Life on the Silk Road

Ah, Uzbekistan—home to the Silk Road. The land connecting the corners of the Old World. A land of Middle Eastern religion, Central Asian food, Persian architecture, and East Asian craftsmanship. A land so accustomed to welcoming foreigners that diversity and tolerance is baked into the tapestry weaving modern Uzbekistan. And most importantly, a travel destination topping my list for the last few years.

I finally made it. And it did not disappoint.

But that’s all the history—the stuff you can read about and see pictures of from the comfort of your bed. That’s not the lived experience. How does this former home of glory look today?

Uzbekistan was the heart of the Silk Road. The famous cities of Samarkand, Bukhara, and Khiva line the history books, where their tales of the gatherings of the greatest minds, the largest breakthroughs in astronomy and medicine, and remarkable tolerance and inclusion come alive. The great crossing point, the great center of it all.

But it isn’t anymore. The caravans are gone, and the scholars no longer dream of this land. Today we have ships; trade centers have shifted away from Central Asia, and the former Soviet region remains underdeveloped with planned cities and crumbling infrastructure. Today, those three cities—Samarkand, Bukhara, and Khiva—each look incredibly different. And each can enlighten us on how history can be preserved and lived with, in, and around in the 21^st century.

I’ll work out of order for narrative purposes—we visited the Bukhara first, then Samarkand, and finally Khiva, but it makes more sense to cover them starting with Samarkand.

Samarkand is what happens when a city grows out of its history, merely celebrating its highlights.

Samarkand is the most important of these three cities. It’s the easiest to reach from Tashkent, and thus, filled with the most tourists. Samarkand was the home of Timur’s empire—an emperor claiming to be a descendant of the Mongols, and seeing his empire as their successor. Under him and his descendants, science flourished, and the focus of life shifted away from Islam and towards the pursuit of knowledge. Under him is really when the region started to become recognizable as today’s Uzbekistan.

In the center of the city is the Registan Ensemble: three stunning marvels of architecture that, if they were anywhere else in the world, would be considered as one of the Wonders of the World. Each building is a madrassa, an Islamic school, dedicated to something different. They were built centuries apart—the first one during the Timurid Dynasty, and the other two, two hundred years later in that same style as a statement by the Uzbeks to say “yeah, we’ve still got those skills and just because our land has been in a dark age for the last hundred years, let’s pick ourselves up by our bootstraps and make our ancestors proud.” Most madrassas the Islamic world over are places of learning for Islam. Places of Quran study, places where Shari’a Law is instilled and carried out. But not in Uzbekistan. In fact, only the newest of the three madrassas are religious at all.

In the following post, I’ll describe each madrassa, as well as other stunning buildings around the city in great detail. But as to not distract from the point, I’ll move on for now. Beside this staple of Timurid architecture perfectly restored from the 15^th century is a wide road filled with stores, restaurants, and hotels. A minute down the road is a large intersection, and driving a minute from the Registan in any direction will get you to a city that feels built in the 20^th century. Yeah, it may be a bit Soviet in feel, with its wide roads and short buildings, but it’s not the epitome of a communist city that you may get in Plovdiv, Almaty, or Nukus (more on that later). It’s just a city. It’s quite sleek, quite modern, and hip. Pubs and bars fill with tourists and locals at night, while the main park fills with families bringing their kids to drive around the light up toy cars and grab a dessert from a local vendor.

Mausoleum of Timur

Drive north of the Registan and you’ll find yourself on a major throughway that heads to Tashkent. As you pass, on your right is the bazaar and hotels. On your left is the Shah-i-Zinda Necropolis—an alley filled with beautiful mausoleums. Continuing past Shah-i-Zinda you’ll pass the Jewish cemetery: a testament to a cultural tapestry that once was. Uzbekistan’s tens of thousands of Jews left after the dissolution of the USSR for better economic opportunity, leaving behind only the memory of a point in time where Uzbek Jews were a brick in the madrassa that is Uzbekistan.

