any of us.  With 300 sheep valued at $1000 per sheep, the mountain lifestyle of an outhouse and no electricity put wealth and standard of living into perspective and perhaps the concept on its head.  This was confirmed by our bed and breakfast host the next night in Kochkor, where we learned that shepherds were some of the more wealthy members of Kyrgyz society.  This was accompanied by more comments about how post-Soviet times have led to many folks lacking the skills and training of shepherd life choosing to take it on nonetheless. Hmmm again.

Our B & B hosts filled our tummies with good food and lively conversation and a very genuine connection that seemed to bridge our nationalities.

From Kochkor we grabbed a shared taxi to Naryn with a wheeling and dealing taxi driver that tried to scam us more then once. In Naryn we met up again with a CBT outfit and hopped in a hired car to Tash-Rabat, an old Silk Road outpost and Yurt camp.  The dust was a little too much on the drive, but well worth it to again arrive in Middle Earth/Narnia and experience this mystical world for one more night.  This stay was right next to a 10th century church and then mosque and outpost.  Our entry fee to Tash Rabat included a walk around the old outpost and its empty rooms that held strange deep holes and spooky entryways that led to...nothing?  This time it really, really felt like an Indiana Jones movie.

And from here, we headed to cross the border into China (see Zoe's post).

Well, it is quite late here in Kashgar where I write this from...

Last word, Kyrgyzstan is a hidden gem and we all feel honored to have been there.

Kate
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Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

It's only now that we are in a new country (Kyrgyzstan) that we can begin to reflect with some distance on our experiences in Uzbekistan...and what experiences they were! We have so little time to do justice to our trip on this blog. Here are some particularly memorable things that you may or may not have read about yet (a little hard to coordinate with all four of us blogging separately):
 
--Marshrutka (shared taxi) rides: as the minibus speeds down the street, watch for the little number sign on the dashboard. If it looks right, flag it down (usually comes to a screeching stop). Get in, pay a little money, try to figure out where the heck the route goes, and where we'd like to get off. Eventually, get off!
 
--Walking through madrassas: Samarkand and Bukhara are both full of historical and sometimes still operating madrassas (religious schools). Many of them are within spectacularly cavernous mosque complexes or shady fruit tree-filled courtyards. The bottom classrooms or dorms of the older ones have now mostly been converted into small bazaar-type stalls, with craftspeople selling everything from silk scarfs to freshly engraved plates and jewelry-even papier mache puppets (more on that below).
 
-- The baths: I'm sure someone will write an entire entry on this. It definitely deserves one. Late one evening in Bukhara, we walked into a lobby in the winding streets of the old city. Bending low to fit through a dark narrow stone passage way, we were blasted with hot moist air. The passage gave way to a large circular dimly-lit room. We were heated and doused in a very specific routine during the next hour or so...all in the middle of 16th century subterranean baths...
 
--Jewish Cemetery in Bukhara: Followed some twisting roads towards the Soviet part of town and discovered an enormous cemetery for the Jewish families that persist in Bukhara today.
 
--Lyabi Hauz: "Hauz" means pool in Bukhara and Lyabi Hauz is the center of the old city-both geographically and in terms of human energy. Chaikanas, or cafes, ring the murky waters of a stone pool; cats beg for food; dogs play; humans talk; and everyone eats. Oh, and there's a 600 year old mulberry tree as well.

So much more-but it is after midnight and we are getting kicked out!!
 
And now we are off to trek through Kyrgyzstan with the Kyrgyzstan Community Based Tourism Association for a few days! Back online from Kashgar, China, most likely....
 
Zoe
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Tashkent, Uzbekistan

VACATION FROM VACATION - Kicking Back in Tashkent
 
I have to admit, my eyes are often bigger than my stomach.  And that applies to traveling and sightseeing as well as eating.   After almost a week of hitting up ancient sights in ancient cities, I was ready for a nice shower and some comfort food.  Tashkent, Uzbekistan's capitol (and largest) city provided everything we wanted and more. 
 
Prior to this trip, Uzbekistan did not conjure up images of a thriving metropolis, and I am fairly certain I had never heard of Tashkent.   Imagine our surprise when we arrived in this bustling metropolis of several million, featuring delicious international cuisine, an amazing metro system, a thriving nightlife, ATMs, and even a waterpark - all of which we took advantage of in less than 24 hours.  Here are the highlights
 
METRO - Like Moscow, Tashkent takes it metro seriously.  The extensive underground system, connecting the entire city, doubled as a bomb shelter, but that doesn't mean they cut corners.    The stations were surprisingly clean, with high sloping ceilings and adorned with beautiful mosaics.  And it's dirt cheap to travel. We went an extra few stops just for the fun of it.
 
