I think you should go to Uzbekistan. You there, go to Uzbekistan. Trust me you should go to Uzbekistan. You all in the back row, GO TO UZBEKISTAN. I think I’ve made my point.
I signed up to run the Dushanbe Half Marathon, Tajikistan. I honestly don’t know why I do these things, but I thought since I’m going to be travelling in Central Asia again, I might as well see another country and Uzbekistan was my first choice. I’ll tell you why. I booked a flight to Israel and I had a stopover in Uzbekistan. At the time, however, when I was supposed to fly, the political situation in Israel got a little concerning, so I decided to travel a couple of hours onwards to Turkey and landed in Istanbul. I did, however, make the mistake of booking through one of those third-party apps and changing the ticket to Istanbul became a huge mess. Basically, I had no choice but to go down to Air Uzbekistan and personally beg them to give me a refund on my ticket. Sitting in the office there I started to think that maybe this country should be put on my list. All the faded photos hung on the wall of the ‘flight centre’ (I use that term very loosely), were shockingly beautiful and the staff were incredibly lovely. Most shockingly, though, was when they issued me a full refund with very little hassle. I decided to reward them with my future presence.
As I started to research the trip a little more, the more interested I became. I mentioned my interest to a friend who told me Samarkand was reputed to have the most beautiful Mosques outside of Iran, and from that comment on; I was obsessed. My other friend, however, who had worked in Tashkent in the early nineties told me that it was basically an impoverished mess, with unhappy people, and that I had to be very very careful going about the city because it was quite dangerous. Oh crap!
The visa situation was actually very easy. As a Canadian, I did have to apply for a visa at the embassy but luckily for me it was very close to my house. The waiting time was about two days and I decided to spend those two days annoying the lovely staff of the Uzbek Embassy with completely unnecessarily paranoid questions
‘Hi, Mark, here, I was wondering if my visa was ready yet? I know you said two days but thought I’d check in.’
‘Hi, how was your lunch? Me again, umm any news on my visa?’
‘Mark, here, yes I called you earlier today. I was wondering if you needed anything from me or if there was any way I could extradite my visa?’
Finally, when the visa was ready (in exactly the time frame they told me), the staff were very polite in waving me off. No doubt praying that I would not return any time soon. Look, I had flights to buy and they were not getting any cheaper. Not to mention my OCD kicks into overdrive when there’s the possibility I will be declined for a holiday
I booked my flights with no trouble at all, flying into Uzbekistan and flying out of Tajikistan. I was ready to go. I always love arriving at the airport, getting into line, and predicting what the trip will be like from the people in line waiting to check-in. As I glanced around at my fellow travellers waiting to check into our Air Uzbekistan flight to Tashkent; I did not get a good feeling. I was all smiles and good vibrations, everyone else was scowls and “stop-staring-at-me-awkward-solo-guy-dressed-in-pyjamas”. As it turns out, however, my first impressions could not have been more wrong. There was one lady I took a shining to stand a few people down from me. I felt that we were going to be friends. She was a beautiful lady somewhere in her late twenties, early thirties. (I’m terrible with age). Please bear in mind that this was 14-hour red-eye we were boarding and whilst I was pretty much in my pyjamas she was in a statuesque pair of heels, white nylons, a blue baby doll dress with a white collar, with her hair done up in an Amy Winehouse style, and a full face of makeup accentuated with bright red lips. I tip my hat. Sadly, however, when I gave her the old “how you doing let’s be BFFs and brush each other’s hair and gossip about the Uzbek top forty throughout the entire flight look”; she only returned my stare with what I can only guess was pity and then didn’t look in my direction again. Rude!
Air Uzbekistan was very comfortable and did very well in all aspects of economy travel. The only glitch was that some woman wanted me to give up my seat so she could have the aisle, but I politely pretended not to understand what she was saying. Even though she tried in Uzbek, Russian, and English. I just smiled and stared blankly. She eventually gave up.
I landed in Tashkent around 20:00. When I say Red Eye, I meant more like one of those flights that you have to show up for at what seems like the middle of the night but it’s actually only an hour from when you really get up for work. I, very easily, got my bags and found a taxi to drive me a very comfortable distance to my hotel. Upon arriving at my hotel, I was tired, hungry, and in desperate need of a beer. I checked into my room which was, well, a humbly designed room with the interior clearly done by Karl Marx’ gay brother Marky Marx. THANK YOU I’LL BE HERE ALL WEEK. It was nice though and very well located.