You’ll then pass the Afrosiob—an architectural site where remnants of a city 3,000 years old are currently being excavated. But if you looked to the other side, you’d have no idea. You’d just think you were in a city. And a modern one at that.

Driving the other way from the Registan, you’ll end up passing a large urban park. At the edge of the park is the mausoleum of none other than Amir Timur himself, with its beautiful turquoise dome and towering minarets, calligraphy baked into the tilework, and geometric patterns that glimmer gold in the evening light. But remember, steps from it… a modern road. Paved asphalt with not even a pothole. Across the street is the statue of Amir Timur…in the center of a roundabout. And on the other side of that roundabout? A tacky “Samarkand 2025” sign that’s so aimed at tourists that it’s spelled using the English spelling and not the Uzbek Samarqand.

And look, I’m not complaining that this place is too touristed. Honestly, at this time of year, we felt like some of the only. But it’s more that I’m trying to highlight that this place is a city. Samarkand has the historical sites, but it’s not a historical city. It’s a new city that has been organized to feature its most historic sites in its urban planning. It’s grown into something new, something modern, without forgetting its roots.

This will be in stark contrast with the other two cities.

Bukhara, a two-hours train from Samarkand, is what happens when history grows with its population—when the history books are left open, pen in hand. It’s not modern. It’s ancient Uzbekistan in its rawest, its purest. There’s a strip about a mile long in the center of the city that was restored in the 1990s just beautifully. The streets are polished, the tilework is redone, the bricks on the buildings are newly cemented in and not cracked. The madrassas around the city sparkle in the evening light or in the midday sun, each mosque’s minaret stands tall and proud, piercing the sea of tilework and golden bricks. Souvenir shops and carpet stores litter the strip, enticing tourists with beautiful works displayed out on the street, luring you to enter the shop. On one end is Labi Howuz: a beautiful square surrounding a pond, with madrassas and mosques on the edges, and outdoor seating for restaurants surrounding the pond. This is also the neighborhood of the city’s singular still-functioning synagogue. On the other is the Ark: a historic citadel that used to be the residence of the khan of Bukhara. The 20-minute walk from one end of the strip to the other will bring you from architectural wonder to architectural wonder, ensuring that your eyes always have somewhere to be in awe of.

On our first day, Zack and I wandered around, going wherever looked interesting. It wasn’t until our second day, when we wanted to explore a little more, that we realized that our “wandering” took us exactly in the direction of this singular restored strip. Because we tried “wandering” again the second day and took, amazingly, the exact same path. Every time we tried to take a turn that we didn’t take the day before, we just took a look, said “oh, this doesn’t look interesting,” and turned around. Right back in the direction that our “wandering” yesterday took us. And that’s only possible, this little “trick” of Bukhara, because the strip isn’t a line; it’s a series of turns and a combination of streets that gives you the illusion that you’re exploring. But in reality, you’re on a set path. A satellite view can show you easily the exact path I’m talking about.

Satellite View of Bukhara

Where you see those big buildings and wide streets… that’s the strip. During the heat of the day, the strip is mostly empty. Zack and I realized that exploring in the early morning, before taking a siesta and returning at sunset is the best way to go about exploring here. But at night, the streets fill with locals and families, just like Samarkand. But here, instead of the busy area being the new parks, the busy area is the old city. The historical, reimagined part of the city is what brings its locals out at night.

We stayed off this strip, and thus, we did end up seeing this real side of the old city a little more. Here, the brick work is still old. It’s not as polished and pretty as that of the strip, but it’s real. It’s old, and it’s not aimed at tourists. You still came across smaller madrassas, smaller mosques, and a plethora of guest houses. But not many restaurants or shops. It’s mostly residential here, and surely historic, but not monumentally fascinating like the strip is. There is hardly any tilework here; everything is made of brick. There are some restoration works currently in progress, likely aiming to expand the restored area in the future, but for now, it feels largely quiet and private.