TAXIS - Everyone in Tashkent is a taxi driver.  Hold out your hand, or just stand in place for two minutes, and you will get approached.   Some are official taxis.  Some are informal drivers. But most of them are just everyday people, driving to work or just joyriding, looking to make a buck.  Scott and I caught a ride to the Plov Center (more on that later) with two kids who were "just driving".  Grand total for taking us all the way across town?  1500 Soum, or $1.30.  Even with the cheap metro, its hard not to just wave your hand.
 
AQUA LAND - For a while, when Scott and Kate kept talking about the waterpark in Tashkent, I thought they were kidding.  They weren't.   And after settling into our hostel, confirming the hours, we set off for a wet and wild afternoon.   Unlike Raging Water (my water park in the Bay Area growing up) Aqualand isn't way out in the burbs - its located right in the heart of the city, just down the street from the Intercontinental Hotel next to "TashkentLand," (their nationalist pride version of Disney Land) The neighborhood on the north side of the city was definitely the Upper West Side of Tashkent, featuring huge hotels, fancy chain stores, and smack dab in the middle, an amusement park and water park.
 
Zoe opted to read, but Scott, Kate and I threw on our suits and ran around with kids for three hours, enjoying "Kamakaze" and other great slides.  It was no Raging Waters, but the slides were decent and it did have a wave machine.   During breaks we grabbed a few beers and fresh cotton candy.  Scott taught me how to say "Kak Mojhno Bol'she" which means "as big as possible - pictures to come...
 
NIGHTLIFE
 
We started the night at Al Delfeen, an amazing Syrian restaurant walking distance from Aqualand.   We ordered some standard dishes - hummus and pita, spiced tea - and it was delicious.  We sat for hours playing Casino (which three of us learned from our grandfathers), Kate and I smoked Apricot sheesha and drank tea. Good times.  We started dinner around 8:00 and were still rearing at 11:00.  This was our one night in the city and we wanted to make the best of it. However, the B&Bs in this part of the world don't look kindly on visitors returning at 3:00 am, so we grabbed a cab back, lest we get locked out at midnight for curfew.  Good call!   Turns out doors locked at midnight... but they had a key they would give out for late night adventurers.
 
Without a moments hesitation, Scott, Kate and I were off to The Diplomat, described as "a place where you can still make poor life choices at 3:00 am on a Tuesday night".   My kind of place.   Sorta.   Highlights include rocking the dance floor to some crazy Uzbek beats, getting a "whoop whoop" going, and meeting two chatty Uzbek women who wanted to go to Texas to become cowgirls (yee ha!).    Lowpoints.  The club was about 90% women, who were probably 90% prostitutes, concubines, or women looking for a sugar daddy.  The other men were 40 year old dudes, or (as we later found out on the dance floor), gay Uzbeki twenty-somethings.  That didn't stop us from rocking it out until 3:00, though no poor life choices were made.
Josh
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Samarkand, Uzbekistan

The following story is true. The names have been changed to protect the innocent. What follows is a story of adventure and excitement, of new friends and broken hearts, of persistence and a whole lot of luck. It is the story of Dario's camera, lost and found.

ACT I

Our tale begins at around 3:00pm. We have just been dropped off by a Marshutka (group taxi/van, the main form of transport around town) at the AfroSiab Museum in Samarkand, after a lunch meal at Siab restaurant, an off-the-beaten-path restaurant recommended by the LP. We drank tea and ate laghman (soup) and nan (bread) along a river, and enjoyed the cool breeze from two fountains, which, after much repairs, started working halfway through our meal. The AfroSiab museum was just as beautiful, at least from the outside. I didn't get far inside before realizing that I didn't have my camera. (Quick note, the camera actually belongs to my friend Dario. I have had it since last summer when we travelled to Tanzania together. I promise I'll give it back soon). Scott, Kate, and Zoe can fill you in on their experiences, which include meeting a "black market archeologist," but fate had a different plan for me. After brainstorming, we decided that I would take a Marshutka back to the restaurant and meet them in the hostel. Now, its important to note that nobody speaks English, but with the call # (#58) of our Marshuka, I was somehow confident this would be a simple retrieval mission. I was wrong.