I couldn’t make out much of Tashkent yet as it was quite dark, but the city looked a lot bigger than I was expecting. I threw my bags down and decided to find food and booze. I asked at reception if there were any good restos in the area but sadly no luck. Seems things close early around here. Luckily the hotel had a restaurant but unluckily no booze, however, luckier still I was told there were several liquor stores walking distance from the hotel. Unluckier still, this involved me leaving the hotel at night and walking, without knowing exactly where I was going, to a liquor store, where no doubt the miscreants of society would be. I remembered my friend’s words about how dangerous this city was and steadied myself for the journey. I thought, “If I just keep my head down, walk with purpose, keep my keys close by in case I have to go for someone’s eyes, I should be okay”. I started out, and as the hotel was down a small side street, I slowly and cautiously made my way down towards the main road. I was about to step out onto the main thoroughfare of Tashkent; it was then a small girl in a red jacket holding onto a balloon skipped past me. She was followed by her mother who was quickly trying to catch up with her. Next came a couple, holding hands, walking a dog that looked like a golden retriever. I stood next to a tree, trying to keep a low profile. I looked over the street, surveying what I saw before me. The traffic was light but steady, the street was tree-lined with gorgeous old Oaks growing up proudly along the unreasonably clean sidewalk. Here an old Uzbek couple meandered slowly along the sidewalk (both holding canes). There was a newly married couple walking with a baby in a stroller linking arms as they pushed the pram down the road. On the other side, several children of about twelve wandered together down the road deep in conversation, no doubt about the day’s events. This was not at all what I was expecting. The scene I saw before I was closer to Disneyland than derelict. Realizing very quickly that things had changed a lot since my friend had lived here in the early nineties; I began strolling in the direction in which I was told trying to locate a beer.
I stopped at a zebra crossing and waited, (as I always do in Bangkok as zebra crossings mean literally nothing or are viewed maybe as a way of jazzing up the street), checking my directions. I heard a small beep and looked up to my shock in seeing six, yes six, lanes of traffic stopped squarely at the zebra’s lines waiting for me to cross. The expectant drivers were growing annoyed that I wasn’t moving and taking up their evening. Shocked I ran across the street, apologizing to every car along the way with a slight bow and a head nod until I made it across and traffic resumed. What??? I had not experienced such road safety in a long time or ever
Sadly all the liquor stores were closed for the evening and I couldn’t locate my well-deserved drink, however, my brother and I have a long-standing tradition of never travelling without bubbles as we both feel it is ungentlemanly not to have something to toast upon arriving at a destination. So I popped back into the hotel restaurant, popped open the cork and shared a glass with the lady working the late shift.
The next day I was up with spit and vinegar and ready to explore Tashkent. I had no plan and decided to just go with it. I won’t bore you with every tourist attraction I visited but let me tell you honestly and earnestly, it is a stunning city; mixing Islamic, Soviet and European design in the most incredible and unexpected ways. The museums and galleries allowed me to explore aspects of The Silk Road I had never thought of before nor heard of. The buildings were bright and well-kept with many of the apartment buildings being decorated along the sides with Islamic motifs. Absolutely stunning!
Along the way, I came across the hotel Uzbekistan. Since we are getting to know each other a bit, I think it’s time that I tell you something about me. I love, and I mean love, a Soviet-era hotel and Hotel Uzbekistan is a gem of Soviet architectural goodness. The imposing cement facade, the golden wood-panelled lobby, and the pastel blue bar and lounge are the stuff my dreams should be made of. I decided to shimmy on up to the bar and drink in the splendour and have a beer.
The bartender came as a bit of a shock as he was maybe twelve-years-old. Not really but he was very young. He was a handsome man of actually eighteen (I found out) and very friendly. We got to talking and he was very eager to practice his English as I sipped. He went to university in Tashkent but was originally from somewhere outside the city. I can’t remember. He worked at this bar as often as he could to help pay for school. Within six minutes of knowing him, we were best friends having exchanged WhatsApp’s and were making plans to go out that evening. It wasn’t until thirty-two seconds after I left the hotel and he started messaging me that I started to think that maybe there was more than friendship on the cards here. Being more of a Grave Digger than a Cradle Robber; I sadly had to give an excuse and politely bow out of whatever he had planned for that evening. To be fair though, the Uzbeks were probably the friendliest people I have ever met ever and it is entirely possible he just wanted to hang out.