As I mentioned, our guest house was in this area of the city. The inside of it was, as far as I could gather, typically Bukharian. A large courtyard greeted you when you entered, lined with those same yellow bricks as the outside. Off to the sides were the guest rooms, each with short doors to the inside. Historically, short doors have been common in this area for many reasons. They likely originated to keep cool air in and sand out, but they also serve a ceremonial purpose for modesty—making you bow as you enter the room. The floors of the rooms were covered in silk and wool rugs with busy patterns atop a dark red background. Even the walls of the bedrooms were decorated with woven tapestries.  

Breaking outside of the old city of Bukhara is a new city, with wider streets and taller buildings. But these new buildings are still built in the style of old Bukhara, with the same color scheme as what’s inside the now non-existent walls. They pay attention to tradition, replicating it while adding the amenities expected of modern buildings.

Bukhara is what happens when history is lived in, shown in those three layers. There’s the old city, where history has been restored and turned into a center of life, especially in the evenings. It’s where the craft shops, restaurants, and nightlife is. Outside of that is the residential area: still historic, still in the old architecture. The people here live in the same homes as their ancestors going back generations. And finally, the new city asks and successfully answers the question of “what should Bukhara look like in the 21^st century?” “How can we be inspired by our past to build buildings today that are both appropriate for their setting and for modern use?”

Finally, is the ancient city of Khiva. Khiva is what happens when you fully pause history, daring to preserve what was at the expense of what is. When the whole old city still exists and is largely restored to its former glory. Inside the walls of Khiva, the area known as Ichan Kala, the city is one large museum. At its gates, you can buy an “all-access” ticket that gets you into all the madrassas and museums around the city to maximize your learning about Khivan and Khorezem history.

Your exploration of Ichan Kala starts by being in awe of the amazing architecture around you. Khiva feels so alien: an ancient city that still exists in the 21^st century. I kept on thinking about how Ann Arbor is currently being demolished to build ever more high-rises, while this place, this ancient city built of mud and straw, stands just as proudly, and just as stout, as it did 200 or even 700 years ago.

Wandering around Khiva truly is wandering. There is no path, there is no “nice area” like in Bukhara. It’s all nice. Around the edges, life dies down and is replaced with guesthouses and local houses, but the vast majority of the city is interesting.

It’s quite small, Ichan Kala. You only need a day to see it in its entirety. And by the two days we had there, I knew how to get to every corner of the city in the most efficient route. You mark your location by triangulating your distance from the nearest pieces of monumental architecture: the three minarets, the mosque, or any of the cities dozen madrassas.

The main minaret of the city, Kalta Minor, is unlike any minaret I’ve ever seen. It’s short and fat, covered entirely in tiles. It’s a turquoise magnet on the eyes. It’s not a tall tower with a pit for a muezzin to call through, but instead, it’s just a tower. It’s because the minaret is incomplete. The khan of Khiva ordered the construction of a minaret so tall that you could see Bukhara from the top—250 miles away. A year into construction, he was killed in battle. Construction on the minaret stopped, and it stands today at the same height it was then: 29 meters instead of the planned 80 or more. Now, this short and stout minaret is a symbol of Khiva: a city paused in time, refusing to evolve.

 As I mentioned earlier, a dozen madrassas dot the old city. Each of these, in a previous time, were monuments to learning. Dorms for students and masters to learn, eat, and live together. Places where minds met to further the understanding of music, art, astronomy, and to perfect the crafts of tilemaking, weaving, or calligraphy. Nowadays, each madrassa is a museum dedicated to the field it once served. One madrassa houses scientific instruments and presents information about Uzbekistan’s famous astronomers of the past. Another codifies Uzbekistan’s most famous musicians and displays their traditional folk instruments in each room. One houses beautifully calligraphed pieces of literature and law, while another illustrates in gory detail the old-fashioned punishment methods that those who broke the law faced. Inside each madrassa, you step into a world of study. You spend half an hour familiarizing yourself with the fruits of decades and decades of work, and learning about those who made it possible, before moving onto the next.

