UZBEKISTAN... I fell so hard for you

Uzbekistan was a treasure I only half expected. I new it would be glimmering with textiles but I did not expect the volume of crafts and richness of architecture this ancient silk road stoping point would unveil. Unlike its neighbors Kazakstan and and Kyrgyzstan who are dominated by nomadic culture,  Uzbekistan holds cities that have been inhabited for 2500 years. Oasis ( that have recently dried up) provided natural stoping and trading points along the journeys since before the time of Alexander the Great.  Uzbekistan feels very much  a Persian, Arab city. Cities such as Samarkand, Bukarah and Khiva hold endless treasures from the Islamic renaissance, Alexander the greats conquest, and Zoroastrian temples of worship. Perhaps it is the Soviet Cartographers rendering of boarders that drew lines through the “Stans” creating contextual boarders that skew cultural lines is why Uzbekistan is more Tajik than Uzbek, and is mislabelled as nomadic.

Amir Temur’s dynasty was rich with culture. Bukarah and Samarkand were famous for their paper, astronomy, textiles  We visited the observatory of Ulūgh Beg who charted the exact location of over 1000 stars in the sky. His contribution to science still alive today. Nate and I and the kids have had many open ended conversations as to why we were raised on such European centric versions of history. Even the famous silk road is referenced through the adventures of  Marco Polo, a Venetian who’s travels would have taken place 100’s of years after the trade routs were established. Theses cities where the very center of the world.  Europe was the backwater, it wasn’t even seen as worth invading it had so little to give in terms of riches. So much of what shaped Europe and America was discovered and distributed through central Asia. Exploring central Asia has been incredibly eyeopening, it is underrated in what it has to offer.    

Crafts:  Its hard to know where to start with the crafts. The region is rich with ornate structures, fine cloths, embroidery, intricately carved wood and metal that make all the homes feel like palaces. I learned that Islamic cultures excel at applied arts and geometric pattering because it is taboo to render people and animals in most arts.  It is hard to imagine the stimulating colors and artistic decor becoming everyday accents to life.

While in Bukarah we stumbled into their first ever biennial art exhibit. The region is rich in Madrasas, ancient Islamic learning centers where students would come to study the science and religion. Madras are massive buildings with large inner courtyards to hold classes with small window less cells or rooms facing into the courtyard where students would have lived. These Madrasas where built at the height of the islamic renaissance in the region, when Europe was in the dark ages. This exhibition was a collaboration of 160 artist from Uzbek and around the world. Titled “Recipes for a Broken Hart” it featured more than 70 site specific pieces, many of them inside the rooms of Madras. The mediums ranged from traditional weaving, embroidery, pottery, painting, story telling and music, videography, live performances and interactive spaces. Many of the artists were womenwhoses  pieces centered around women’s work and experiences as silent voices. ( Uzbekistan is not a conservative islamic state, these women voices were silent much like all women’s voices are silent across the globe). We found ourselves wandering around this ancient city and stumbling into these thought provoking art pieces. I can not begin to describe the feelings the mixture of ancient architecture mixed with vibrant art pieces stirred in me. It was captivating and inspiring and welcoming and absolutely worth pursuing again.

We also had the opportunity to visit silk factories in the Fergana valley where they raise silkworms and boil the cocoons. One well feed worm can produce a single thread of silk up to one kilometer long. This thread will look and act much like a spiders thread. They take about seventy of these threads and pull them together to to make a strand of silk. The silk thread is then spun into the desired thickness for scarves and carpets  hand dyed and woven or knotted, or used for embroidery. The process is all still done by hand. Master farmers grow the worms, Master spinners make the thread, master dyers die the thread and so the process continues being passed from hand to hand, each person a master at their piece in the creation of raw material to finished product. No one is going it alone. For me it blurred the line of who was the artist, who should get the credit for the final piece. In one place it was a family of women doing all but raising and spinning the silk who hand dyed and crafted the Suzani’s together. Each taking a panel to embroider and stitch together at the end. In another case it was a man who drew the work and dyed the fabric who was the famous artist, not the women who stitched each loop. And then perhaps it is a very American idea to want to give credit, ownership to a thing that is shared and produced by many.

