There was one last glimpse of the Registan as we said goodbye to Samarkand. Better yet were the waves and blown kisses of commuters in a passing bus. I blew them kisses right back. I loved this city in all of its restored glory.
We stopped for special Samarkand bread for the drivers to bring back to their wives. Our guide joked that it was their "passport" back into the house as proof that they had really been working in Samarkand. The bread here is so specific to regions that that people can glance at a round piece of bread and know where it came from, what's in it, and the quality of it. Add the bread stamps to the equation and you are practically wearing the story of your life on that bread.
It was a long driving day, with a border crossing looming. The border crossings here keep you humble, and this one was no different. But first, in anticipation of a two to four hour wait, we had to the facilities - such as they were. I've mentioned my prior restroom experiences on previous blogs and since I see the hits they get, I know it is a popular topic. So here goes:
This was a three sided tin shack, with no roof (although even this massive ventilation strategy wasn't enough to dissipate the smell) on the side of the busy border road. A hole had been cut into the floor boards, and while I know to never look In the hole- I looked. Repressing a gag reflux and waving away the flies (at least they weren't mosquitos- that is truly the worst experience), I got down to business and out of there as quickly as possible. Other folks waiting at the border elected to just use the ditch, which while a sanitary option, often leaves one feeling rather....exposed.
Another little white building, this one had customs first. We had to present our passport, the "Arrival" form from the last entry, and the new "Departure" form. Again, listing all of the money we carried, along with jewelry and electronics. As we waited in line, a very severe ethnic Russia woman in official garb was picking about a group of women's luggage. She looked to be perpetually angry with her harsh, think, penciled on eyebrows that clashed with her too-white makeup and red lips. Heavily dyed black hair added to her matronly authority. She took all the Uzbek women into a private room and as they emerged one by one, they were adjusting their garments and tying their headscarves on. A few of my fellow female companions and I made eye contact. Implied was the prayer: "Please God, don't let that woman take me into that that little room." God was in a good mood that day, because our bags weren't even opened.
At our next stop, passport control, a full on family reunion was happened at the counter. There was no red line to stand behind, no orderly queue. About twelve people were pressed up against the glass in one giant mob of human flesh waving passports. They all seemed to be related, so I'm not sure why they couldn't wait for each other - probably it was just a habitual response.
We got through that, then walked through a much smaller no-man's land, to the Tajik officials waiting on the other side. Here's a tip: if your forms aren't quite right, or there is something that might need to be overlooked, apparently a $20 "administrative fee" will grease the wheels nicely. I read a book in which the author is trying to get somewhere that is closed off to journalists - he says that sometimes he will ask if there is a "toll road" he can take instead. This serves two purposes, it implies that you are willing to pay for access, but also lets the officials save face. It nicely avoids any awkward conversations about outright bribery. It's kind of a harsh word anyway - you kind of are paying an administration fee - we get charged this all the time in the West and never think twice about it.
A brief pass by the customs officials ("Welcome! Welcome to Tajikistan!") and smiles all around, and we were in Tajikistan. We headed to Khujand (Khojand on the map), which is Tajikistan's second largest city (formerly known as Leninabad). Our guide told us later that his grandfather and father still think of the cities here in terms of their Soviet names. Also, the people here have a lot of access to Russian television, so he explained that if push comes to shove, the Tajiks will most likely land on the Russian side of things, because they have been fed the Russian version of things, the Russian point of view, and have a longer history with Russia. It is more familiar to them than the American or British way of looking at things.
This became very clear to me when I met a young man lounging outside the big park near the Syr-Darya River. He didn't speak any English, but we established that I was American. He frowned, and pretended to shoot a rifle. "Americans shoot," he kept saying. Tajikistan has a very long border with Afghanistan, so I assumed that that was what he was referring to. I said, "I understand," and then didn't know what else to say. He looked at my face, then nodded at me, and gave me a thumb's up and a smile. Then he wanted me to take his picture.
The park itself is very nice, Russian made. Then we headed out to the local bazaar, which is always an interesting experience. There were children's car rentals, and really scary-looking vignettes, presumably for children to be photographed with. But they looked more demonic than friendly.
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