Wandering in Uzbekistan

Part 2: conversations with Urubek

source: archives, uzbekistan, 2023.

One day, wandering through the streets of Bukhara, I stopped on a bench along a green alley, the only patch of shade I had found so far. From time to time, a few women in burkas or brightly colored tunics passed by, exchanging bursts of laughter. It was late morning, and I had been walking for a while already, aimlessly, through these clean and quiet streets. I had no fixed itinerary, and the city, in my eyes, seemed too small to be explored any other way than by chance.

It was then that a man called out to me from the terrace of a small tea pavilion. He looked to be in his fifties. His tone was friendly, and his teeth covered in gold. He addressed me in perfect French, and as I shared my travel wanderings, he invited me to join him for tea at his table. After all, I had nothing else to do. And what was meant to be a brief hour of rest turned into a long lunch, generously spiked with vodka. We spoke of everything and nothing. I asked all the questions I had not yet been able to pose, lacking an interlocutor with whom to exchange more than the mundane jargon of everyday life.

I was particularly astonished to find, in this small town so far from France, someone who had been so passionate about this culture that he had learned the language and now devoted himself to teaching it to children in a modest local association. He had never been to Europe, he said. In fact, he had spent his entire life in Bukhara. And from his family, only his son had set sail for the more promising horizons of the capital.

Although he wished to see his son live in a world different from his own, he was troubled that at twenty-five, he still hadn’t found a wife to his liking. He laughed half-heartedly, between sips of vodka, while, at the neighboring table, two women had approached to show him photos of potential brides on their phones. “I don’t know what to do,” he sighed between mouthfuls of plov. “After all, he can live his life as he wishes, I can’t force him. But if my children don’t marry, the whole town will eventually know about it. It’s a small world here.”

Since the fall of the Soviet regime in 1991, a more conservative mentality and a resurgence of religious practices had gradually taken hold. “Women didn’t wear the burka in the days of the Russians, and no one really cared about prayer” he confided. In just a few decades, Central Asia had undergone major upheavals, altering its social, political, and religious landscape. Islam had become an important factor of political mobilization in the region. In some cases, leaders had used Islam to consolidate their power, while in others, it had played a role in resistance movements, particularly in Uzbekistan and Tajikistan. Today, the region is faced with the growing threat posed by radical groups, expanding across the area.

“It’s quite unbelievable” he added. “When the Russians arrived, we had to replace opium with vodka, get gold teeth, and abandon prayer. And now, it seems we have to start all over again.”

Later, two of his friends joined us, apparently just off work. One, small and stocky, wore a Basque beret and a loose blue shirt. The second, more elegant in his fitted shirt and suit trousers, had a round, mischievous face. I learned that they were of Tajik origin and spoke Tajik among themselves. “These borders never made much sense,” one of them confided. “Here, in the south, most of the inhabitants are of Tajik origin.”

As the afternoon wore on, voices rose under the influence of alcohol, and translations became increasingly vague. We tried to cool off by devouring kilos of watermelon between two drinks, in an atmosphere of amusement and bliss. Conversations flowed freely: I was asked about my travels, and we talked about The Three Musketeers and all those classic French books, which, apparently, have also been given to read to generations of Uzbeks.

Later, I returned to my small room at Samira’s house. She waved to me from the courtyard to let me know dinner was ready, but I fell asleep without having eaten. A few days later, I would have to hit the road again, heading for Tajikistan and the weeks of mountain camping that awaited me. On my journey to the border, I will be accompanied by Vlad, the owner of a modest guesthouse, deeply passionate about History, who spent much of his time telling me the stories of those who had lived on these lands, and whose traces, subtle yet undeniable, can still be seen everywhere, if one keeps an open eye.

Perhaps my attachment to Uzbekistan lies in these encounters, in these conversations that, though seemingly mundane, taught me more about the country and its customs than many museum visits could. Soon, I hope to return to Uzbekistan, and perhaps to find Urubek, Samira and Vlad again, seated under the shade of a tea house, to pursue our conversations.

References:

• Ahmed Rashid, The Resurgence of Central Asia: Islam or Nationalism (Politics in Contemporary Asia), 1994

• Conversations with my travel companions