Solo again, I made my plans for the evening. I did my research on the hip and happening around Tashkent and there was a lot to be had. I decided to start my evening at a restaurant called Caravan, which boasted the best local cuisine in the city, then I was going to head to a Czech pub for drinking and dancing and lastly at a snazzy cocktail lounge to finish the night off fancy.
Let’s start with Caravan. Gorgeous. I’m a very elite TripAdvisor reviewer, just saying, so I know my stuff – well I’m opinionated at least, and this restaurant has the goods. The interior is done slightly over the top Uzbek style, with decorative plates affixed to all the walls and incredible clashing patterns on everything from the plates to the curtains (like if your grandma is Uzbek, and maybe she is, but also super eccentric). That’s the interior. The menu, however, was a bit of a challenge as it was not in English. The waiter, another boy of eighteen, was incredibly friendly and was determined to help me choose my best dish. I told him I didn’t eat pork, lamb, or goat, and he returned my glance with a very concerned look. ‘That’s going to be difficult sir.’ Indicating that was pretty much the entirety of the menu. He turned back to find me something I could eat. To someone from this region, not eating goat is akin to walking into an Argentinian steak house and saying you’re a vegan. He turned the page and slapped the menu with the back of his hand and said
‘Here sir, HORSE.’
Oh crap, I’m going to have to tip big. ‘I’m sorry again but I don’t eat horse, maybe you have chicken?’ He looked confused again and began rifling through the menu, which was sizable and managed to excavate me the one chicken dish. Sold. The meal that followed was superb. Most meals start with a salad of blood-red tomatoes, cucumbers and onions, some bread and usually a dip of some sort. More often than not hummus. This all came, and it was stunning. Then the chicken dish was served and it was hands down the most succulent hunk of bird I’ve ever eaten. I washed it down with a pint, okay two pints, and the meal came to less than 20 euros. I was stuffed and very happy.
Then I headed to Dudek Brewery Bar. This place was fun and pub-like. I personally don’t mind a pub at all and this lived up to the standard. The wooden interior was a bit much but the service was friendly and the beer plentiful. The waitress seemed a bit confused when I told her table for one and wasn’t entirely sure where to seat me. She found an out of the way table, with which I was fine, as it afforded me a view of the entire pub. The music was the Russian and Uzbek top forty and the crowd, all quite drunk, were loving it. There was a very large table with about ten Uzbek Woo Girls taking turns pulling up awkward men for dance while simultaneously running back to the table to do a shot of something clear. This was clearly going to be a big night. I enjoyed the lively atmosphere and decided Tashkent could be a city I could get into. I mean if it wasn’t for the countries extremely harsh punishments towards gay men. Three years in jail to be exact, however, ladies got a pass here and relations between two women is legal. Trans rights are extremely low as well.
I finally made my way to the final spot on my agenda, The Bar SpeakEasy. This was reputed to be Tashkent’s best cocktail place. It had a cool interior, more akin to a cafe than a bar (other than the large shelves of booze lining the back wall). I walked in and sat down and had a peruse of the menu – all Uzbek again. Waiting to be served, I had a look around the bar. The crowd was young, hip, and very well dressed. It was then, I noticed that a table of very stylish young men sat almost directly behind me and one of them was giving me a very sly over the shoulder glance. I knew what this meant. I gave him the once over and upon noticing his Balenciaga slip-one I knew, with more-or-less certainty, that I was being flirted with. I guess I found the local ‘gay bar’. Or at least the spot where the homos congregated. I, however, was not there for such things and was more after a drink than a man, so turned back to the bar only to find myself square in front of the most handsome gentleman I had seen thus far.
Uzbek men are definitely handsome, with beautiful eyes, strong builds, and strong features, but this guy was gorgeous. He was also about 20 centimetres from my face. I managed to squeak out an order of a vodka martini dry and just a little bit dirty, which he immediately went ahead and made. I was all giggly from our introduction and smiled brightly as he returned with my drink. I coquettishly thanked him and took a dainty sip of my drink. It was awful. I mean awful. I wasn’t initially sure what was happening but it tasted like my grandmother’s socks might if I was to roll one of them around my mouth. I had another sip trying to ascertain what was going on and deduced that it must be the olive, which was one of those big brown ones you get on a cheese plate. I finished it off.
