I SPENT THE EVENING in the yurt of Dzhumal Smanov, in the Tien Shan, in the Susamyr Valley, two hundred kilometers from Frunze. Dzhumal herds the sheep of the Panfilov kolkhoz, and because he distinguished himself in this work, he was awarded by government decree the title of Outstanding Shepherd of the Kirghiz Soviet Socialist Republic. The flock Dzhumal herds numbers six hundred head of sheep. If one inquires carefully, it will turn out that in this kolkhoz flock only half the sheep are kolkhoz sheep. The rest are Dzhumal’s, his brother’s, his uncle’s, his neighbor’s, and so on. Dzhumal finished the seventh grade, is forty-one years old, and has nine children. Here families are large, with many children. Dzhumal spends the entire summer in his yurt and returns for the winter to the kolkhoz. He lives in the yurt with his wife, with other shepherds, and with a large troop of his own and others’ children. The hospitality of these people is extraordinary; for my arrival, which was completely unexpected, Dzhumal slaughtered a ram and hosted a feast. The entire yurt filled up with people, who, notified by a mounted messenger, arrived here from other pastures. We squatted on felt rugs, gnawing on sheep bones and drinking vodka. In the drinking of vodka the Kirghiz surpass the Russians, not to mention the Poles. Women also drink. As a rule, during the feast they remain outside the yurt. Every now and then the host pours a glass of Stolichnaya and calls out a woman’s name. She comes in, squats, and tosses back the entire glass in one gulp. Then, without a word, without a bite of anything to eat, she gets up and disappears in the darkness outside.
During the feast they serve the guest the sheep’s boiled head on a plate. The guest must eat the brain. Then he must pluck out and eat one of the eyes. The host eats the other eye. In this way the knots of brotherhood are tied. It is an experience one does not quickly forget.
UZBEKISTAN
Erkin said that he had business in town and left, leaving me alone in the fortress of the emir of Bukhara. There is a museum inside the fortress. One can view the emir’s gold robe; one can view the executioner’s knife, so worn through use that not much of the blade is left. Elderly American women are running around the courtyard, around the emir’s bedroom, snapping photographs, peering into the depths of the dungeons. They are thrilled by the robe, by the sight of the knife. “And now look here,” says a teacher to a group of schoolchildren. They crowd around the entrance to the dungeon, sealed off by iron bars. Inside, in the semidarkness, are figures representing the emir’s prisoners. One is hanging from a halter; another is awash in blood. Several figures are sitting on the ground, chained to the wall. The teacher explains what a cruel ruler the emir was and that all this — this fortress, these robes, that one in the halter — is called feudalism.
It is noon. I go out of the fortress onto a large, dusty square. On the opposite side is a chaykhana. At this time of day the chaykhanas are full of Uzbeks. They squat, colorful skullcaps on their heads, drinking green tea. They drink like this for hours, often all day. It’s a pleasant life, spent in the shadow of a tree, on a little carpet, among close friends. I sat down on the grass and ordered a pot of tea. On one side I had a view of the fortress, as big as Kraków’s Vavel Castle, only made of clay. But on the other side I had an even better view.
On the other side stood a glorious mosque.
The mosque caught my attention because it was made of wood, which is extremely rare in Muslim architecture, whose materials are typically stone and clay. Furthermore, in the hot, numb silence of the desert at noon, one could hear a knocking inside the mosque. I put aside my teapot and went to investigate the matter.
It was billiard balls knocking.
The mosque is called Bolo-Khauz. It is a unique example of eighteenth-century Central Asian architecture, virtually the only structure from that period to have survived. The portal and exterior walls of Bolo-Khauz are decorated with a wooden ornamentation whose beauty and precision have no equal. One cannot help but be enraptured.
I looked inside. There were six green tables, and at each one young boys with tousled blond hair were playing billiards. A crowd of onlookers rooted for the various competitors. It cost eighty kopecks to rent a table for an hour, so it was cheap, and there were so many willing customers that there was a line in front of the entrance. I didn’t feel like standing in it and so couldn’t get a good look at the interior. I returned to the chaykhana.
Blinding sun fell on the square. Dogs wandered about. Tour groups were coming out of the fortress, first the American women, then the children. Between the fortress-turned-museum and the mosque-turned-billiards hall sat Uzbeks drinking tea. They sat in silence, facing the mosque, in accordance with the ways of the fathers. There was a kind of dignity in the silent presence of these people, and despite their worn gray smocks, they looked distinguished. I had the urge to walk up to them and shake their hands. I wanted to express my respect in some way, but I didn’t know how. In these men, in their bearing, in their wise calm, was something that aroused my spontaneous and genuine admiration. They have sat for generations in this chaykhana, which is old, perhaps older than the fortress and the mosque. Many things are different now — many, but not all. One can say that the world is changing, but it is not changing completely; in any case it is not changing to the degree that an Uzbek cannot sit in a chaykhana and drink tea even during working hours.
In Bukhara I also saw the crowded and colorful bazaars. These bazaars are old, dating back more than a thousand years, and yet still alive, teeming with humanity. Erkin showed me the bazaar in which Avicenna liked to stroll. He showed me the bazaar where Ibn Baṭṭūṭah would buy dates. Small stores, booths, stands, each one with a number, because they have been nationalized. Erkin said that an Uzbek prefers to overpay and buy in the bazaar than to spend less in a store. The bazaar is tradition, the place of meetings and conversation, a second home.
I went to the courtyard of the Mir-Arab Madrasa. A madrasa is a Muslim university. Mir-Arab is an imposing architectural complex built in 1503 and now undergoing assiduous restoration. The university was closed after the Revolution, but is now open once again. Its new name is Theological Seminary of the Muslims of Central Asia and Kazakhstan.
It is the only university of its kind in the Soviet Union. The first class was admitted in 1966. There were sixteen candidates for each place.
BUKHARA IS BROWNISH; it is the color of clay baked in the sun. Samarkand is intensely blue; it is the color of sky and water.
Bukhara is commercial, noisy, concrete, and material; it is a city of merchandise and marketplaces; it is an enormous warehouse, a desert port, Asia’s belly. Samarkand is inspired, abstract, lofty, and beautiful; it is a city of concentration and reflection; it is a musical note and a painting; it is turned toward the stars. Erkin told me that one must look at Samarkand on a moonlit night, during a full moon. The ground remains dark; the walls and the towers catch all the light; the city starts to shimmer, then it floats upward, like a lantern.
H. Papworth, in his book The Legend of Timur, questions whether the miracle that is Samarkand is in fact the work of Timur, also known as Tamerlane. There is something incomprehensible — he writes — in the notion that this city, which with all its beauty and composition directs man’s thoughts toward mysticism and contemplation, was created by such a cruel demon, marauder, and despot as was Timur.