he travel industry is still widely undeveloped here, as well as the
infrastructure to support it. We were sometimes the only people in
an historical site having the lights turned on for us as we entered.
There is the occasional tour bus that shuttles groups from site to
site, but the independent traveler is an anomaly, and therefore of
most interest to locals. These types of travelers offer more contact
and conversation with local folks than the guided group. Uzbeks are
very proud of their land and want to share this pride. It is very
prestigious to "know" foreigners. Two girls asked us to stand with
them in their professional photo. They were dressed to the nines,
proudly standing next to us Americans in our three-days-and-counting
dirty clothes. At least we grinned! We could not count the number of
invitations for free food, drink, and hospitality we received. Even
for special events, like weddings or birthday parties, we were hounded
with beckonings to "Come in, please, please." In the end, we found it
sometimes easier to say "Thank you" and accept one of something, or
make an appearance than to repeatedly refuse their generous persistence.
ersistence, that you will get to your destination, and patience seems
to be what is needed to travel between cities in this country. The
bus is the cheapest, but most risky form of transportation. We
boarded a bus from Tashkent to Samarkand in midday expecting a 5 hour
trip for this 300 km ride. After the passengers with 'real tickets"
are all on board, the bus leaves the station and stops on the street
picking up anyone who is willing to pay the driver's negotiated price,
which of course lines his own pocket. This mode proceeds until the
seats are full and people are standing in the aisles. We experienced
this stop-and-start cattle-call behavior until we were just beyond the
outskirts of Tashkent. The bus coasted to a stop on the street-side
and judging from the mass exodus of all the other passengers, we
realized we weren't going anywhere. At this point, it is a game to
see how fast you can find another mode of transportation to your
destination, and how much it will cost. (There are no refunds here!)
For us, a policeman came to our rescue flagging down all other buses
to Samarkand and ferrying people on to them. We were put on a rust
bucket with even more questionable character than the first and got
back en route at a grand ole speed of 30 mph.
ume ridden and dusty, this bus tinkered along picking up and dropping
off passengers on the way. We began to worry about arriving in a new
city at night. It is much easier during the day. As the journey
dragged on, the other passengers shared their food with us. In
exchange, we made small talk with them (actually a twisted form of
English/Russian sign language) while we wondered if we would ever get
to Samarkand and questioned why we were on this bus in the first
place. It was during one of these "conversations" that a man from
behind us piped up, "She wants to know if you are 31."
his is how we met our friend Bahodir. An English teacher and
translator, we talked to him on and off for the remainder of our bus
ride. As night fell, we caught glimpses of the lights of Samarkand
while Bahodir pointed out places of interest and assured us that we
were almost there. When the bus driver pulled over and announced that
he wasn't actually going in to Samarkand, we unloaded ourselves for
the second time in one day. Our new-found guide led us to another
local bus that took us downtown. As we got off the bus, Bahodir
offered to help with our bags. We only have four bags between the two
of us, with a well practiced system of hauling our gear around.
Unfortunately, in the presence of extra hands everything went awry and
the bus left with one of our bags. When we noticed its absence, it
seemed we were doomed. Dave recounted all of the things that were
gone - his passport, camera and its gear, money, credit cards. Our
hearts sank as we thought of the repercussions of losing these things
and we began to say some earnest prayers. Dave asked Bahodir if it
was worth looking for, and he calmly answered, "I think we must try."
n a taxi, we sped down the road in hopes of finding the bus. Only a
few minutes away, we spotted it. The bus had pulled over to the side
of the road. As we overtook it, all three of us commandeered the
inside. Dave's bag was under a seat and everything was intact! While
we were still dazed and relieved, our new-found shepherd continued on
his mission as he directed the taxi to a nearby hotel. Not yet
finished, however, he asked us if we'd be interested in staying in a
local home. "Sure!" we replied, and he disappeared into the night,
returning 15 minutes later with Anatoli, an English-speaking Russian.
We ended up staying not with Anatoli, but with Volodjo, a friend of
both men, for the remainder of our time in Samarkand. Through Volodjo
we met and were befriended by all the ethnic Russians who were living
in the same courtyard. During the day, we toured Samarkand, and in
the evenings we met and enjoyed our new "neighborhood".
he travel industry is still widely undeveloped here, as well as the
infrastructure to support it. We were sometimes the only people in
an historical site having the lights turned on for us as we entered.
There is the occasional tour bus that shuttles groups from site to
site, but the independent traveler is an anomaly, and therefore of
most interest to locals. These types of travelers offer more contact
and conversation with local folks than the guided group. Uzbeks are
very proud of their land and want to share this pride. It is very
prestigious to "know" foreigners. Two girls asked us to stand with
them in their professional photo. They were dressed to the nines,
proudly standing next to us Americans in our three-days-and-counting
dirty clothes. At least we grinned! We could not count the number of
invitations for free food, drink, and hospitality we received. Even
for special events, like weddings or birthday parties, we were hounded
with beckonings to "Come in, please, please." In the end, we found it
sometimes easier to say "Thank you" and accept one of something, or
make an appearance than to repeatedly refuse their generous persistence.
ersistence, that you will get to your destination, and patience seems
to be what is needed to travel between cities in this country. The
bus is the cheapest, but most risky form of transportation. We
boarded a bus from Tashkent to Samarkand in midday expecting a 5 hour
trip for this 300 km ride. After the passengers with 'real tickets"
are all on board, the bus leaves the station and stops on the street
picking up anyone who is willing to pay the driver's negotiated price,
which of course lines his own pocket. This mode proceeds until the
seats are full and people are standing in the aisles. We experienced
this stop-and-start cattle-call behavior until we were just beyond the
outskirts of Tashkent. The bus coasted to a stop on the street-side
and judging from the mass exodus of all the other passengers, we
realized we weren't going anywhere. At this point, it is a game to
see how fast you can find another mode of transportation to your
destination, and how much it will cost. (There are no refunds here!)
For us, a policeman came to our rescue flagging down all other buses
to Samarkand and ferrying people on to them. We were put on a rust
bucket with even more questionable character than the first and got
back en route at a grand ole speed of 30 mph.
ume ridden and dusty, this bus tinkered along picking up and dropping
off passengers on the way. We began to worry about arriving in a new
city at night. It is much easier during the day. As the journey
dragged on, the other passengers shared their food with us. In
exchange, we made small talk with them (actually a twisted form of
English/Russian sign language) while we wondered if we would ever get
to Samarkand and questioned why we were on this bus in the first
place. It was during one of these "conversations" that a man from
behind us piped up, "She wants to know if you are 31."
n a taxi, we sped down the road in hopes of finding the bus. Only a
few minutes away, we spotted it. The bus had pulled over to the side
of the road. As we overtook it, all three of us commandeered the
inside. Dave's bag was under a seat and everything was intact! While
we were still dazed and relieved, our new-found shepherd continued on
his mission as he directed the taxi to a nearby hotel. Not yet
finished, however, he asked us if we'd be interested in staying in a
local home. "Sure!" we replied, and he disappeared into the night,
returning 15 minutes later with Anatoli, an English-speaking Russian.
We ended up staying not with Anatoli, but with Volodjo, a friend of
both men, for the remainder of our time in Samarkand. Through Volodjo
we met and were befriended by all the ethnic Russians who were living
in the same courtyard. During the day, we toured Samarkand, and in
the evenings we met and enjoyed our new "neighborhood".