I viewed it as one of those travel moments where no matter what you are offered, you eat it so as not to offend your host. I’ve had more than enough of those moments so it’s sort of becoming second nature to me to just enjoy what I’ve been given. I called the unreasonably good-looking barkeep and asked for another one but this time may be no olive and less vermouth. He complied and the second one was a definite improvement. I enjoyed that and some conversation with the over the top hottie of a bartender and when I was done, I asked for the bill.
The absolute circus of sexiness brought me the bill and I received quite a shock. The Martinis were about 40 USD each. Tashkent is not an expensive city at all. A meal will cost you around 2 USD and a beer not far off of that as well. Therefore, 40 USD for a cocktail, though totally reasonable for New York or London, was well overpriced here. I politely called over my favourite gorgeous guy ever and asked about the pricing. He said that the cocktail was more expensive than anything on the menu because martinis just weren’t on the menu. I had ordered something they weren’t used to making and they charged me based on the price of alcohol. I understood but still couldn’t wrap my head around why vodka would be that dear. I asked what type of vodka they used to which he replied “Gilbeys”.
‘But Gilbeys is totally crap vodka!’ I exclaimed
This dashing mound of man simply chuckled to himself, leaned in about a centimetre away from my nose and said, ‘I can’t give you a discount but how about I make you another one on the house’. I let out a high-pitched yawn of a response, which I assumed he took as a yes, and I enjoyed my third martini. I learned later that it was the actual import costs of the vodka which made it that expensive. I was familiar with this, as wine in Thailand is crazy expensive and vintages I vomited in the university are considered table wines here, as most wines are imported and subject to high tariffs at the border. I was quite drunk, something I would just have to get used to around these parts and so fumbled my way back to the hotel for sleep. Tashkent you gave me everything I could want in a city. Next stop Samarkand
Samarkand
Samarkand is a gem. An absolute Emerald of a city! It’s a gem situated in the crown jewels of a country known for jewels. I mean it’s a huge glittering emerald of a crown jewel of a city. Are you picking up what I’m laying down? It was one of my absolutely, most favourite places to visit – ever. Let me tell you why.
You have several options as to how to get there: car, train, or flight. My hotel manager in Tashkent suggested that I fly because it’s the cheapest. I thought that sounded a little odd but upon checking, and this was a couple of years ago, the flight cost 5 USD. I am not joking. Sadly, however, all the flights were booked for my travel dates. The second option was the train, which looked lovely and modern and it was a pretty quick journey considering. It seemed like a bit more hassle for me to book the tickets I wanted; considering the short amount of time I was in the country. Therefore, I took the most expensive option of driving, 50 USD, and certainly the most convenient option. A 50 USD splurge was well within budget.
My driver, a young wiry Uzbek gentleman, picked me up at my hotel and drove me to Samarkand. Not much more than that. We stopped for coffee along the way. That’s it. The scenery was lovely and very typical for Central Asia; wide open plains with beautiful mountain peaks lining the background. The roads were unremarkable and since it was early spring, nature was doing a superb job of making the journey lovely. The trees lining the street were just starting to become green and wildflowers grew, literally, everywhere. It was like a commercial for some Spring Fresh fabric softener. Although I didn’t have much reference, at that point, Uzbekistan was less mountainous than other countries in the region; having more open planes and less jagged peaks
The only point of note along the journey was the men; dotting the side of the highway, waving fists of something into the air for the drivers to see. I tried to ask my driver what that was about but couldn’t get my question across our language barrier. Ah well.
Upon arriving in Samarkand the first thing I noticed was how small, confusing, and cobbly the streets became. This was clearly a much, much, older section of the country with houses looking more cottage-like, with their gated fronts and beautifully weathered exteriors. Around every corner, there was a small park with a fountain where people would gather and converse. It was gorgeously quaint and a definite step back in time. I was driven directly to my Guest House and luckily too (as I never would have found this place on my own). I’m terrible with directions and these streets afforded little help in terms of navigation.
The Guest House was a surprise with, of course, ridiculously friendly staff but also a stunning interior. At the center sat a stately courtyard and an incredible tree growing right in the center. You could stand on the balcony and almost imagine you were in a treehouse. The hotel winded its way around this tree. Hotel Legende had simple, yet spacious rooms, decorated sparsely with traditional Uzbek trimmings. The dining room and reception were lovely and again decorated with beautiful art pieces from the area.
