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Samarkand is yet another ancient city. Once the capital of a massive empire itself, it predates Rome and still smells better. An open sewer never once troubled us. Uzbek plumbers are more than just beloved stereotypes.
It has wide, Soviet tank-friendly avenues like Tashkent. It even has a skanking man as a walk signal at street corners. He animates and swings his arms. Dude's just missing a wallet chain, alimony payments, and a sore back.
Teaching a pro how to skank had affected public policy. I ska'd Uzbekistan and their traffic signals pretty bad, I guess. Hah! Puns. I think that's a pun. I don't really know. In any event, my fame preceded me again, so Megan continued to field questions for me.
Mostly about her hair. The city is obsessed with the color blue. I won’t go into how or why the majolica get their color because I don't know how. But in Samarkand, they're little blue tiles and they've been making them for centuries.
They resemble the good stuff Heisenberg cooked up and they allegedly taste as cool as they look. Smooth and shiny and zippy. They streak across walls, adorn domes, and enliven everything everywhere.
The majolica make Shohizinda necropolis look hopping. A massive complex of mausoleums and graveyards, pilgrims visit to walk its steps among the dead. Live pilgrims, I mean. Not dead ones. At first, anyway. There are a lot of stairs.
But if you’re going to die on pilgrimage, this is the spot. You’re supposed to count the steps and if you lose track, you start over. As many of my older readers will admit - to themselves at least - the memory starts to go along with the hip.
Just get somewhere near the top to ensure a healthy velocity and collapse. Gravity picks up your slack body to gently roll your corpse down 500 steps before depositing it six feet down a grate-free gutter at the bottom. No muss, no fuss.
It necessarily resembles an intense game of Donkey Kong. Over-enthusiastic office administrators call this kind of thing hacking the space. In any event, it sure is a pretty place to die if you're going to.
There are a lot of tombs in and around this city of the dead.
Tamerlane was interred at Samarkand with a warning. Two warnings, if you believe the legend, which I do. The first says, “I'll be back and I'll fuck y'all up.” I'm paraphrasing, but this dude would have said something like that.
He might still do it. Normally I don't entertain those kinds of thoughts but after seeing Vigo the Carpathian in Rome I'm not so cocksure anymore. The world is a pretty wild place and resurrected mass-murderers wouldn’t even make that big of a splash.
The second supposedly said, “Whoever opens this thing will face an invader worse than me.” Again, paraphrasing. Considering the Soviets exhumed him two days prior to Hitler invading the USSR, I choose to believe the tale.
Tamerlane saved Bukhara. Parabilistically. Hah! Nothing kills like a good math pun. Again, I apologize and remind the reader this book is almost over.
I keep mentioning this Tamerlane guy so I should do two things.
One, explain who he was and why every other block in the city has a statue of him. And two, shorten his name to Timur. I'm sick of writing out Tamerlane. That's just what westerners call him, anyway.
I'm also concerned I may accidentally pen the murderous gimp's name as Tamerlame. He had a limp. No doubt this joke was made in the past with the clever jester violently murdered by sensitivity readers of the time.
I’m told its ablist, as opposed to disablist, which is preferred for some reason. Neither are to be confused with someone being the ablest, which I believe remains a rather good thing to be. I’m sure if we give it enough time, merit will be despised entirely.
Timur's most able talents lay in murdering many men in creative ways. So, of course there are statues of him. I always think it ironic to see a statue of a nomad, personally. But that's what happens to people on the right side of history.
Might makes them right because they killed or gagged everyone who said they were wrong until there was no one left. Demonetized their YouTube channel, choked their social media traffic, etc. It may not be moral, but at least it's double-plus stupid.
The Timurid empire created a lot of stuff after destroying a lot of other stuff. This sort of thing is called a renaissance if a decent poet gets around to writing a shaky history years later. Easy to do if you focus on material things that can't die screaming.
The Italians have statues of King David. Uncircumcised. Samarkand has statues of Emir Timur. Possibly uncircumcised. You only see his horse's member. I honestly don't recall if it's cut or not. Sorry! But I hope not.