As chance would have it, I didn't need the Marshutka #. After 2 minutes on the road, two young Tajiks (from Uzbekistan), Ismoil and his friend drove passed me on the street. They caught my attention when they starting turning circles in the middle of the road, then drove over to talk with me. The spoke a little English, and after the usual pleasantries (they offered me half a warm coke and some cigarettes), I explained the situation and they offered to drive me to the Restaurant. Two minutes later I am rooring through Samarkand, taking a drag from some nasty Uzbek cigarettes, bumping to some of the worst ESL hip-hop i have ever heard. The Uzbek are driving like teenagers who had just earned they licence, and I know I am in for an adventure.

The signs of miscommunication appeared quickly. First, they drove me to the bizarre in town, thinking i wanted to buy a camera. Then they wanted to take me to their uncles restaurant. Then they argued that there was no "Siab" restaurant where I described. It turns out lots of things are named Siab, which is also the name of the river. Finally, I convinced them to let me navigate, and we were off. Leading them to the "dirt road after the bridge" (these were the Lonely Planet's directions), they laughed, said something in Tajik, and smiled at me. Two turns later, we were at Siab. I confidently walked up to our server, smiled, said "camera", made a camera motion, and he looked at me blankly. My newfound friends translated: my camera wasn't there. The only other option was that the camera fell out in the Marshutka. And, it turns out, there are about ten # 58's. My idea was the stay at the restaurant and flag down everyone that drives past, though I knew this was a low probability option.

ACT II

Instead, my new friends insist they had a better idea. At this point, it is clear they are along for the jouney, though I realize they probably expect some compensation for their time. They know the place where the #58 drivers take breaks between shifts ("Many of the drivers are my brothers" one explains), and we are off. We sit around at mini-mart next to the dirt road for a while as #58s drive past, but none of them have the leopard print ceiling that ours did. The time is wearing on us a bit. They keep asking me what color the Marshutka was, but I can't remember, and I'm starting to feel like I'm either burdening them, or they are going to want a lot of compensation for their services. Not to mention that our communication is limited to mono-syllabic exchangs and hand-gestures. I try to relieve them of their duties, but they are truly committed. Finally, we agree that we are getting nowhere and decide to pick up Scott and act as a translater.

So we're back off to the AfroSiab Museum (by now I know the way). After a bit of searching, I find Scott, Kate or Zoe on a hillside (where they had been hanging with self-described "black-market archeologist"). They can't remember the official Marshutka #, but Zoe remembers that the van was green. With not much new information, but the power of communication, Scott and I go with Ismoil and his friend back to the hang-out spot. We watch for #58s a while more, with no luck. Another Marshutka rolls past, and without much conversation, Ismoil flags it down, grabs Scott, and off they roll. I sat with Ismoil's friend for almost an hour and a half with no communication. And then, like conquering heroes, Scott and Ismoil return, camera in hand.

ACT III

I haven't gotten the full story, but as Scott told me "turns out Ismoil knows the driver of the only green #58 Marshutka. We went to his house, I met his kids, he gave me his baby to hold for a minute, and he had the camera, which he graciously returned". Everyone is happy. Ismoil's friend has a store nearby and I buy everyone a round of beers. And now we are friends. Turns out Ismoil loves American TV and movies, and has seen everything. And I mean everything. We trade favorites (he loves Heroes, I introduce him to Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and we bond over Jackie Chan and Jet Li movies. They haven't heard of The Wire, but are big fans of Prison Break. They love Barack Obama and hope he wins the election so we can get out of the war. We chill for almost 2 hours, talking movies and politics and everything under the sun.

Around 7:00 Ismoil invites us to dinner at his place. We text Kate and Zoe--they are skeptical. Zoe was itching for "Plov" (Uzbek national disk, like rice pilaf) and they were pretty hungry. Ismoil doesn't have Plov but after some texting, we agree to pick up Kate and Zoe at the hostel. In retrospect, that was the turning point of the evening. I should have seen the Plov on the wall.

We jump back in the call and we roll back towards the hostel to pick up Kate and Zoe (who we refer to as our girlfriends, for obvious reasons). Now, when I say "roll", I mean "roll" like when you just got your licence and you roll out of the high school parking lot with your favorite music playing, peeling around the corner with the delusion that this will somehow impress the girls. Except that is probably the standard of driving in Uzbekistan. These kids are worse. And when we pick up the ladies, the driving degenerates further. I think it was when Ismoil drove on the wrong side of the street to go around a road blog, swerving to avoid a donkey-drawn cart and almost hitting another car, that Zoe spoke up. It was time to get out of the car.