After throwing my bags in the room, I was ready to eat; I hadn’t really eaten on the four-hour drive. The owner of the hotel, a young guy with an impossibly huge smile, was working at reception and jumped at the chance to help me find food. He told me to wait for a moment and he would take me to the best Plov in Samarkand. I had heard of Plov before but had never had the opportunity to try Ploy so I became increasingly thrilled as I accepted his invitation
As it turns out there was another guest he invited along and he insisted we dine together. Both of us being solo travellers were happy for the company and jumped into the back of our host’s car. He drove us a short distance to a small restaurant, rather close to all the gorgeous Mosques; I was eager to check out later. To my surprise, he didn’t join us. He simply dropped us off and said for us to enjoy. My new friend and lunch companion, Alexei, was originally from Uzbekistan but had been living in Moscow and hadn’t been back home in something like twenty years. This was his first trip home and he was eager to explore his heritage. I also found out that he was a photographer and videographer working in Moscow. This was absolutely perfect as I had a side reason for coming to Samarkand and he fit into my plan perfectly
You see I had a plan coming to Samarkand and I had prepared perfectly for it. If you’ve seen the monuments of Samarkand you would know how stunning they are. Go on, google it, it’s impressive. I was ready to get some of the best photos EVER from this experience, I mean we are talking IG-blows-up-Kim-Kardashian-double-tapping-why-yes-Nat-Geo-I-will-come-and-do-a-special-with-you-right-after-I’m-done-with-Al-Jazeera type photos”. I had on a Kurta, I got in Rajasthan, and it matched the colours of Mosques. I also had on a pair of trousers I traded a friend for because they were the exact colour of blue for this photoshoot I had planned. Matching shoes of course. I was determined to get some of the most gorgeous IG exploding photos ever from this place and I only had one day. The fact that I met a photographer, and apparently a very good one, over Plov was basically, in my mind, the gods leading me forward on my plan to reappropriate the heck out of this place.
The Plov came and it was about 12 portions too big. I’m a big eater and my friend was definitely a strapping gentleman of a solid build built on good eating, but still, this was way too much food. If you’ve not joined the ranks of cult-like devotion people have to this dish, let me explain. It’s a rice dish with eggs, sometimes carrots, sometimes cabbage, and then huge chunks of meat tossed on top – all lubed up with a large pour of something greasy. It’s kind of the definition of comfort food. You can imagine your grandmother, if your grandmother is Russian and maybe she is, making this for you on a cold winter’s afternoon in Siberia. I gorged down a couple of plates, getting to know my new companion better and better. He told me about his family, father of two, and how he started to work in Moscow at a younger age and built up a pretty good name for himself in his industry. As the Russian government started to restrict freedoms more and more, however, he was starting to feel the pinch and was looking to potentially move away. We ate until we simply couldn’t anymore and even then a little less than half the plate was left. This is what was considered a plate for two people. Being of Italian/ Lebanese descent I was no stranger to eating. My family is not shy about demanding gluttony out of every participant at a family gathering and having two cuisines like that under my belt I am very happy my metabolism has lasted. Only barely
After lunch, we headed out to explore. This is when the incident occurred that will now be known as The Samarkand Incident. I was all ready and very happy to reappropriate cultures I had no real association with (other than gorgeous clothes), for the betterment of my IG account, when out of nowhere the weather turned. The sky changed from blue to a terrible grey/white, the wind kicked up, the temperature dropped, and it started raining. This happened in about 2 minutes and 6 seconds. I am not good with cold. I repeat I am not good with cold and this type of crap weather I had not felt in more than 5 years. Luckily, I brought the only winter coat I owned as a precaution and immediately threw it on. Therefore, instead of all the gorgeous photos I had planned and prepared for, I looked like a grunge moment from the nineties. My grey wool coat was wrapped as tightly as I could get it around me, my beautiful Kurta was hung below the coat only allowing a foot or two of fabric to be seen, and I had a black beany pulled down as far as I could over my face. Remember in the mid to late nineties when Alanis Morissette was super popular and all the ladies were wearing cargo dresses with jeans underneath? That’s what I looked like. I looked like the nineties, grunge-pop princess. I was not having it
I comforted myself with my surroundings. Samarkand is one of the oldest cities in the world and was pinnacle on The Silk Road as it was one of the largest trading posts in the area between the far east and west. It has been taken over many times but always retained its importance as one of the largest and most powerful cities in the area. For the last 600 years or so the city was known for being a center for Islamic study and continues as such today. Many of the Ancient Madrasah, however, are now empty or house souvenir shops.
