It even has a programme for one million Uzbek coders that provides free online courses for anyone over The start-up zip24 was created by one of the IT park's residents. It's a logistics product that offers a complete management cloud solution for any type of e-commerce or delivery company, and it is able to trace products and payment from pickup to delivery, fully optimising timings, routes and all shipment costs. Another of the IT park's residents, the young and dynamic Akmal Paiziev, represents the country's new generation of businessmen.
He is one of the cofounders of MyTaxi , a service that helps you get a cab on short notice in seven Uzbek cities. Its maps were created by the company and they help you know the exact meeting point. Big data is used to choose routes free from traffic jams. Another product created by his company is the food delivery service Express24 — the largest on the Uzbek market.
Akmal has plans to expand this business. He says that he sees great prospects for his business both within the country and in the Central Asian region. The money he cheated out of cotton was mostly shared by his cliques. But still, there was a little bit used to improve the lives of the common people. Before Rashidov, Jizzakh was only an isolated settlement. During his time, it had become a medium-sized city. Crossing Rashidov Street, I went to a famous local samsa shop.
It suited my taste far better than Rashidov. It is not a snack but a meal. When I stepped in, I saw people sitting by the tables under grapevines eating or waiting to eat their samsa. The outer skin of the bun was roasted crispy.
Once cut open, the steamy mutton fat oozed out, and spread all over the plate. It is said the true standard of judging whether a samsa is good or not is to see how much mutton fat flows out.
I looked at the Uzbeks around me. As soon as they saw the steamy mutton fat, they all seemed to be very happy, as if that was a supreme delicacy. I had to neutralize the grease with my tomato salad. With the dizziness from the grease, I hit the road again.
Out of Jizzakh, trains and buses had to travel along the Zerafshan River. I quickly dozed off until the van suddenly stopped. Here, the incomparable Pamir plateau had gradually faded. For centuries, the Turkic and Mongolian nomads had come through, and entered the fertile Zerafshan valley.
It is said, after an all too intense battle, the color of the Zerafshan River had been red for a whole month. Nowadays, the stone arch is full of colorful graffiti.
After a sea of cotton fields and nameless towns, our van finally drove into a characterless suburb. Suddenly there were more people on the street. Cars were honking their horns.
Messy wires formed a web above head. I suddenly realized that the ancient city was sitting right inside this dim and dilapidated shell. It is like a famous jewel, which has been stared at, discussed, and desired by too many people.
Compared with people in Tashkent, people in Samarkand have harsher facial features, Persian high noses, and are less fashionable. They are Tajiks, who speak a Persian dialect. Samarkand has been a Persian city since ancient times. Outside the van window, a few bluish green domes of mosques appeared—that is Shah-i-Zinda, the most sacred necropolis in Samarkand.
Six years before, I had visited it in the same season, and also in the evening. At that time, most of the tourists were already gone. The huge Shah-i-Zinda felt like an empty opera house.
On that trip, we had stayed at a huge futuristic Soviet hotel. The lobby was really dim, with just a few brown leather sofas.
I also remembered talking with our guide, Maria, on the sofa that evening, and we talked about the future in our imagination. Later on, Maria quit her job as guide, and left for New York City. Now she works at a radio station. The hotel still stood there. In the twilight, it looked like a futuristic palace. However, I was surprised to find that it had been shut down. A rusty lock hung on the brown glass gate.
Fallen leaves gathered on the ground. Afrosiyob lies to the northeast of the new town of Samarkand, and is the birthplace of this ancient city. I walked on the broken hill, between weeds and rocks, trying to imagine the city that wowed Alexander the Great. The ancient palace is now an archaeological site. Thick walls go deep beneath the surface. It was still not difficult to make out halls, rooms, and hallways. It overlooked a tributary of the Zerafshan River, and the faraway Pamir plateau glittered in the fall sky.
The inhabitants of Afrosiyob are Sogdians, an old ethnic group that speaks an Iranian dialect. They are natural merchants good at sales. In Chinese legends, the Sogdians were said to put honey on the lips of their babies, so that they would grow up eloquent.
In the Tang Dynasty, a great number of Sogdians traveled back and forth on the Silk Road, and many even settled in China. In fact, An Lushan was a Sogdian, who later devastated the great empire of Tang. Yao Runeng in his Lushan Deeds said that An Lushan could speak nine languages, was wise, kind, and held the post of trade interpreter in the border town of Yingzhou.
An Lushan knew how to dance Sogdian Whirl, which was wildly popular in the Samarkand region. During the reign of Xuanzong, the ruler of Samarkand sent many Sogdian Whirl dance girls as gifts to Tang. These Sogdian girls wore pink brocade robes, green trousers, and red deerskin boots. They stood on a big rotating ball, and did all kinds of amazing rotations.