Unlike Trajan’s shaft, Timur's is left to the imagination of the viewer, not the sculptor.
Michaelangelo's imagination gave King David foreskin and Moses horns. Uzbek sculptors gave Timur a horse. You could give Uzbek artists points for accuracy and Michaelangelo points for imagination, but don’t.
Michaelangelo just hated Jews and loved penis. But not enough to faithfully depict either of those things with David. Another irony in art. This is why I stick to Alchemy. There's only a shlong if you treat it like one of those hidden object paintings.
The most beautiful building in Samarkand - aside from the Burger King - is easily Timur's tomb. The Gur-Emir.
Between the ever-present blue glitters gold, reflecting light from walls and arches with big-bottomed buttresses making the whole thing go ‘round. It is beyond beautiful. It is math, too, but not boring at all.
It is a brilliant love letter to Euclid. Surprising angles work together, even the intentionally obtuse ones, to blast your eyes out of your skull. Yeah! Geometry jokes now. Yet again, I promise it's almost over.
Architects say the style influenced the Taj Majal and I can see it. The Taj Mahal is a world wonder, I’m told. I violently agree. But I fail to see how the Gur-Emir is not. It takes your breath away. Something Timur did best.
I didn’t get up to any shenanigans around all the graves in Samarkand. The whole thing put a sock in my mouth yet refused to spank me. It reminded me of my eighth-grade teacher. Confusing. I wanted to be a good boy but wasn’t ever rewarded for it.
Something about all of the dead piled up like that did make me think for once. Rational thought kicked in, so I moderated myself. I will not be the one to anger Timur into a resurrection. I don't need that evil on my conscience. This book is enough.
Any individual truly aware of this man will say the same thing, whether they love or hate his memory. Once was enough. I said that after being forced to watch Twilight, but since then, I’ve seen it three bloody times now. None of which were my fault.
So, I walked lightly among the dead. The future is uncertain and this guy, particularly, still reaches out to trouble the living.
The real jewel of Samarkand is Registan. A massive square is flanked on three sides by towering madrasa, each incredible. We saw a few weddings go down in that giant, photogenic square. I did say the city piled up their dead.
As previously mentioned, images depicting living things are generally not allowed in Islam. But in Registan there is a most prominent exception beyond all the idols to Timur's probably circumcised member and ska music.
The story goes an artist was tapped to depict the Lion of Islam on the facade of Sher-Dor. This meant he had to paint a lion, I guess. However, this presented an art problem in addition to the possibility of violent murder.
He could not paint a lion as he'd never seen one, nor any image of one. Because forbidden. He had seen tigers. But he couldn't just paint a tiger, as folks would know it was just a damned tiger. A crime carrying the possibility of death.
So, he split the difference and painted up a Liger of the Faith. It's still up there, quite forbidden via sharia, but protected via Uzbek law. It was almost certainly scandalous at the time it went up and not due to quality.
Now, I don't know much about art. I started this whole thing confessing I listen to Phobia. I also focused on David's dick in Florence. I hope it obvious my tastes are deeply questionable by now.
Other than my love for Folgers Classic Roast Instant Coffee Crystals. Their widely available nature, reasonable price, and bold finish makes them timeless and timely anytime. But that liger isn't the best drawn thing in the world.
Maybe Muslims should draw things instead of shooting people who do. I don't know. Pictures can't hurt you where I'm from unless you're in blackface and even then, you can just claim you're real sorry about it and better now and aren’t truckers the worst?
Then you get to be Prime Minister of Canada, buddy-friends. I suppose the difference is in the west, rather than fearing cartoons, we elect them to high office. Who can say which is preferable?
My dream ticket is Ren/Stimpy 2024. But I'm practical and suspect most Americans are too, so I could settle for Do Right/Whiplash if I had to. Not even old Snidely could kill seventeen million people like Timur did.
He couldn't even kill Nell.