ACT IV

Scott asks Ismoil to pull over and the negotiation begins. Scott explains that Kate and Zoe are not comfortable with the driving (lame, but the easiest way to avoid hurt feelings). He says he will drive safely. And for the ride home? He will get us a taxi. I think we were all pretty on the fence at this point, which in my traveling experience usually means "safety first". We decide to bail, and Scott delivers the news. Ismoil feelings are hurt, and then I threw salt on the wound. Unsure of expectations, I offered him money (for gas and all the help). Offended, he turned, walked off, and drove away. And as abrupty as it started, our journey was over.

THE END

I've been playing the evening over and over in my head for the last two days. Ignoring the unfortunate ending, the fact that I found the camera is astonishing, and truly 1 chance in a million. On the flip side, I felt devastated at the ending of my friendship with Ismoil and his friend. I am confident in our decision to bail, but couldn't escape the tragedy of it. I have no question that my 'friends' had certainly expected a little something in return for their help, at least at first. But by the end, they were friends. And I felt awful to have offended them with my offer for money, though i think in most circumstances, it would have been appreciated graciously. With two days distance, I am simply becoming grateful for the adventure. We exchanged emails, and Scott and I plan to email Ismoil to thank him and smooth things out. I have Dario's camera safely back in my posession. We didn't get into an accident. All in all, I'd say it was one hell of a day.

And now it is time to get some Plov for lunch and explore Bukhara.
Josh
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Bukhara, Uzbekistan

So far, little has been said about the amazing "sights" we've seen along the way. With two days each in Samarkand and Bukhara now, we've rumbled through some of the world's most historically, architecturally and archeologically significant places.  The places of the silk road. It's all been a bit overwhelming.

For starters, here's a nerdy editorial note for context: we in the States typically view history behind a glass case of some sort. Seeing anything of significance often requires multiple security checks and usually takes place from a distance, and resulting in an immediate hushed voice and need for whispering. Not so here. As we drove through Samarkand past the airport, we passed a 400-year old statue, a 600-year-old mausoleum, and two 500-year-old medrassas -- all simply strewn about town. After we arrived at our B&B, we bought a couple of beers and waters to share and strolled under the bright starry sky (oh how so romantic...) around the grounds of the Guri Amir Mausoleum, where Timur (Tamerlane), and his two sons and grandsons (including the famous Ugulbek) were buried. At first, we were hesitant to proceed, but we were quickly reassured when we noticed a car pull up with two young Russians blaring music, appearing to have just left prom. Zoe strolled around to find the best light for photographs as bats occasionally swooped down from the arches above her head and we took turns sitting in the gardens and examining the building from all possible angles. We were amazed that we could simply walk up to the building with no hassle and honestly each step felt like it might lead to an Indian Jones type misstep and then adventure.  Our bible of the trip, (the Lonely Planet) informed us that Timur's tomb held an inscription upon with the sentiment of "whoever opens this will be defeated by an enemy more fearsome than I."  Well, the fist and last to open the tomb was Soviet anthropologist Mikhail Gerasimov in 1941.... The next day Hitler invaded the Soviet Union.  A little Raiders of the Lost Arkish...

On Wednesday, the four of us visited the Registan, a square featuring a trio of madrassas, the newest of which is over five centuries old. Here's the kicker: consumer goods were being sold in nearly every room in every madrassa. At first, this didn't sit well with me; it even seemed a bit sacreligious. Then, as I walked further, I started to understand. Pictures of the Registan from the 16th through the early 20th century showed that the entire square was teeming with vendors and traders. Simply, the Uzbeks have never viewed this place as a dead, static relic of the past. 

Even the Afrosiab museum, which we visited later that day, was not fully a museum in the way that I conceive of museums. Of course, there was an admission fee and a set of exhibits depicting civilization in Samarkand since the 12th Century B.C.E Our awestruck sense of the intricacies of the 5th Century B.C.E coins inspired a walk behind back in the semi-excavated ruins.  As we pondered whether the hills and valleys were man made, erosion-caused, or old stream beds, a man in his 20s approached us, showed us some coins over 1500 years old, and then handed us a "worthless" five-hundred-year-old pottery shard as a "gift."  Through a series of hand motions and broken Russian, it became apparent that he was a "black market archeologist" pulling out pottery shards and old coins to sell who knows where.  The museum obviously did not have enough funding to continue with excavation and preservation. He wouldn't take back the gift of the pottery shard; thus we returned it to the ground and kept exploring.  
 