The Sogdians originally believed in Zoroastrianism. In the grottos in Kupa of Xinjiang, there were murals depicting worship scenes of Zoroastrianism. However, in the 8th century, the Sogdians were converted to Islamism. Arabic troops conquered here, which led believers of Zoroastrianism to leave for Bombay in India.
It is said that they are still merchants in Bombay. The Tata Group is the descendant of Zoroastrian believers. After a defeat with an Arab army, the Tang forces totally retreated from Central Asia. As time went by, the original palace had sunken to a depth equal to two stories, and was slowly forgotten by later generations. It was not until in the s that the Russian archaeologists had started to work on the ruins in Afrosiyob. Their findings are displayed in a marble archaeological museum near Afrosiyob.
I took the time to visit this museum, and deeply felt this could be the most valuable place in Samarkand. The exhibition included artifacts from each excavation, from stoneware in ancient times, to silver coins from the period of Alexander the Great, to Zoroastrian altars and clay pots that stored bones and human remains—Zoroastrianism dictated that sky burials must be performed on the dead.
Only bones picked clean by crows and chewed clean by wild beasts could be gathered. I was more interested in the traces of the Silk Road. Chinese silk and porcelain were introduced here, whereas the Sogdians had introduced the making of glass and wine to China. Precious stones, jewelries, and coins from the East and West have been collected here, as well as chess-playing figures that were carefully carved on bones. The guest who sat in the direction of where the puppet fell must belt down his drink.
I also saw that many mural paintings had been preserved. Since Islam forbade idol worship, the Arabs had scraped off the eyes of figures on the murals.
However, the brushstrokes of these paintings were still excellent, and the colors still vivid after a thousand years. It was the heyday of the Tang Dynasty and the Sogdian civilization.
I examined the murals carefully, and saw one magnificent scene of nations paying tributes. The king of Samarkand sat high on his throne, wearing a fantastic robe and exquisite decorations. Envoys from different countries offered their treasures: a Tang envoy holding silk, a Turkic of long hair, a Koryo-saram with braids, and nomadic leaders from the Pamir plateau…Samarkand seemed more prosperous then.
On another mural, I saw a princess riding on a white elephant, followed by her entourage on horseback and camelback. The theme of another mural was the court of Tang Dynasty. I was surprised to find that the main figure of the mural was the empress Wu Zetian: she was sitting leisurely on a dragon boat, and listening to lute of the western regions, while watching a cavalry hunt a cheetah.
The Xuanhe Catalogue of Paintings that Emperor Huizong of Song collected mentioned paintings from the famous Tang father and son painters Hu Gui and Hu Qian, who were known for their work on hunting scenes and foreign landscapes, as well as The Lion Tribute from Yan Liben, which depicted an envoy bowing to the emperor of Tang and paying the tribute of a lion, the king of beasts.
The American Sinologist Edward H. Schafer thinks that paintings of foreign themes in the Tang dynasty provoked a kind of condescending pride. As I looked at the Sogdian murals, I could not help feeling that pride as well. On the two ends of the Silk Road, the Chinese and the Sogdians were at the height of their civilizations.
Perhaps that kind of pride was mutual and coexisting. But I could still imagine, from the Sogdian murals, the scenes that he had painted: people of the western regions, wild beasts, and emperors. During my time in Samarkand, I had passed the Registan square quite a few times. I could still feel how my heart trembled as I had been here six years before. It was different from the magnificent narratives that I was used to. He died of typhoid fever on his expedition to China.
However, when I walked on Registan square, I would play with this idea: what if Timur did not die of an illness, what would he bring to the Ming dynasty? Of course history does not allow hypotheses.
I am also happy that Timur was not able to complete his mission. His successor Ulugh Beg gave up the expedition toward the East. Instead, he devoted his life to the study of astronomy and the urban construction of Samarkand. Today, these madrasas stand symmetrically on the square. The Ulugh Beg Madrasah is the oldest, and was completed in Babur was eventually defeated, and was forced into exile in India.
The Uzbeks became the new owners of the Registan. They had then built another two madrasas after the Ulugh Beg Madrasa.
The nouveau riche mentality of the Uzbeks was reflected in their architecture. One of the madrasas was decorated with a roaring felid. It was meant to be a lion but looked like a tiger.
It did not matter to the Uzbeks; they just wanted to show off their power, and to take the opportunity to ignore Islamic prohibition of animal paintings. The other madrasa was also luxurious, with paintings of radiating suns and flowers as well as decorations of golden leaves on the dome. The Registan was once the center of Central Asia.
But as soon as I walked through high archways into the courtyards of the madrasas, the illusions pressed upon me by the Registan evaporated in a second. I felt I had drawn the curtain, and now saw the backstage. Everything here was fairly simple: not too much decoration, no showing off, weeds growing in the cracks of walls, dust gathered on the beams…I realized that the mission here had already been fulfilled: they were once the student dormitories, but now they had become souvenir shops.
