Uzbekistan: a land of many faces
Photography by Yang Jing
Olivia Ward-Jackson offers an account of her recent trip to Uzbekistan, and explores the political, social and environmental issues facing the Central Asian state.
Although it may feel like an isolated wasteland, landlocked by great powers, Uzbekistan acts as a cultural crossroads between many ancient civilisations. Still under the watchful eye of the Russian Bear, Uzbekistan upholds its age-old trading relationship with China, and maintains strong cultural ties with the Middle East. Today, the country is opening up to Western tourists under its new President, Shavkat Mirziyoyev.
The fun of visiting Uzbekistan is in discovering where all these cultural influences come into play – be it the domineering Soviet architecture in Nukus, the turquoise madrassahs of Bukhara, or the small Chinese-style teahouses. Indeed, Uzbekistan’s rare (if sometimes bizarre) charm lies in its ability to amalgamate seemingly irreconcilable cultures. My journey began in Nukus – a bleak industrial city in the autonomous Republic of Karakalpakstan, situated in Western Uzbekistan. A single café and a few garish signs that read “I LOVE NUKUS” make up the extent of tourist infrastructure in the city.
The Karakalpak minority living here serve as a reminder that Uzbekistan is not only home to Uzbeks. In fact, the Soviet division of the “stans” along ethnic lines in the 1920s and 30s was clumsy. Many Tajiks, Karakalpaks, and Kazakhs found themselves stranded in Uzbekistan, while Uzbeks were forsaken in neighbouring Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan. Since ethnic affinities transcend state borders, there is a substantial amount of cultural fluidity between the “stans”. On the flip side, discrimination and violence towards minority ethnic groups is commonplace, especially in border communities.
Home to the legendary Savitsky collection of dissident Russian art, Nukus has become a pilgrimage destination for art enthusiasts from all over the world. Indeed, the father of the collection, Igor Savitsky (1915-1984), devoted his life to smuggling ground-breaking Russian art into Nukus that had been forbidden under the Soviet regime. The refusal of many Russian artists to adhere to Stalin’s cry for socialist realism put their lives and works in jeopardy. The passion and daring of Savitsky meant that he was able to save thousands of artworks, including significant avant-garde pieces. Now, the remote city of Nukus stands as an extraordinary oasis of illicit Soviet art in the midst of a vast and barren wasteland.
‘The Bull’ by Vladimir Lysenko, Savitsky collection
Photography by Olivia Ward-Jackson
Nevertheless, whilst the story of the Savitsky collection is remarkable, its curation at the Karakalpakstan State Museum of Art could do with some drastic improvements. A careful eye is needed to separate the wheat from the chaff, as the Savitsky collection is very large and much of it is pretty unimpressive. Moreover, further explanation needs to be given to the political, historical and artistic significance of the collection, which is often lost on visitors ill-versed in Soviet history. The Savitsky collection currently sees more golden-toothed museum attendants than tourists - the ratio during my visit was around 4:1. This is a shame, as in good hands the collection could easily become a major part of Uzbekistan’s tourist trail.
Whilst the Savitsky collection was able to escape the clutches of the Soviets, the Aral Sea was not so lucky. Early in the morning, our small convoy set off on a quest to find the vanishing sea. Once the fourth largest lake in the world, the Aral Sea has now all-but disappeared, thanks to a merciless Soviet irrigation project in the 1960s. Since Uzbekistan is a double-landlocked country, the destruction of the Aral Sea poses a severe threat to the national water supply, and in particular to the cotton and agricultural sectors — which sustain the economy.
The shrinking Aral Sea, 1989-2008
Photography by United Nations Development Program in Europe and Central Asia
What remains of the Aral Sea is no longer safe to drink, neither can it support aquatic life, due to contamination and high salt levels. This has had severe ramifications at the local level. Infant mortality in the Aral Sea region is amongst the highest in the world, and locals suffer from a disproportionate number of health problems. The once-prosperous fishing industry in Western Uzbekistan has been destroyed. Ironically, we were welcomed to Moynaq, a redundant old fishing town now miles away from the receding shore, by a rather cheery-looking steel fish.