This juxtaposition of feelings between desires for preservation versus living interaction continued into our time in Bukhara. Was paying $2 to put on "traditional" Uzbek dress while at the Ark's Cornoation Room and taking funny pictures disrespectful of this royal structure occupied from the 5th century to 1920?  Was walking around the still to be excavated layers of city in the back of the Ark breaking the rules of archeology and historical preservation, or was it following upon the tradition of 1000s of years of travelers in this area who have both interacted with the past and built for the future?  Our amazing evening at the 15th century Bukhara Baths, the predecessor to the Turkish Bath model, was that much more incredible in light of the fact that we've now been bathed (umm, I mean pulverized) in the same steam room as nomadic traders were over 400 years ago.  That is when the history and the interconnectedness really hits us.  And so, the question that we continue to wrestle with is what is truly "authentic" experience?  Does preservation of the past actually remove us from a connection to the present?
 
It looks as though we are being ushered out of the internet café.  So no time to edit and be as pithy and funny as I want... This post is a mix of Kate and Scott...
 
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jksz/1/1212773700/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jksz/1/1212773700/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jksz/1/1212773700/tpod.html Mon, 16 Mar 2009 16:56:09 -0400 A Horse, a Yurt and Two Dead Communists: 5250 miles (or so) on the Silk Road

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Bukhara, Uzbekistan

Only three hours. Only three hours....

I'm usually pretty good with high temperatures. Samarkand is hot, in general, this time of year (mid to upper-90s I think); we'd taken long walks around town with smiles.

But five minutes after sliding into the airplane-style seats on our train from Samarkand to Bukhara, the temperature in the second-class car was rising, sweat was drying on my temples, and drops of condensation were visible on my arms. I looked around--the Uzbek couple to our right were fanning themselves with a purple handkerchief. One young girl on the other side of the divider at the center of our car (wrapped in fake flower garlands, below the TV showing Uzbek music videos) had started pacing, waiting for the train to gain speed out of the station so the small windows at the top of the car could bring some movement to the air.

My shirt was soaked. With my big backpack stuffed between Kate and I, and my small backpack across my lap, things were a bit tight. I grabbed my spiffy new hat (a straw cowboy hat with "Marlboro" written across the front band acquired at the Samarkand outdoor market) and started fanning. Transit police paraded through the train. We bought a few samsas (meat, onion, and potato samosas) and cold Fantas from Samarkand-based sellers, who ran efficiently through the train while it was parked in the station. Then--quietly, and not a second too soon, the Sharq pulled out of Samarkand.

Luckily, two things: 1) we did pick up speed, and soon we could use the teal silk window drapes to funnel the window air down to our laps. After about an hour, a transit policeman ordered the windows snapped shut, and air conditioning came on. 2) I love train rides. I think all four of us do. We'd better--this three-hour, high-speed ride (aboard the "Sharq" train) was a good baby-step to build our stamina for the 24 hr rides we are planning in Western China.

The other three spent most of the ride watching "The Saint" on Josh's spiffy portable DVD player, Kate leaning forward to watch between the crack in Scott and Josh's seats in front of us, and three of them wired in with three pairs of headphones. I'm not so good with the movie trivia, but I think this one took place in Moscow, hence the interest in watching it so soon after our time there.

I spent the ride stared out the window. Amazing how a train ride provides a moving snapshot of so many separate lives. The boy on the bicycle: I saw him ride along a dusty path next to the train tracks--back straight, grasping his high handlebars and grinning--for maybe 15 seconds. There he was; there we were. Then we were gone and he was still there. As he probably had been for his 14 rural years. As maybe he would be for the rest of his life (or not).

The shiny, old sedan parked 15 meters back from the tracks as we crossed. Locals going to a friends house? Taxi full of travelers? A farmer on his way to the market with fat melons? The biggest move of someone's life? I can only speculate.

Apricot pickers were a constant for the first 1.5 hours of the ride: red boxes stacked 15 feet high in dense orchard shade. The diverse glow of flowing Uzbek outfits (like salwar kameez--with a long slitted top and loose matching pants underneath). Lounging for lunch on shaded grass. Using pickers to gently grab stick-high fruit. Packaging the fruits.

Backyard gardens zipped by, thigh-high corn waving mightily and squash leaves fully wilted in the mid-day heat. A large gas or oil refinery. A lake large enough to appear on our map of the country, and milky blue enough that it might have been fed by a glacier (if it hadn't been in the middle of a vast scrubby desert). Powerlines. Donkeys. Dirt roads. Adobe houses.

