Destination Samarkand. And much more. A few minutes after takeoff from the huge airport in Istanbul, as soon as the Uzbekistan Airways Airbus 320 reaches cruising altitude, a disorderly line of people waiting to use the toilet forms in the aisle. But the cabin crew is eager to feed the passengers and chases the applicants away.
Later, compromises are sought, flying between the legs of those seated, while the long arms of flight attendants try to deliver bottles of water and bags of peanuts. This village fair, which sees new friendships blossom among the Uzbeks in line, lasts almost the entire four hours of the flight to Urgench, an insignificant town, but with an airport thirty kilometers from Khiva: the smallest, the first contact with an unknown civilization.
The taxi driver has the smirk of a child who wants to show off his toys, so he accelerates until the speed camera detector starts to flicker. The old car slows down and, as soon as it passes the little camera that spies on speeders, he accelerates again dramatically, turns to the passenger in front and asks “Speed, good? You like?”. Then he smiles and revs the engine happily.
But when he reaches the gate that separates the world from the fairy tale, he slows down, almost trying to silence the engine, because madrasas and tamerlans do not like third millennia.
Very few people know Khiva, and the small hotel in front of which the car stops does not promise unbridled luxury. But we are not in Samarkand, it will only be an aperitif. We are all so old that it takes us a long, long time to realize that we are here, right now, at the center of a story out of this world, where only a few electric carts prove that we are not living in ancient times.
However, Roberto’s horse keeps creeping into my mind, making me think that this town is just a small appetizer. But, come to think of it, we live on a continent where modernity frames monuments, while here we are surrounded everywhere by an unknown world that conveys extraordinary sensations: every step is an emotion, a wonder.
The guide arrives, a twenty-year-old girl who speaks shy Italian. Our group of six people arrives at the Muhamad Amin-khan Madrasa, the largest Koranic school in Central Asia, which has not been a religious building since 1924. For a short time it was a prison, and recently it has become a hotel where tourists can immerse themselves in this universe.
The term madrasa will be the most frequently mentioned by guides in a moderate but observant Islamic country such as this former Soviet republic, where children also study Russian and many of the elderly can only read Cyrillic. Minarets, of different shapes, with the colors and style that everyone associates with the concept, not always clear, of the Silk Road, which is actually an immense network of land and sea routes. What strikes Westerners is the era in which these masterpieces were built, dating back only to the 19th century, a relatively recent era.
Three languages are spoken in the historic center of Khiva. The predominant language is Italian, with a Lombard accent: in general, northern Italy has discovered Uzbekistan and, terrified of overtourism, is invading it before it is too late. There are at least four or five groups, moving in parallel, in perfect synchrony: two days and then Bukhara, after another two days, the dreamt-of Samarkand, and it is funny to see participants on identical tours crossing paths several times and looking at each other as if they had already formed flirtatious friendships.
The government has removed the visa requirement and Italian tour operators have focused on this part of Central Asia, which is now full of construction sites, as if the guests had arrived earlier than expected. Uzbekistan is attempting to take a big step forward by renewing itself with the haste typical of less developed countries that equip themselves with advanced technologies before solving more urgent problems such as impassable urban roads, dirt roads in the city center, and housing that falls short of modern standards. On the other hand, smartphones and delivery services are everywhere, taxis cost a mere €1.50, and people are friendly and helpful.
Almost all the cars are Chevrolets, produced in the country under US license by a state-owned company: it is no coincidence that the government imposes crazy taxes on imported brands. Seen from above, Uzbek traffic looks like a flock of birds moving, changing shape and slipping everywhere, on dirt roads, on sidewalks, opening and closing without rules, as if driving in the sky. On the other hand, on the highways, the police stop drivers with license plates from distant cities, assuming they may be victims of drowsiness: they are held for a few minutes and then allowed to continue driving.
The calm that reigns in the paradisiacal Thiva should help tourists familiarize themselves with the local currency, the sum. But it is not easy, because it takes fourteen thousand to make one euro and only the larger cities accept credit cards. Euros and dollars are welcome, but for travelers who are now accustomed to carrying few, the only solution is the ATM. It works, but by default it dispenses up to six hundred thousand sum, forty-five euros, which, even in this inexpensive country, is very little. It turns out that, on request, the machine also dispenses one million, a figure that fills your mouth, but does not solve much.
Tour leaders wait for someone, seeing many Uzbeks with gold teeth, to ask the question, and they reply that they are a treasure kept in the mouth. It seems that they were also a kind of personal insurance for many women who, if they were repudiated, were left without money and sold them. In other words, if teeth are needed for eating, they must be sold in order to be able to eat. After all, during the wars, this also happened in the West and did not only affect women.
In Bukhara, there are still mosques, minarets, and two madrasas. Local guides repeat the importance of Koranic teachings, while Western guides are more focused on art and history. In the bazaars, eight- and ten-year-old children engrave brass plates with such confidence that they can watch fairy tales on the smartphones they hold next to them without this distraction causing any errors in the small works of art they are creating.
In restaurants, VIP rooms are named after sultans and historical figures. But there are no knives, only forks and spoons, with which you are forced to cut every food, often with conspicuous uncertainty. While they eat, while they watch, while they listen, Italian tourists have Vecchioni’s music in their heads and dream of the fastest horse there is to get to Samarkand as soon as possible.
At the station, the impatient one is called Afrosiyob, a high-speed train named after an ancient king and a fortified part of Samarkand. Manufactured in Spain, it is very fast, essential, with excellent catering service at affordable prices.
But the arrival at the station is very disappointing, even if no one admits it: everything is modern, well-maintained greenery, too many traffic lights that slow down the already congested traffic of a city of 600,000 inhabitants whose historical center of interest is Registan Square, where every evening a sound and light show enchants the public. It is difficult not to notice that everything here is grander, but detached. It is a fantastic show, no longer a reality that envelops us like an enchanted veil. Not even Bibi Khanum, which was the largest mosque in Central Asia, is particularly impressive.
In Samarkand, but even more so in the capital Tashkent, one wonders how it is possible to live on the average Uzbek salary, between two and five million sum, or 150 to 360 euros. In countries where the economy is weaker, tourists’ perception of prices is very far from the local reality, due to the parallel world in which they move, where commercial circuits offer different goods, or sometimes the same goods, but at higher prices. I am reminded of an Arab boy who sold water in markets and tourist spots in Jerusalem, shouting “water five, maye thlath”: in English, water cost five shekels, in Arabic it cost only three, and his was a way of favoring the poorest and those of his own ethnicity.
The guide smiles and hums oh oh, horse, but the travelers have now internalized the gradual departure from the fairy tale they experienced in Khiva, they come to terms with it and accept the slow return to cities where history is surrounded by the present and the future. The capital, Tashkent, with three million inhabitants, is almost never included in tourist itineraries: few monuments, the memory of the earthquake that devastated the city in 1966, the Soviet metro with a station dedicated to cosmonauts.
Three hours before the flight are enough for a superficial visit, then the return from a beautiful trip that few will repeat, but which arouses the curiosity to return to Central Asia, to the other four stan countries, the lands of the Tajiks (many in Uzbekistan, and all sedentary!), the Kyrgyz, the Turkmen, and the Kazakhs.
And the urge to leave before the obsession with overtourism spreads to these mysterious places grows.
