The Royal Road to Bukara

Once it took six or seven days by camel from Samarkand to Bukara. Today by road it is an excruciating five hours. The bus lurches along snaking a drunken path attempting to avoid potholes. It was a bad winter we are told – that damages the road it will be a slow journey. Perhaps the Russians who left in 1990 built the original road. Since then winter damage has been repaired as needed and the result is a patchwork of tarry clumps and craters.

The jarring bouncing of the bus makes it hard to dream of the days when merchants followed this section of the Silk Road. A stop at an old Caravanserai helps. The portal of the entry still stands, the one we glimpsed from the Karakorum Highway had no remaining structure. We unload our thermos of hot water and sit sipping hot tea and munching dates, dried apricots and walnuts bought in the Samarkand bazaar. A respite from the rigors of the road just as it was for merchants a thousand years ago. The area is very large; this must have been an important thriving stop. It does not take much to imagine the colorful commotion of several camel caravans arriving, animals being settled, fed and watered. Precious cargo placed in the secure holding area. Merchants worshipping at the integral mosque and then eating, convening and sleeping safe within the secure surrounding walls. Today birds nest in the crannies between bricks in the archway and neighboring farmers take away fallen ones for their own construction. Close by is a well. A large pool with an ancient domed roof built at the same time as the Caravanserai. Shallow steps lead down to the water. I throw a small pebble into the water, which sends ripples across the surface, and disturbs nocturnal bats. Its time to return to the road to Bukara.

Mulberry trees line the highway. Their short white trunks are painted white and they have been pruned into a diminutive size. A mass of green branches billow out into a uniform bouquet. They have the look of ballerinas, tutus perfectly fluffed waiting in line.

Beyond the green trees women in brightly colored ankle length dresses and scarves work in the dry brown fields. Sometimes alone, sometimes in two or threes they hack at the hard clumps with wooden handled hoes.

There are frequent stops and checkpoints along the road. Sometimes police check papers, other times we glide through. Gassing the bus is a problem as diesel is reserved for trucks. But some is found and the domes and minarets of Bukara are a welcome sight.TTFN