END OF THE LINE:TASHKENT

Part 4 of 4 of our travels in Uzbekistan


Arriving is always the worst part about travelling. You get off the plane or train, not aware of your surroundings, not sure how far away your hotel is or what a fair price is to get there. You are at the whims of the locals as to how much they rip you off, because unless there is reliable and frequent public transport and usually there isn’t, you will get ripped off. The only question is just by how much. It was the same when arriving at the train station in Tashkent. We fought through the usual gauntlet of taxi drivers (these guys are without doubt the most likely to try and rip you off) and found ourselves a taxi near the main street. In Uzbekistan, as I’ve said before, a taxi driver is anyone who has a car and the desire- a student wanting to practice their English, a helpful passerby or an opportunistic free lancer who sees the opportunity to make some cash. They have no special skill in linguistics or in spatial awareness, their driving is usually poor but the price they ask is fair (if you don’t mind the haggle) and it’s easier than walking. The taxi we took, (a Russian made car with a driver who looked more Russian than most) was a free-lancer, out for the night cruising Tashkent with his wife (or girlfriend). As usual, he said he knew our hotel but didn’t and of course ended up getting lost. I took pity and paid him above the agreed cost in recompense for his time but then got angry when he had his hand out for more.

Private car taxi

The hotel was the same one we had stayed at the first night in Uzbekistan-not particularly aesthetically pleasing but cheap and clean and relatively central. The first night they had ripped me off on my money transfer but I was wiser to the ways of the dollar black market now. Uzbekistan has two currency rates, the official rate which equals 1700 Som to the dollar and the more lucrative black market where the exchange rate can range from 2100 (the exchange rate I got on the first night here) to 2500 Som to the dollar that we got subsequently. The largest note you can get is 1000 Som, so if you transfer 200 dollars, you receive at least 500 notes in return, a thick wad to carry (or hide).

$200 US gets you a big pile of cash

Tashkent, the hub of Central Asia, the so-called eastern capital of Tsarist Russia, is a sprawling cosmos. Its been russified to a large extent with Soviet style apartment buildings and imperial looking public buildings but with a smattering of traditional design that give it a Central Asian vibe. Despite its nickname, it reminded me less of Moscow and more of a landlocked equivalent of an Italian city like Naples, lived in and looked after. Tashkent was practically destroyed by a huge earthquake in 1966 that left 300,000 homeless and rebuilt in the 1960s with help from all the Soviet republics. Tashkent lacks the architectural hubris of a Samarkand or Bukhara but has its own, less obvious, charms. There seemed to be more people here of Russian descent, more peroxided women and rough-looking men. Fewer people wore traditional dress around downtown (although at the market, most of the woman vendors were still wearing their bright and garish garments).

Timur on his gilded horse

The centre of the city is formed by Amir Timur Square, graced by a large, statue of the irresistible Amir Timur who rides on a curiously gelded horse (it’s unknown who was responsible for the emasculation of the statue). From here, the wide, tree-lined main streets radiate out across Tashkent, traditional plov restaurants intermingling with designer stores. Nearby lie a number of imposing buildings, many built by the dictator Karimov including the large Dom Forum, used for overseas dignitaries. Timur has a prominent museum here and a Romanov palace, built for Grand Duke Nikolai Konstantinovich, a cousin of the tsar who was exiled to Tashkent due to some dodgy dealings involving the Russian crown jewels is a 10 minute walk from here. Across the road from the palace lies the senate and Independence Square, apparently the largest city Square in the USSR, that once had the complimentary tallest statue of Lenin in the Soviet Union. Now, a globe stands in Lenin’s spot. Nearby is Karimov’s senate building, where he and his lackeys plot how to best use Uzbekistan’s riches and also how to best feather their own pocket. This area also seats the original Crying Mother’s memorial, which is almost identical to the one we saw in Samarkand, commemorating the almost 300,000 Uzbekis who died in World War 2.

Crying Mothers Memorial

Central Asia’s first subway was built here and like in Moscow, some of the architecture in the subway stations was remarkable. Like Moscow, the police in the metros can be a bit over-zealous. We had to show our passports several times but no infractions were found, no palms needed greasing. A train comes along every 5 minutes or so (a timer tells you how long it’s been since the last train departed), old but efficient. Foreigners are still a novelty in the capital so several people took the opportunity to practice their English with us.

Guarded subway.

We took the subway from Independence Square to Chorsu Bazaar, a large market under a huge green dome. The sellers try all of the tricks; flirting, grabbing, trying to initiate conversation and when all else fails begging for a sale. All types of produce are here; fresh, dried, pickled and fermented. 

Hive of activity: Chorsu Bazaar.

Kimchi, Korea’s national dish, is well represented, made by descendents of the Koreans deported from Manchuria/Siberia to Central Asia during Stalin’s rule. The old Korean women here were the grumpiest vendors in the entire market. Not for them the jovial guessing at which country we come from. No, they weren’t interested in that. The only thing they were interested in was selling the doff. An annyong haseyo made them sullen, perhaps because many of the Uzbek Koreans speak only Russian; food their only tie to their ancestoral homeland.

Grumpy Kimchi seller.

The biggest concentration of beggars anywhere in the country seemed to be at the market; mothers with puppy eyes carrying children with puppy eyes, a monkey see-monkey do cycle of hardship, hands outstretched in a true intergenerational cycle of dependence. Throughout the country though, begging seems to be uncommon and frowned upon. In Tashkent, we were approached a couple of times by people on the street asking for money, often quite brazenly. One well-dressed guy said I’m Russian, can you give me some cash. We didn’t and he walked away disappointed.

That night, after unsuccessfully trying to find the country’s largest supermarket and after a couple of vodkas, we headed to watch Madame Butterfly. I’m not much of an opera fan and my knowledge of Madame Butterfly is limited to what Weezer said about it. But at about $6 a ticket, it’s a good excuse to do something cultural, especially as it stops my wife complaining the next time I want to go to a rugby game that I never do anything cultural with her.

Madame Butterfly

We spent our last day here, tying up a few loose ends; buying vodka for friends (it took us an hour to find somewhere that sold spirits), a bit of last minute shopping at an old converted medressa, watching women going for walks and young couples enjoying a little bit of freedom in Navoi Park. We tried to find a couple of old medressas but didn’t succeed. Instead, I almost got arrested for taking a photo of the secret service sign on the side of a building. I have never been so concerned as I was at this moment; having survived an initial approach from a soldier armed with an assault rifle, I was questioned by four men, two uniformed and more disturbingly, two plain clothed agents. They demanded to look at my camera and I managed to convince them that I hadn’t taken a photo of their logo, that I hadn’t breached some unwritten and unknown law of national security. My heart was still bounding vigorously a few minutes later when I caught up with Mary and Evelyn.

Uzbeki secret service sign (not so secret)

We caught a car-taxi back for dinner (Italian) and left Tashkent that night, feeling like true travelers who had been somewhere where relatively few people have ventured. If arriving is fraught with potential danger, departure leaves a taste of bittersweet (happy to get back to your home, sad to be finishing your vacation) mixed with a shot of ego. Part of the enjoyment of travel is saying that you have been to these exotic parts, countries visited displayed like battle scars. I would like to think Uzbekistan deserved one of those battle scars.