Wandering in Uzbekistan
- Claire Amaouche
- Feb 17
- 5 min read
Part 1: time, shapes and colors
Some time ago, I began recounting my wanderings through Central Asia, mentioning my journey through Kazakhstan and its regions. Shortly after crossing the Tien Shan mountains, I set sail for Uzbekistan. This country, at the heart of the Silk Roads, known for its varied and spectacular architecture, its diverse atmospheres and landscapes, and whose image was more familiar to me than its neighbours. And I don’t know why, but there, more than anywhere else, a multitude of memories, more sensory than intellectual, became imprinted in me.
Shapes and Colors
In Uzbekistan, it all began with colours. On the roads leading me to the remnants of the Aral Sea, the lands mixed with dull browns, deep yellow sands, and greyish clouds of dust. A bright, infinite blue stretched across the horizon. The eye often suffers from this glaring contrast, becoming blinded and lost as hours and kilometers drag on, overwhelming. Sometimes, amidst this desert, both sad and beautiful, the silhouettes of ancient fortresses emerge—mysterious relics built over time by nomadic tribes, first the Saka, then the Turks, and finally the Uzbeks, at the crossroads of the Silk Roads. At other times, on the distant horizon, vast fields of cotton in a brilliant green stretch out, their massive expansion during the Soviet era casting a legendary sorrow over the region. When I mention my desire to visit the shores of the Aral to my host in Tashkent, she exclaims in astonishment, “Why seek out such a disaster?”.
When one approaches the cities, the golden domes, shimmering mosaics, and modern white and gold towers appear. Every evening in Samarkand, I sit at the foot of the spectacular Bibi-Khanym mosque, a legacy of Timur's reign, still drunk with heat and fatigue, before a scene that seems to emerge from a tale. Before my eyes, shapes and colours bend under the last rays of the sun, and the entire universe seems to ignite under the melancholic cry of swallows.
I also remember my stay in one of those old houses in the center of Bukhara, run by Samira, with its walls covered in frescoes and its delicate woodwork. In the dining room, where I have breakfast each day, a cat sitting on my lap, there is an almost solemn atmosphere. Everywhere, carpets, the patterns and origins of which I am learning to recognise. Arabesques and silk threads in Tajikistan, colourful fauna and flora in Uzbekistan, varied geometries in the Caucasus. Everywhere, they hung from floor to ceiling, to protect from the cold and the noise in these large buildings where air and rumours sneak through. From one place to another, I find these little blue and gold teacups. I still regret not having brought one back.
One afternoon, I climbed the wooden stairs of this large house in Samarkand, searching for a small shop where I had been told I could find the most beautiful handcrafted items from the country. I found it at the end of a corridor, along a gallery leading to a lovely flower-filled courtyard. Its owner, Lena, a Ukrainian woman in her sixties, had lived here for thirty years, developing her business of local crafts. In the two small rooms, cluttered with antiques and racks overflowing with coats and scarves, she served me tea while chatting and placed a stack of photography and history books on my lap. She had known some of the authors, she told me. My eyes landed on a small antique vase, but she smiled and said, “This one is not for sale.” The shop served as much as a gallery as a store, and she seemed to take more pleasure in showing me her personal treasures than in selling anything. Nevertheless, I left with a beautiful embroidered jacket and a few ceramic plates.
Shifting time
By the time I arrived in Uzbekistan, I had already spent many days wandering, and exhaustion quickly caught up with me. The heat, unbearable since my departure from Kazakhstan, now crushed me entirely. Passing through Tashkent before taking the train to the far west, I briefly talked with the girl who shared my room at the hostel. She spent her afternoons taking online Russian lessons. “I only go out very early in the morning or at sunset,” she explained. Though the idea of spending most of my days indoors seemed boring, I had to quickly adopt the same rhythm: wandering through the city from dawn until lunch, then surrendering to long hours of laziness, a book or a tea in hand. Sometimes, in the oppressive silence of these suspended hours, the discreet snoring of my neighbour would interrupt the flow of my thoughts.
I will also remember for a long time the view from the window of my small room in Khiva. The laundry hanging in the courtyard and the minaret in the distance, which I could see from my bed, where I stayed lying for hours. The window was ajar, letting in the heat, while the very idea of venturing outside became impossible. There were many other afternoons like this, waiting for a breeze, a little coolness, or simply the energy to get back on the road. Sometimes, seated in the shade of a teahouse, I watched small groups of travellers crowding at the entrance to the inner city Ichan Kala, protected by its ramparts. In front, colourful stalls displayed suzanis, stones, and pottery, which I doubted had been made locally.
Later, a train ride towards the Tajik border. My sleeper awaited me, neatly prepared. A red velvet bedspread and pillow, and a cup of tea placed on a small table. I shared the cabin with a man in his fifties, who fell asleep with the first bumps, and two teenagers absorbed by their phones. After an hour or two, a languor settled in, and we watched the steppe roll by with half-closed eyes. The kids who had been playing in the hallway had also gone to take a nap.
There is nothing better than the train for the art of contemplation. Halfway through, as sleep still refuses to come, I decide to go for a walk in the corridor. Before me, a yellow and dreary landscape rolls on endlessly. Small villages and cotton fields have given way to a vast burned plain, where the eye struggles to discern the horizon. I think again of the strange circumstances that led me here, from reading a travel narrative almost ten years ago to the decision of leaving made one April evening. In just a few months, a vision that had until then only existed through someone else’s eyes materialised before mine.
To be continued...
References:
L’usage du Monde, Nicolas Bouvier, 1963
Asie Centrale 300-850: Des Routes Et Des Royaumes, Étienne de la Vaissière, 2024
Comments