From the observatory we drove to the Street of Kings, the scene of a succession of monuments and mausoleums whose turrets glistened with blue, white, and green ceramic tiles frozen in irregular patterns captivating to the passing eye. An odd sight was clumps of hay sprouting between the tiles, as though soil and a seed or two had gotten trapped in the clay.
In the back of one mausoleum I was surprised to see a quorum of Uzbeks absorbed in prayer. They sat cross-legged in an otherwise empty room, communicating with a spirit said to live in the bottom of a deep well set behind a thick stone wall at the far end of the room. A mullah welcomed me, and together, saying nothing, we watched this unusual religious service. What, I wondered, did a spirit in a well have to do with Islam? After ten minutes or so I left, expressing gratitude to the mullah for allowing a stranger to observe this unusual rite of faith.
No monument was more appealing (at least, to me) than the Registan, which Ulugh Beg envisaged as a graduate school of Muslim teaching. Behind a sparkling white front loomed a complex of buildings, each one with a tall spire graced by pale blue ceramic tiles. The courtyard was crowded with students from nearby communities. A docent told them that the repairs would be completed within a year.
Not too far from the Registan stood Tamerlane’s tomb, a magnet for tourists from near and far. Its blue ceramic tile walls gave it a special glow. Here Timur was buried, though he actually died during a military campaign in China. Ulugh Beg decided that it was only proper for his body to be returned to the capital of his empire. He built a large tomb and left orders that on his death he was to be buried there, too, along with Timur’s son, father, and favorite wife. A modern-day plaque with an inscription in Arabic script read: “This is the resting place of the illustrious and merciful monarch, the most great Sultan, the most mighty warrior, Lord Timur, conqueror of the earth.” Fifteen years previously, I was told, Russian archeologists had opened Timur’s casket and confirmed that Timur was indeed very tall and had a lame foot.
I enjoyed my day in old Samarkand, soaking up the legends of Tamerlane, but by late afternoon I was ready to return to the hotel. Dinner beckoned, and the restaurant was supposed to be the best in the region. Why bother looking for another one? The head waitress, a Russian by appearance, seated me at a table for four but with a place setting for one. Apparently her orders were that foreigners were not to mix with locals. They were to eat by themselves. On this evening, though, a young Armenian joined me, and when ordered to leave he simply refused. He ordered a bottle of vodka and told me the story of his life.
He said he did not care what happened to him. “They could come and arrest me, but so what?” He had no job, very little money. I had rarely met anyone so unhappy. When I asked him how he got into this fix, he would not tell me. Instead he asked whether I liked the music the band was playing.
“It’s okay,” I answered, not wishing to offend him or anyone else. It was, in fact, a dreadful rendering of the same “Stompin’ at the Savoy” I had heard in Tashkent.
My dinner companion screwed up his face in disbelief. Dismissively he muttered, “There is an old Russian saying, ‘If you don’t have meat, eat fish.’ Like everything else in this country, it is second rate.” He then poured another drink for himself, belted it back, and left.
The next morning I went to the marketplace. Unlike the one in Tashkent, the marketplace in Samarkand was a wide, open square. Peasants from surrounding villages brought large watermelons, cantaloupes, and grapes to market, and they seemed prepared to sit there for hours waiting for a customer. One of my favorite products, though, was not to be eaten, but worn—the small, native Uzbek hats, which are called tubeteiki. They were handmade and cost 150 rubles. I could not resist.
Now, for the “new” Samarkand. It dated back to czarist times but had been interestingly updated during Soviet times. I visited the Historical Museum, probably one of the best, if not the best, in central Asia. I was especially impressed by the archeologists’ research and restoration work, much of it proudly displayed. One expert was assigned to explain each project. The history of the Uzbek people was traced, not with disdain for a “backward” folk but with respect, which surprised me. When the czar’s army, and then the Red Army, invaded central Asia, they regarded the local people as either a nuisance or a threat, and killed them either way. Respect was the last thing on their minds. But now, in this special museum, Uzbek history and culture were subjects that seemed to attract serious scholarly interest. Even old khalats, trays, plates, and lacquered boxes, the work of craftsmen who had spent a lifetime beautifying a single plate, were treated with a courtesy rarely seen in other Soviet museums.
When my guides were explaining the past, they were in their element. But when it came time to explain the present, they were embarrassingly trapped in a political dilemma created by the Khrushchev speech. At least half of the museum was devoted to the history of Soviet Uzbekistan, from its founding to the day of my visit. Not surprising, then, was the fact that paintings and photos of Stalin were on almost every wall. He had been the boss from day one. None of the pictures had yet been removed, even though the legend of Stalin was now under daily attack in national newspapers and magazines. Many museums in Moscow faced the same dilemma. What was my guide to say about a hero, a god, a vozhd, who was no longer in good standing? He decided to say nothing, not a single word. He went on endlessly, it seemed, when comparing the wonders of Soviet Uzbekistan to czarist-controlled Uzbekistan, but he refused to say anything about the dark, mustachioed face staring down at him and us. My guide retreated to time-tested clichés about the glories of Soviet manufacturing.
Fingering a new khalat, he said with unpersuasive pride, “This design took Soviet Uzbeks five minutes to make by machine.” Then, pointing to a delicate, intricate design on an old khalat, finished three hundred years before, he said, “Now look at this khalat. Do you realize it took this man a whole lifetime to weave it? But is there really that much difference?”
There was, in fact, a world of difference. Did my guide appreciate the difference? I doubted it. Time and again, as he compared uninspired and sloppy Soviet craftsmanship to old Uzbek craftsmanship, he seemed unable to appreciate that one was awful and the other beautiful.
In one room I was quite astonished to see a very large painting of what looked like Russian soldiers killing Uzbeks. Why would Soviet authorities choose to remind Uzbeks of these slaughters? I asked my guide, “Who are the Uzbeks being killed?” He looked around and, lowering his head, whispered, “They are the Basmachi, rascals who raised trouble during the early twenties.” He again looked around, and dropping his voice still another octave, continued, “They were counterrevolutionaries who had to be wiped out. They were regressive forces. They held up the imposition of Soviet authority, which is an advanced form of government. In opposing the Soviets, they became regressive, anti-Soviet and hence anti-revolutionary.” On an opposite wall was another large painting of Russian troops storming a Samarkand fortress in 1888 and killing the Uzbek defenders. It was beyond me why museum authorities continued to feature paintings of Russians killing Uzbeks.