We ventured into visit carpet factories. I  use the word “factory” which conjures up an image of mechanized mass production in my head. The very thing the Soviets so ambitiously introduced to central Asia.  But, the  rug and silk and weaving factories we visited would be called artisan mills in the USA.  They were spaces lit with natural light,  wooden looms and natural fibers, and women working.  Carpet makers sit on the floor, with a vertical loom rising in front of them. They get payed by the knot, and the complexity of the carpet design. A more complex design equals more money per knot because you move slower. A carpet maker might progress a vertical centimeter per day within each row tying around 1000 knots. Each knot requires 8 steps carried out so swiftly its hard to tell what is happening. ( In contrast a weaver might weave 3-5 meters of cloth a day, a velvet maker around 1 meter. ) These carpets were made of silk or wool and were so intricate and detailed.

Overall what impressed me the most about the crafts men and women producing products was the human ingenuity that had to happen to become these masters. All of the applied arts, from metal smiths, to wood carvers, textiles and ceramists were carrying out processes developed hundreds perhaps a thousand years ago. At some point a human had to burn a specific plant and harvest its ash mix it with quarts and paint a pot with it discover a shinny new glaze. Likewise someone crushed alum and pomegranate skin boiled it with silk pulled from bug larva growing on mulberry trees to create a rich copper thread. The idea that left with nothing to distract you  humans could be that curious and creative. Its absolutely mind blowing, and leaves me wondering what is left to create in a world so full of distractions.

Fun facts : Bukarah is the birth place of paisley.. I never much cared for the fabric design but after traveling here I will never look at it the same. Paisley is actually an almond shape, a zoroastrian amulet to ward of evil. It was then adopted by the Scottish and turn into paisley, and grew with the hippie movement in the 1960s. Bukarah is also home to the stork scissors. If you frequent sewing or embroidery shops you know what  I’m talking about. Before the oasis dried up there used to be lots of storks in Bukarah. These flat angled scissors are perfect for cutting straight edges in fabric, appliqué, tin and other crafts. I have seen the scissors my whole life and always wondered what the story was. Bukarah is their origin.   

People: We had  heard the people of Uzbek had a reputation for being the “loudest”of the bunch, but they defiantly don’t compare to Americans. The people we encountered were soft and kind, honorable and very excited to meet Americans. Along the tourist path many locals make a game out of guessing where you come from, very few people would  guess correctly. When they did learn we were American they all wanted to shake our hands and tell there friends about us. Uzbeks loved the children and were quick to smile, pat there heads with blessings and offer candy. They raise there children with the  idea that showing them nothing but, love and devotion will raise adults who are equally value bestowing  love and devotion unto others.

It is not a rushed culture, people have time to visit over tea, you do not need permission to speak with anyone, there boundaries are seemingly small. A greeting of Salam with a hand over your heart invokes the deepest sign of respect.

While it is a Islamic majority culture it is not an overly conservative culture. The ancient cities in Uzbekistan existed long before Islam, when Islam came to rise in the region it did so on a platform of tolerance to others. They realized that you could not have a major trading city like Bukhara that wasn’t welcoming to all walks of life. The version of capitalism was centered on trade from various backgrounds. This contributed to the preservation of the unique cultures of these cities. We visited one temple that was used by, the Zoroastrian's in the 6th century, then the jews (until they got there own synagogue) and the Muslims to pray in. It was a mishmash of architecture. During the Soviet occupation  practicing religion was outlawed, and all of the sacred sites were closed but thankfully not destroyed.

Crafts were also suppressed during soviet occupation. Masters of there trade were told to stop making there individual style and techniques in there workshops and go to factories and produce the same product in mass quantities. We heard one story that over 500 master ceramists were lost in Bukarah alone during this period because they could not pass on there work. Some people spoke of looking to neighboring countries such as Afghanistan and Iran to relearn skills such as weaving and wood carving.