They say haggling is an art. A passion one pursues. An essential talent. I don't buy it. The price isn't obvious, and I suspect I don't need it to begin with. I also don't really enjoy lying that much. Not without preparation.
I like a good value menu. What you get is obvious and what you give is too much. But at least you're in and out in sixty seconds. I never want more time than that whether in a market, bathroom, or bedroom.
They say people who refuse to haggle are in too big a rush. I suppose the idea is one should take their time. To really savor getting ripped off. Because there is no way you aren't.
At the markets in Uzbekistan, everyone is in too big of a hurry to not haggle. In fact, if you do not haggle immediately a pained, wretched look steals over them as they seek a mark more committed to wasting their time.
You see, time isn't money there. Money is money there. If you must haggle - though I advise against it - here are some tips.
First, assume whatever they're selling is trash and offer an appropriate price for it. They'll be upset if you try to be generous. Low ball it. Your first offer should offend a beggar selling boogers. They'll pretend to be mad if you don't.
Second, their counteroffer will bleed your nose. Since you've already stupidly agreed to haggle, resist the urge to accept this inflated price just to get it over with. I did warn you. You're buying it but it's damage control now.
Third, your counter-counteroffer should be an exclamation of, “Muhammad's beard! Is that a naked woman over there? Her legs are so smooth!” Then run as they can't help but look. No one can. Not when gams are involved.
Fourth, an experienced haggler will no doubt trip you as you attempt escape. They are wizards and they haven't lived life in the souq just to be beaten by Amerikanski on vacation. You could get lucky, though. Who knows?
They'll also be mad there were no lady legs. They will ask why you disrespect them so much you would lie. They do this prior to selling you fifty pounds of salt painted as cheese balls at thirty bucks an ounce.
You will accept any price at this point as the seller is yelling in a mix of languages and you are scared. You're already on the police radar from two other Uzbek jurisdictions and your tour group has had enough of you by now.
So just pay up. And listen to me next time. I, Cautionary Tale.
My back burdened with hard-haggled goods I limped back to the bus. Our most excellent tour guide and two other fellows took one look at me and grinned like Uzbeks watching a dumbass Amerikanski at market.
They politely inquired after the swindle. They were health inspectors for the market which meant they allowed the cheese balls, but not the mercy of decapitation. Police jurisdiction, apparently.
They'd heard of me though, as they asked after Megan. She was being haggled into fifty pounds of silk by some jerk. I told them it was nice to meet them, but I had to help the old lady move some weight and maybe murder a vendor.
“How old is your old lady?” They asked. “You are young!”
“It's just an Amerikanski expression. She's only four years older than me.” When I left them, they were crying and hugging, manly trickles streaming down their shaking legs.
I didn't see what was so funny. Or why they assumed we were married. She hadn't asked me yet. They just roared harder.
“He married a woman older than him! Oh, oh, oh! Amerikanski! Ahahaha!” Not paraphrasing. People are always laughing at the wrong time.
The least they could have done was chuckle in Tajik. I only know one phrase in that language, lovingly taught to me by the Old Man of Bukhara himself. Dikki xar dar daxonat! It means good game, I think. Pretty sure.
We exchanged culture, you know. That's how commerce and hustling and haggling works. But I repeat myself thrice.
I made friends with beggars in Samarkand, too. An entire mendicant clan, apparently.
During a pit stop a tiny hand tugged on my shirt. I looked down at a small human, no more than eight years old. I smiled and she held her hand out and rubbed her pointer and middle fingers together like an Indian customs agent.
After making sure she hadn't lifted my wallet, I crouched down and asked her if she spoke any English. Like most females, she frowned at me in confusion. Males usually frown in angry, balled fists.
I gestured at myself and said, “I am Rob. Nice to meet you. What is your name?” I pointed at her and waited. She frowned harder. “I am Rob,” I repeated, patting myself on the chest. An intense frown followed. “Rob,” I tried again.
