The floor of clouds stretched ahead of us. A rippling, roily floor that was only exposed as the sun peeked above the horizon. I saw the cliff coming, but the plane didn't dip or slow down, instead we headed right into it.
I was on my approach to Tashkent, Uzbekistan and had no idea what to expect. But the arrival couldn't be beat.
I've never seen clouds like that. We hovered over a cloud layer that looked like land, then approached what looked like a sharp cliff ahead us - but it was the cloud formation. We flew into the cliff and we were gently sandwiched between cloud layers. It was a netherworld of silence and grace, a space between clouds without clouds.
The peace didn't last for long.
"Ladies and gentlemen and dear children, we have landed in Tashkent, custom forms will be available in the airport." We landed and were unceremoniously herded onto busses and dumped into the chaos that is the Tashkent passport control. Rickety booths with exposed wiring were offset by the smiling immigrantion officer.
"Hello." Glance, flip the passport pages, examine visa, look at (real?) computer screen, flip, flip, flip. Look, smile. Stamp! Stamp! "Welcome."
Baggage claim and customs was a crush of confused tourists, entrepreneurial natives and no explanations in English. Make sure you get two forms, preached the guide book, and don't lie on them. No mention that the forms were in Russian, that the form dispensers were empty, and that the lines backed up into the baggage carousel. Step one, get the forms (worry about the Russian later!). Step two, oh thank god, an English example is posted on this podium. Step three, exactly how much cash am I carrying, why do they want to know what type of cell phone I have, and do I really need to "declare" my modest earrings? The answer to everything in Tashkent seems to be yes. Or rather, da.
I found the van driver, and met up with some others from the group, and headed to the hotel. The love of bureaucracy seemed to stick, as we were denied a check in until 2 pm - it was 8 am and I'd been traveling for the last 36 hours. Patience, patience, lintrepid traveler. You're in a different part of the world and being your sassy American self probably won't work here.
The next morning, it was time to see Tashkent. We started at the Abu Bakr Mohamed Kaffel Shashi mausoleum. Abu Bakr lived from 904 to 979 and was born here. The portal, inner dome and arcade of the mausoleum date from the 16th century. While we didn't see any barren women smearing themselves with the dust of his tomb in the hopes that he "will end their curse," as the guide book suggested we might, there was an impressive ceiling and tombs. The building also processes visible scars from the countries big earthquakes in the form of giant cracks running up from the floor.
Nearby is the Abdul Khasim Madrassah, a very restored (remember those earthquakes I mentioned?) 19th century school of a Tashkent man. His claim to fame was the ability to recite the Koran by heart.
The giant square is the perfect place for kite flying. Some of the boys were more successful than others.
The next building in the square houses the Koran of Uthman ibn Affan, the third caliph and son-in-law to Mohammed. Uthman was succeeded by Ali, and when Uthman was assassinated, his killers broke into his abode and hacked him to death. His wife tried to defend him and a few of her fingers were hacked off. The legend is that the dark stains in the spine of the Koran are Uthman's blood.
Carbon dating puts the book's dates from 595 to 855. It is said that after Uthman's death, Ali took the book to what is now Iraq, and it traveled around until finally finding a home at this library in Tashkent.
The book itself is huge, probably easily three feet across, with enormous text. No pictures were allowed, of course, since it must be partially covered and temperture controlled. The pages are made of deer or cow leather, and every two months or so, they turn the pages to keep them from sticking together. I found it (as I always do when faced with a book that is so old) remarkable that something so fragile had survived so damn long. Through wars, bugs, human greed, our need to destroy what we don't understand. Books like this have made it through the gauntlet that is history.
The newer mosque anchored the other side of the huge square. The columns inside the courtyard were made of trees from India, which Uzbek artists carved into amazing works of art.
Next, it was onto lunch and browsing at the Chorsu Baaar. Topped by a giant dome, you could find every meat your heart desired (unless it had previously been a pig). Every part seemed to be used with very little waste.
Due to Central Asia's promixity to so many other countries and cultures, the variety of people and food is vast. There was a whole Korean section in this market, dedicated to pickled items. The bread was sold out back, by men with wheelbarrows full of warm, round yeasty concoctions the size of your head. It cost 1,000 - which is about 30 cents.
Outside the bazaar, you could find all your household needs.
Around the corner from the bazaar was the lovely Kulkedash Madressah which boasts a very decorated courtyard. It was built in the mid 16th century, and was used as a Soviet warehouse. It has resurrected itself as a place of education.
The streets of Tashkent.
We stopped by the Museum of Applied Arts for a coffee and a quick peek at some applied arts. Sewing is a highly prized skill here. I learned that a husband could take up to three wives, but he could easily divorce them by saying "I divorce you, I divorce you, I divorce you." Three times was the charm. It was a "Beetlejuice" type situation. The woman would then have to leave his house, only taking with her what she had on her person at the time. So obviously, it was a smart idea to always be wearing as much jewelry as was humanly possible, just in case the mister was in A Mood that day.
"Learning is knowledge acquired in small portions,
As drops make the rivers the flow to the oceans.
Seek from others the knowledge they own,
Never rely on they powers alone.
Spurn the company of those whose talk is vain,
But give ear to the wise again and again."
Alisher Navoi (1441-1501) (Uzbek poet)
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