So many quick peeks into different lives, different structures, different ways of spending the time between 12noon and 3pm on Thursday, June 5, 2008. So many untold stories. An entire region that never makes it into our press--maybe something about Tashkent or the receding Aral Sea, but not the stretch between Samarkand and Bukhara. (Does that make it invisible? Does it matter?) So many questions...

Zoe
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Samarkand, Uzbekistan

Uzbekistan Airways. I'm sure these words struck some fear in our parents' hearts as soon as they saw them on our itinerary. Little though we wanted to admit it, all four of us had thrown our air travel expectations to the wind before lining up to check in for our four-hour flight from Moscow to Samarkand this morning.

We were pleasantly surprised. After being escorted (for no apparent reason), to the front of the long and saran-wrapped baggage-laden check-in line in Moscow, the attendant broke into pleasant English and converted our hand-written tickets into disappointingly normal boarding passes. Customs and passport control were uneventful, except that the security guard had to physically move me out of the metal detector because I could not understand a word she was saying (which turned out to be "step aside--you are good to go!" or something slightly less polite but to that effect.)

After getting in trouble for commemorating our flight before we took off ("no photos on plane!") I passed out from exhuastion, waking up just in time to help Scott fill in our detailed Uzbek customs forms, which are only available in Russian. We are very aware of the poor relations between the US and Uzbekistan (which date back to a violent 2006 protest and massacre in Uzbekistan which the US heavily criticized, leading to the withdrawl of aid money and less military cooperation) and wanted to be as careful as possible. A few minutes later we were again pleasantly surprised as the passport control officer greeted us with a big smile and a few sentences of English.

But first--one of the best moments of my day: flying low on the approach to Samarkand--a city first settled in the fifth century BC, ravaged by earthquakes and conquests, temporarily named the capital of Soviet Uzbekistan, and forcibly resettled to its present-day population of 400,000--the dry land gave way to rivers and green fields. I could see farmers guiding cows through their rows of crops and tractors kicking up dust nearby. A river cut a deep gorge in the pale dirt, lined by rows of stone houses. Graveyards dotted the landscape. And then the city--wide lanes buzzing with marshrutniye (minibuses), sparsely strung with houses, courtyards, and ruins. I was overcome with the most exhilirating feeling of a completely unknown place--something that I now know has a short half-life and is therefore all the more cherished. (We humans are too adaptable sometimes...)

Our few hours in Samarkand have not disappointed. After the usual scramble to find local money ($1 = about 1300 som) and a taxi away from the airport (okay--this landing was a *bit* more challenging than usual--no ATMs or money changers available in the 1-plane airport, so we had to be a little creative) we entered our haven: a B&B set far back on a narrow street. First, the carved wooden door, a portkey in whitewashed walls. Next, cool moist walkways offered instant respite from the 93 degree afternoon. And then: the garden. The heart of the hotel and surrounding family homes. Tomatoes, corn plants, heavy apples on the tree. Travelers congregating on three sides of the plants. Room doors gravitating open towards the heavy coolness. Our room overlooks one of the gorgeous structures for which Samarkand is so famous--the cobalt spires of Guri Emir Mausoleum just visible over the surrounding roofs.

A cup of hot chai (tea) by the garden. A brief glimpse into the daily rhythm of the place: women washing laundry under overhangs, the owners checking availability on a canopied resting-bed, gray-water splashing out of the kitchen onto nearby plants. We plot our next moves: dinner and walk around this beautiful and still very mysterious place. We try to place the city's feel in context (Harare, thinks Kate--Zanzibar as well). We spill from our narrow lanes onto wide squares and gardens. No one place is particularly green, but people flock to the benches and walkways and this part of the city seems alive despite its historical draw.

Dinner is outside on a vast covered balcony overlooking the Registan (google for pictures; ours to come later!): big circular nan, almost donut-like with their sunken centers. Laghman--noodles, meat, and carrots in a rich oily dill-y broth. Other mysterious meat-filled dumplings, with yogurt on the side. Cabbage-wrapped lamb. Baltic beers. Scott makes friends with the restaurant owners, in the process of asking for the bill, and comes back to announce he's done a shot of vodka with them to cement their 5-minute old friendship. We feel even more convinced that we *really are in Central Asia*! The trip has truly begun. We could not be happier. I could not feel more fortunate that this opportunity has come to fruition--nor that I have such stellar travel companions.

Spasibo to all that have played a role in making this trip possible, especially those who have lent their excitement and moral support. We are bringing your thoughts with us, and hope to bring our moments and memories back to you....

Zoe
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