Through many of the museums I walked and saw frescos of people from all over the world, even Africa was represented in the countries that came to Samarkand to trade and create connections with other business people from around the world. There was so much to see and I was very happy to be with my new friend who spoke Uzbek and translated all the guides for me. One of the most wonderful things I witnessed was in a small but over the top beautiful Mosque. My friend and I stepped in just as the Mullah was leading the attendees in a prayer. Everyone in the crowd, which interestingly was made up mostly of women, prayed into their open palms and then as prayers end moved their palms over their heads. I inquired from my friend as to what was going on and he told me that as you pray you to speak your prayers to Allah into your open palms and then at the end wash those prayers over your head and body. Beautiful! After the prayers were said several of the women came up to me and started talking to me through my friend Alexei. One particular lady, who was about 118 years old, grabbed me by the arm in a shockingly strong grip, I can only assume she was a professional arm wrestler and mimicked escorting me away as everyone laughed. Smiling that awkward smile, one does when one is trying to be in on a joke clearly about themselves; I questioned my friend as to what was going on. “She said that she was going to take you back to her village (which was apparently quite far away from Samarkand) and have you marry her daughter so you could father her 10 grandchildren,’ he chucked.
I smiled a little over the top, but both my hands up in a mock gesture of, “hell no” and politely but perhaps maybe a little too quickly; ran my ass out of there. Alexei, confused, followed suit. The rest of the day we spent learning and marvelling at the beauty surrounding us. I honestly cannot express enough how stunning some of these places are. The Mausoleums are especially spectacular. The tile work was incredible, with every shade of blue imaginable represented in the intricate and rare patterns. Everywhere you looked were worshipers deep in prayer or mantra save the very occasional German or Finish tourist. It seems they were the only other tourists to these parts. At about 17:00 I was starting to get cold. I mean really cold and very over it. I had The Dushanbe Half Marathon to run later in the week and I did not need the full-blown flu during it. I suggested to Alexei that we head back to the hotel and he was very happy to do so as he wasn’t dressed appropriately for the weather at all; dawning a very thin sports coat
Upon arriving at the hotel, I was frozen through and very wet. As I raced up to my room to throw on every stitch of clothing I had and then throw myself under the covers, I was told by the Hotel owner, the super smiley one, that dinner would be ready in an hour and to be punctual. That gave me an hour to shake off the cold. I had an idea. When I got to my room I turned the hot water on as much as I could in the shower, with luck it was very hot, and since the walls were a fragrant wood panelling I managed to construct myself a little sauna. I stayed in there for a while until I felt the bones in my feet thaw out and then I wrapped myself up in woollies and got under the covers to take a selfie. That photo, as well, will not be seen anywhere in this article
I made my way down to dinner promptly as I hadn’t eaten since the Plov and I was starving. Being a small family-owned B&B I assumed that dinner would be served in the dining room and would probably have been prepared by one of the family. “Perfect,” I thought, “a home-cooked meal”l. To my surprise again, I found the smiley owner, who I then learned, or finally remembered, his name to be Akram and Alexei waiting for me by the front door. “Let’s go,” Akram said. We all made our way to his car again.
‘Oh, we’re not eating here?” I questioned.
‘No no, we’re going to meet some of my friends and I’ll bring you to the best Shashlik in Samarkand.’ What a host, what a host! I didn’t question why he took a shining to Alexei and me. I assumed it was because we were both solo travellers and he wanted to make sure we were entertained. This was a typical Uzbejk welcome; warm and unrelentingly nice
The restaurant was very nice and had an absolutely huge Shashlik BBQ out the front. The interior was cosy and done up like most of the other restaurants I’d been to. We were shown to our table and another smiley gentleman was there who was very eager to meet us as well. I was really feeling the love this evening. As we casually talked about where we were from and what we did, I noticed that all the usual fare was already on the table; including the tomato salad, bread and dip. What I also noticed, with some confusion, were the drinking glasses. I was seated next to Akram and he picked up his, I assume, water glass and from it procured a shot glass. He placed the shot glass next to the water glass and seeing him do so, I did the same. When two bottles of vodka then hit the table, I realized where all this was going. In my innocence, I assumed that the shot glass was for us to measure our own shots and pour it into the water glass with a mixer such as coke or juice, which had also been brought to the table. Silly me. I had barely even made this new guy’s introduction when shots of vodka were poured and everyone’s hand was in the air toasting to new friends. Well, I’d certainly drink to that. I set my shot glass down and went to reach for the Coke when another shot was poured and another toast to strangers becoming new friends. Okay, I thought, this is a bit spirited. But down the hatch, it went. Another of Akram’s friends joined us. Another robust Uzbek man all smiles and very eager to meet Alexei and me. Another shot was poured as soon as the man sat down and another toast and well, I’m not sure, I was forming a plan. I was maybe 17 minutes into this meal and I was starting to get a bit tipsy. Things were not going to get pretty if I continued at this pace, so I spied the bread across the table and instantly dove for a big piece of it, in an attempt to soak up some of the alcohol. Another shot. Finally, the Shashlik came and it was delicious. There was a tiny problem when I asked for chicken but it was sorted very quickly.