Her eyes lit up with recognition finally. She patted her own chest and said, “Rob!” Then held her little hand out expectantly. I shook my head and the frown returned. I repeated my gesture, beating this child with the pantomimic equivalent of a belt.
Gritting her teeth, she finally said, “Samara!” At least, I think she did. In any event, we both jumped and cheered in a wonderfully confused joy. I gave her twenty dollars. When she asked for more, I slapped her until she left.
I figured it was okay, as she wished me a dikki xar dar daxonat while fleeing the scene of the crime. We'd played a good game. Apparently, begging is illegal in Uzbekistan. She was a good girl, though. Not getting caught.
As I stood there considering what a great father I would make, our most excellent guide asked if I'd given the street rat anything and shook his head. She'll give it to her father, no doubt counting welfare checks at the moment.
I replied we're used to enabling sloth in the US and it didn't bother me. We've managed to convince ourselves it's good for the economy.
He retorted I'd never be rid of them now, but I’d seen this dynamic in India before. Legions of small children swarming some dumb, generous bastard. I was prepared with a strong slap hand. You see, I understand street rats.
They wouldn’t follow on the train, anyway. They couldn't. Nowhere to hold onto outside of a bullet. So, I left that child behind like the No Child Left Behind Act was left behind. Dikki xar dar daxonat, President Bush. Good game.
Uzbek roads did my cheeks raw. I expected the same from the train taking us to Tashkent for our flight home. Instead, its gently smooth purr massaged them, charged my phone, and inspired me to hate Amtrak.
In two hours, we crossed two hundred miles of rail smoother than a phantom lady's legs. You barely know you're moving. If not for the tumbling horde of children screaming good game as their little fingers lose grip, you wouldn't notice at all.
My most excellent tour guide explained Americans have roads, but Uzbeks have rails. My cheeks have never been so pampered as they were in those gigantic, plush seats riding a bullet out of Samarkand. A trip so short I didn't even have to smoke.
Our own trains - and roads and bridges and moral fiber for that matter but that’s not important here - are collapsing around us as we whine and whinge over symbols and gestures rather than the physical. And there's nowhere to smoke.
Wolves glut at the public trough as jostling, chunky rails and cars force the rest of us to piss all over the bathroom. Ladies excepted. I hope. Or whatever we call sits-while-pissing-persons these days.
It is a lot more fun to ride freight trains in the US and not just because it's illegal. At least pissing into the wind on one of those is free. But in Uzbekistan, ride Afrosiyob. And don’t piss all over anything.
Many thousands of rahmats were exchanged during our two weeks in Uzbekistan. I ate so much President Dumpling Obama alongside Folgers Classic Roast Instant Coffee Crystals. And the plov. My gods. All the plov. It's never enough.
I made a plan to stay. Checked bank accounts. Still empty. Well, that wasn’t odd. I made inquiries into professional begging. I figured out what dikki xar dar daxonat actually meant. It does not mean good game at all. Not at all.
But we still flew back home. The authorities were there to see us off at the airport. Awful friendly of them. I recognized a few. One had traveled all the way from Fergana to make sure we got on the right plane. I was touched.
Once again, we routed through Istanbul Not Constantinople and their glorious suicide booths as smoking lounges. They really are wonderful pockets of voluntary unliving. Non-smokers don't need to go in one.
I thought about this soaring over the Atlantic toward the comforts we slowly replace our freedom with. Safety, comfort, these are fine illusions. But they remain illusions. Comfort doesn't bring peace of mind for me. Not like duty-free cigarettes do.
The mundane miracle of flight gave way to the more impressive fact all our luggage made it home with us. Our new bong, all our bags, fifty bloody pounds of fabric, and all but one salt ball I offered an agent with a smile.
Even I know not to eat an Uzbek cheese ball. Especially if a wise guy offers one. Were they born yesterday? Dikki xar dar daxonat, TSA. That’ll teach you to not call me back. Men are such pigs.
Also, I really need to learn a little Tajik. A letter I got is either someone letting me know they found my wallet or an indictment. Seems to me it could go either way.
THE CONCLUSION