Days 10 to 13: Bukhara

As I proceed to Bukhara, afternoon rumbles into late evening. I have arranged to be collected from the station, 10 km. from the city centre. A young man is there to meet me. He is amiable but speaks no English so we have to communicate by Google Translate---phone in one hand, driving wheel in the other, in the dark, in 4-lane traffic! Furthermore the second language in Uzbekistan is not English but Russian which I don't speak either but I can decipher the signage. It is mostly in the Cyrillic script although the country has officially adopted the Latin alphabet. When words do appear in the latter, the spelling is often unfamiliar so Bukhara becomes "Buxoro". And Uzbek itself? It is related to Turkish and from a trip there many moons ago I recognise the numerals: bir, iki, uch are 1, 2, 3. All is not lost!

On arrival at the guest house Kemol (for that is his name) collects my passport for scanning, to ensure registration of my stay with the police. He notices my suspicious look and says the proprietor of the guest house is his father. Later I meet him as well; again communication is by GT but he is affable and being a qualified chef, demonstrates his cooking skills. If anyone can do justice to the national dish of "plov" (mutton with rice) it is he and on Independence Day (1st September) he does us proud. Washed down with some Uzbek vodka.

Inasmuch as there is a tourist trail in Uzbekistan, Bukhara is on it. There are a number of tour groups and thanks to the relaxation of entry requirements, independent travel is on the up as well. The mainly 16th century Ark (first image) is impressive from the outside but frankly underwhelming within. I prefer the 17th century Abd al-Aziz Khan madrassa, lent an informal air by the footballing kids, and the earlier Kalyon Mosque with its chimney-like minaret (seen at dusk with floodlights coming on as if it were aflame). For some reason these 7 Dwarfs (next image) figures are ubiquitous. Next I turn to weddings and photograph two bridesmaids who were looking upstaged and seem delighted to get some attention.

After four days the guest house has become like home and I say so to Kemol (final image, with a nephew). It's a shame to leave but the railway calls.Read more