At one point throughout the dinner, another friend of Akram came. He was apparently high up in the police and he gave a speech that was three shots long about how we were no longer acquaintances but we were friends becoming brothers and if I ever needed any help in Samarkand I could just call him. I managed a smile and a small dribble. Things continued this way for some time. When I was literally teetering on my chair half a boozy breath away from falling into my hummus, I managed to convince Akram to pour me smaller shots but that’s as much to which he would concede. Here’s how the rest of the meal played out. We had a delicious dinner that I do not remember. We finished seven bottles of vodka, which I do not remember, and somehow, I made it back to the hotel. There were photos of the walk home, none of which will ever be found online; including me showing off my moves that I learned from America’s Next Top Model to the head of The Samarkand Police Force or something. There was also a group shot in the lobby of the restaurant where I can be seen hanging off the shoulders of two of the gentlemen, desperately trying to keep my right eye open. The left was already fucked
The next morning was not pretty. It was made worse by not having any water in my room. I poured myself out of bed, poured myself down the stairs to reception and found Akram at reception handling guests in five languages. His smile was just as bright and radiant as it always was and he seemed absolutely fine. Although upon seeing me he grew very concerned and ran off to get me a large bottle of water. Clearly Uzbeks are stronger with the vodka than I am.
I had a car booked and it arrived on time just as I had managed to pull myself together and get out the door. Akram gave me a big send-off and made sure I was taken care of. The driver was a handsome redheaded gentleman with a face full of freckles. Upon me getting into the car, he gave me the once over and said ‘are you?’ and flicked his neck with his middle and thumb finger. ‘Am I what now?’ I looked confused. ‘I see you are probably” Neck flick. ‘I am huh?” He let it go and told me that he wasn’t able to drive me back to Tashkent because he was too hungover and it would be dangerous. I was seeing a theme to Samarkand. His brother, however, was waiting at some bus stop to bring me back and not to worry he had a nicer car. I was too close to death to care and just said yes
We drove to the bus stop and the redheaded man was replaced with an older gentleman with, yes, a much nicer car. As soon as he saw me he said ‘oh are you a bit?’ neck flick. What WAS this? I managed to pull my head up and inquire what this neck flick thing meant to which he laughed and told me it means very drunk or very hungover. ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Yes, I was very’ neck flick.
In an instant, he had reclined the chair of his car fully and I was laying down next to this total stranger. “You sleep, don’t worry about a thing. You just sleep and feel better.’ he said. This was like 200% more sympathy than I’ve ever received even from my own father over a hangover and I felt very obliged to this man. However, falling asleep next to a total stranger isn’t something I do easily so I put the chair back up and decided to try and enjoy the ride. The ride was pretty much the same going back as it was coming, except for one difference. As I stared out the window, I again saw long rows of men standing on the side of the road waving packets of something at passing cars. Upon seeing my interest in these odd fellows, my driver immediately pulled over and bought for me a packet of whatever it was they were selling. He handed it to me and told me to enjoy it. I was very moved and eagerly unwrapped the package like a kid at Christmas to discover it was a fruit candy very much like a fruit roll-up (if you had those growing up). It was delicious! The only thing that I can say about my travels through Uzbekistan is, “Thank you all. I’m beyond grateful and I’ll be back!”
Mark Scodellaro
Neo hippie, yoga non- guru, and man of mystery. Avid traveller but only recently started writing about it. Yoga enthusiast, activist, and teacher in Bangkok. Loving father of four fur babies.
This piece was prepared online by Panuruji Kenta, Publisher, SEVENSEAS Media