Examples of Exhibits at Various Madrassas

Each madrassa has a similar architecture. At the opening, there’s a grand arch welcoming you to the gate. Through that gate, after your ticket is checked, you enter a wide courtyard with two stories of rooms. Each room historically was the quarters of a student—the Uzbek version of a dorm. In the middle courtyard was a place for socialization and connection. A place where great minds met to push the boundaries of knowledge. In the corners were lecture halls. Nowadays, each of these student quarters is a micro-museum dedicated to a very specific topic: be it a calligraphy style, a singular biome, one instrument or singer, or one people group. Piecing these micro-museums together, you have a complete coverage of the topic of the madrassa. It’s quite clever how they’ve done it, harnessing the power of the age-old architecture to add incredible structure and form into the dispersal of knowledge. Those who once lived there would be proud to see their spaces repurposed this way.

As I said, your “all inclusive” ticket to Ichan Kala covers your entrance to all these museums. A price at the entrance of these for individual access isn’t even listed. And that’s because, in my opinion, Khiva is the museum. When you buy the ticket at the gate, you’re entering the museum. Each exhibit just has to ensure that you’ve bought your ticket at the entrance.

Walking around the old city doesn’t require a ticket, but you’re “supposed” to have one to go through the gates. In reality, they don’t check at any gate besides the main one. The streets are lined with overpriced restaurants, a plethora of souvenir shops and stalls, and personal houses and local businesses are conspicuously missing. Most Khivans live outside the walls, venturing only through the walls on special occasions to enjoy their beautiful city. Life doesn’t happen inside the walls—life is suspended there instead.   

So, these are the three cities. Three completely different cities with three completely different approaches to the preservation of history. Samarkand builds around it, modernizing and growing, remembering and preserving the best of what once was, and replacing the rest. Bukhara has as well preserved and revived its best, but without that added step of modernization. It has grown organically, naturally into itself. It’s a place where progress, technology, and development take a backseat to the admiration of history. A place where sleek and modern are bad—a place where the meaning of life is to be well-informed of, and well-connected with the past. And finally, Khiva is a place that takes living in the past to the extreme, eschewing local life entirely in favor of bringing something non-existent into the 21^st century. And you see that with the lack of “local” inside the walls of Ichan Kala. It’s an attempt at historical recreation with a tourist twist.

So what’s the best way to go about this? I mean, it really depends on your mindset. Do you see human progress as the key to the world? Do you want to see modernity, a bustling economy and buildings with electricity and water 100% of the time? Or would you rather stick to tradition, staying well-informed of your roots at the sacrifice of the comforts of a modern life? Or is the point of history only to be remembered? Have we moved on too far past history and now its only purpose is to look pretty and make money off tourists?

I’m of the mindset that of these three cities, Samarkand is the most successful. It has not erased its history. You feel it everywhere: in the street names, in the monumental architecture out of the window of your car. There’s a constant feeling that you’re somewhere important. That you are where the legends of history were made. But at the same time, to someone unaware, it feels like any city. It’s comfortable and familiar.

Khiva was my favorite to visit, but I’d never consider living there. It was so interesting, so pretty. It was exactly what I came to Uzbekistan for. But it was missing that aspect of reality. It was missing the local flare, preferring instead to cater to mass tourism. And by the way, in the middle of the summer, this tourism was nearly nonexistent.

And finally, Bukhara floats in the middle of these. It feels real. It’s got local flare, but life here is less comfortable. Our guest house lost power in the 115°F heat of the first day, leaving us to find somewhere else in the city to sit without boiling alive. Its buildings may crumble a little if you hit a wall too hard with your backpack, but at least the history books here aren’t closed. It’s still alive, still changing, and it’s real.

So, I can’t pick a “best.” These places are simply too different to compare so simply. Instead, visiting these three reflects on the ways in which humans interact with history. The ways in which we choose to preserve and move on. How we attempt to honor our past without hindering our present. This Silk Road trek has given me more than just an appreciation for the history of this region; it’s given me a new perspective on the history of the world and how we, worldwide, choose to interact with it.