Leaving Moynaq behind us, we continued into the Aralkum Desert, which only a few decades ago had been the bed of the Aral Sea. A freak thunderstorm broke out halfway through our drive. We waited nervously for the storm to blow over, discussing (naturally) all the worst-case scenarios. Top of the list was zombie flamingos; by-products of Soviet biological weapons testing on Vozrozhdeniya Island in the Aral Sea, where flamingos are known to have nested.
Fishing boats rust in the Aralkum Desert
Photography by Olivia Ward-Jackson
After the storm had lifted, our driver gallantly navigated past the potholes-from-hell, where large chunks of mud road had imploded. “Ah….new problem” he would announce calmly, before embarking on some ludicrous 540* turn that sent us all reeling. Our ten hour drive through the desert might have been more Johnny English than Casino Royale, but we arrived at the Aral Sea feeling exhilarated.
Standing at the sea’s shore, a place of exquisite and tragic beauty, I felt as if I had reached the end of the Earth. We can only hope that Uzbekistan will strengthen its efforts to restore its sea, or at least to safeguard it against further decimation.
Rainbow over Kazakh yurts after freak storm in the Aralkum desert
Photography by Olivia Ward-Jackson
After the adventures of the Aral Sea, I decided to rejoin the more conventional tourist trail by visiting the ancient Silk Road cities of Khiva, Bukhara and Samarkand. Initially I was disappointed, as much of Uzbekistan’s historic architecture has been spoiled by aggressive and unskilled restoration projects. I soon realised, however, that I had been too quick to judge a culture that valued the new over the old. In western culture an astounding sense of reverence is felt towards the ‘old’ and preserving the sanctity of an original structure is deemed very important, whilst in Uzbekistan there is no such nostalgia.
Despite manic restoration and surging tourism, Uzbekistan’s great cities have all maintained a genuine charm. There are even some very beautiful restored sights. However, I would advise any traveller not to go to Khiva, Bukhara and Samarkand expecting the central-Asian equivalents of Florence or Saint Petersburg. The silk road settlements are not perfectly-preserved historical monuments, but continuously evolving cities with rich and complicated histories.
Khiva has a distinctive atmosphere of melancholic calm, both early in the morning, when the mud walls glow red in the sun, and late at night, once the busloads of aged American tourists have been and gone. Delicately carved wooden columns and elaborate doors, crafted by talented local woodworkers, make up for some of the shoddy reconstructions that litter the old slave-market town.
Khiva from a minaret
Photography by Olivia Ward-Jackson
In a sweet local park in Bukhara, seemingly worlds away from the commercialised central square, hides the intricate Samanid Mausoleum, which, with its distinct Zoroastrian motifs, emits an air of mysticism that has been lost from some of the city’s grander monuments. On a quiet day, the hammam nearby is still full of local women vigorously scrubbing, washing and gossiping away, as their mothers and grandmothers might have done before them.
The boldly restored Registan in Samarkand is stupendous, although it may lack the intimacy of some of Bukhara’s smaller sights. Indeed, the appeal of Samarkand is that it is a living, breathing city – with a very different air to the Disneylands of Khiva and Bukhara. The three Registan madrassahs are particularly alluring when they are illuminated at night. Two great tigers mosaics, each carrying a sun on their back, contend with the moon as it rises over the Registan square.
A nearby silk factory in Samarkand produces elegant and vibrant carpets. Whilst Uzbekistan is the world’s third largest producer of silk, it tends to export most of its raw produce to China to be manufactured. However, recent efforts to manufacture more home-made silk products in Uzbekistan, such as carpets and traditional Central Asian suzanis, have been encouraged by the Uzbek government.