Climate: The climate is dry and desert with mountains rising in the North and East. Unlike its neighbors the land is mostly dedicated to agriculture, not livestock. The rich troves of nuts and dried fruits dominating all of the central asian countries we have been to come from these lands. Along with a whole host of different crops. It was cotton picking season while we were here. Cotton is still picked by hand. Fields of cotton were filled with women in bright scarves filling sacks of cotton on there backs. Small mountains of cotton lay in yards covered by tarps, loaded onto tractors pulling wagons. It was a window into what America would have once looked like. Ironically the Russians bought a large majority of the cotton grown by slaves in the US, when that trade collapsed in the turn of the century Russia looked to the Uzbekistan to replace its need for cotton. Huge water works from the Aral Sea were installed to water the ever growing cotton fields. Not realizing how finite the resource was they ended up draining most of the Aral Sea, collapsing the fishing industries and villages that depended on it and causing a host of environmental problems still to this day. The sea is now so salty that the winds coming across it are carrying so much salt that it is effecting lung health and tree species.

Getting around: In Uzbekistan we mostly traveled on trains, except for that one time we went to board our 1:30  train after lunch and realized Uzbekistan uses the twenty four hour clock.  Uzbekistan boast a high speed rail system comparable to Europe. But, we wouldn’t know, it sells out months in advance. We used commuter trains, much to the amusement of the locals. We did two overnight trains packed with mothers with children, grandparents and business men, sleeping in open air beds barely big enough for me. They were always either too hot or too cold but filled with giddy locals to see the family from America with really big bags trying to figure out how things work. There was lots of hand shaking and absolutely no private space, your bed is a seat for anyone wanting to visit an empty spot on the table a place for anyones bread. Vendors with trays full of Samsas, stacks of bread, baskets of warm water and sodas walk the train delivering all your needs to you. One sleepy morning a strong women slinging Samsas and dropped them firmly in our laps defying all our “no thank you’s” with the power only a grandmother can yield.     

I highly recomend Central Asia, It is very safe and welcoming. It is building infrasrtucure with the hopes of atracting more tourism. My two cents, go, before they come.

During our stay in Bukarah I spent a lot of time immersed in the Biennial Art Exhibition I mentioned. I like to play around with poetry and pros. Nate says to grow some courage and share them too.

POEM 1

Remake the world as  a bird.

Flying free on her wings.

A beak full of seeds.

Glide through the air,

plant your feet in no swamps,

for nothing is left to hold you.

Pour your grief in the sky,

let its vastness spread your salt till it merges with the sea.

Drop a single seed to the ground,

watch it rise amongst the currents,

until it is sturdy enough to hold all the birds.

POEM 3

Blend sounds of tradition like seeds taken by the wind.

What songs do the plants sing as they grow.

Shake peace in a bag of flour and salt,

coating everything like fried chicken.

Build recipes of curiosity.

Hear the looms of resilience shuttle beauty with each weft of thread.

Stitch your self to the drum of a child’s heart.

Participate in art as if it were a sanctimonious act.

Lie down in the shade of a tree,

beg its roots to draw some life for you too.

Tell it why you’re not worthy,

how you have forgotten your linage to the plants and trees

to bird song  and sky.

Redraw your line in the sand,

make it a circle ,

a halo to rest on all that you have forgotten.

Poem 3

I am not traveling by my self,

I travel as mother.

An unknown gift you have bestowed to me.

A relic, some realms remember to cherish.

Your blessing  upon me a linage to past and present.

Inside a word,

a world of sun

and moon

and stars.

A womb of heart beats,

waking forth into breath.

Inside the transcendence of self to mother,

billows a galaxy of rendering love.

A heart space big enough for one to feel the hand of anguish cradled by the hand of love attached to the word mother.