Abdulaziz-Khan Madrasah, Bukhara
Photography by Olivia Ward-Jackson
On to Tashkent, where we dined at a popular Georgian restaurant with Darya, an ethnic Russian, who told us of her family’s experience in Uzbekistan. Her story was similar to that of many other ethnic Russians, who make up Uzbekistan’s largest minority group.
Darya’s grandparents had moved to Uzbekistan in the days of the Soviet Union. Whilst some Russian immigrants were deported to Central Asia, others such as army veterans were offered free farmland to begin new lives there. Meanwhile, many professionals moved to Uzbekistan in the hope of better economic opportunities. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, Darya’s family chose to remain in Central Asia. Although Russia was no longer home, independent Uzbekistan was to become an increasingly hostile environment. Today, there is still little assimilation or intermarriage between ethnic Russians and Uzbeks, and Darya, like many of her friends, does not even speak the Uzbek language.
Samanid Mausoleum, Bukhara
Photography by Olivia Ward-Jackson
We had been advised by the owner of an Uzbek café in West London to visit the Fergana Valley, in the east of Uzbekistan. Driving there I was struck by how fertile and green the landscape was (as well as by the recklessness of Uzbek drivers). The hills, mountains and reservoirs were a welcome relief from the monotonous desert roads to which we were accustomed, where the flat, shrubby terrain was punctuated only by oil refineries and the odd goat herd.
We were welcomed into a beautiful homestay in the Fergana Valley. A heavenly courtyard, centred around a lotus pond, was brimming with cherry, apricot, pomegranate and apple trees. Here, at last, we tasted homemade Uzbek food as it should be prepared, with delicious plov, fresh salads and tangy yoghurt – so unlike the tasteless food we were used to in tourist-geared restaurants throughout Uzbekistan. Indeed, the Fergana Valley, Uzbekistan’s breadbasket, really does feel like God’s own country.
The prominence of Islam in the Fergana Valley distinguishes the region from the rest of Uzbekistan. In Nukus, men would sit back and enjoy a bottle of vodka after a hard day’s work, yet in the Fergana Valley drinking was very unusual. Ramadan was almost universally observed, and in the evening restaurants were packed with throngs of men breaking the fast. In the west of Uzbekistan, Islam appeared to have blended with local folk law and traditions, many of which were descendant from the pre-Islamic Zoroastrian era, whilst in the east a stricter form of Islam had taken hold.
Samarkand Registan at night
Photography by Yang Jing
The Fergana Valley, which Uzbekistan shares with Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan, feels very much like its own country - quite separate from the rest of Uzbekistan. Indeed, the richness of its land, the porousness of its borders, and the religious devotion of its people has given the region a very distinct culture. Predictably, political tensions have arisen between the insulated Fergana Valley and the central government of Uzbekistan.
The former President, Islam Karimov, was terrified of losing control of the Fergana region, and of the possibility of Islamic radicalisation. In the 1990s, Karimov called for a brutal crack-down on militant Islamic groups in the Fergana Valley that were mostly led by missionaries from Saudi Arabia. In this way, Karimov used the plausible threat of Islamic radicalisation as a tool to oust his political enemies from the Fergana region, and consolidate his control.
Silk factory, Samarkand
Photography by Olivia Ward-Jackson
Uzbekistan is now independent, although its identity remains fragmented. Once a no man’s land, through which brave men would follow the silk roads bearing exotic goods and new ideas, Uzbekistan continues to be influenced by a variety of cultures today.
If you think you would enjoy untangling the complex web of cultures that make up Uzbekistan, then it is certainly worth a trip. Do try to go before the country becomes swamped with tourists, grows more expensive, or descends into political instability. However, if you’re looking for a holiday, I wouldn’t recommend Uzbekistan – it’s hard work!
Source: https://www.nytimes.com/2001/12/16/magazine/whatever-it-takes.html
This article was revised on 4th November 2019.