The Tajik vendors yelled in various languages, but they did not seem as persuasive as their Sogdian ancestors.
Very few tourists were interested in the same scarfs, plates, and fridge magnets. I walked into a few ships, just because the vendors were so friendly, and their soliciting voices seemed almost tragic. A middle-aged female shop owner told me that she had been running this business here for more than 10 years. She tried to sell me everything, from expensive jewelry to cheap plates, but nothing appealed to me. In the end, frustrated, I pulled out from a corner a picture album of the Soviet era.
The print quality was poor, which made the old photos of the 19th century seem ancient. I discovered that a hundred years before, the Registan had almost been a site of ruins. Wars and earthquakes had turned 18th century Samarkand into an empty city. In the face of time, even the greatest martial art becomes vulnerable. They had done a great job, except that they had added a blue dome to one of the madrasas. However, the Uzbeks contributed most to the restoration for how the Registan is today.
After its independence, Uzbekistan has abandoned Lenin and chosen Timur as their national hero. One evening, as I walked past the Registan again, there was a big light show. The walls of the madrasas became huge canvases. In the accompaniment of light and sound, Timur seemed to be riding on horseback toward the elderly foreign audience who had paid 15 US dollars…. The Registan is so large that very few can circle to its back.
As I accidentally walked there, I saw a marble platform with a few gravestones from the Shaybani era. However, his mausoleum was dilapidated, and no one came for a visit.
The reason was simple and sad: were the ancestry of Shaybani confirmed, the glory of the Timurid dynasty would no longer belong to Uzbekistan. The Uzbeks would have to face this reality: it was not until the 16th century that the Uzbek tribes had arrived here, and during the past hundred years after, this whole region had been a black hole. In the northeast corner of the Registan stands Bibi-Khanym Mosque—the only surviving architecture built by Timur. In October , the Spanish envoy Clavijo came here, and marveled at its magnificence.
However, Timur thought the arch was too low and did not match his achievements. So he ordered to abolish the mosque, and started to rebuild it. He stayed on site most of the day, like a foreman, and supervised the construction. Clavijo wrote in his memoir that Timur ordered the cooks to boil meat chunks, and then threw them to the artisans below, as if he was feeding dogs.
These artisans came from Persia, Iraq, and Azerbaijan. In order to build the Bibi-Khanym Mosque, Timur used all the resources of his country. Calvijo said, when Timur was satisfied with the work, he threw gold coins directly at the masons. It turned out that the Bibi-Khanym Mosque was not as strong as it seemed—like the Timurid dynasty.
Shortly after its completion, rocks fell from the dome. People argued about the reasons, and their conclusions were: the schedule was too tight. Earthquakes accelerated the destruction of the mosque. In , before its complete collapse, it was used as a stable for the Tsarist cavalry.
In the courtyard, I saw a gray marble podium, which used to display the Uthman Quran. There was also a tourist group from China. A Chinese girl wearing a purple windbreaker was taking a photo with the dilapidated dome as the background. She spread out her arms, crossed her legs, and made a flying pose. Tumir discovered this affair, and executed the architect. From then on, he ordered women to wear a turban, so that they could no longer seduce men.
In the winter of , he led an army of thousand soldiers on an expedition to China. It was unusually cold that winter. As they crossed the Kazakh Steppe, many soldiers and warhorses were frozen to death. Timur also came down with a cold. He was buried in Samarkand. Compared with my impressions from six years before, it felt more spacious and somber. Sunlight shone through the lattice windows. Golden leaves were decorated from the dome to the walls. People were pouring into the mausoleum.
The Uzbeks had awe on their faces, and made praying gestures from time to time. I sat on a bench by the wall, and tried to sink into a historical mood. A few platitudes crossed my mind, i. But I knew that these thoughts were simply useless.
What I admired more was the archaeological spirit of the Soviet scientist Gerasimov. In a black-and-white photo of that time, I saw Gerasimov in a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, which revealed his strong forearms.
By his side were his six smiling assistants. Lamps shed bright light on their faces, as if they were admiring a newly excavated treasure together.
But the archaeological excavation continued. There was still red hair on his skull. He was about 1. Timur had upright eyebrows with prominent cheekbones.
There were also two deep nasolabial folds by the sides of his nose. He looked a bit like a peasant leader in a Chinese history book. Perhaps, the images in Chinese history books were more or less influenced by Soviet aesthetics. Out of the Guri Amir, the chaotic streets engulfed me immediately. I was wondering why I had come here six years before. I had had an impression of its bleakness.
I remembered that the streets were empty, and tree shadows flickered under the lamps. Maria was standing in front, wearing a colorful Uzbek hat. I was walking at the back, trying to catch up with her. We had just left Shah-i-Zinda, and the necropolis in the twilight had left us feeling sorrowful. To some extent, that had been the origin of my bleak impression of Samarkand: it was a graveyard of an ancient civilization, a piece of beautiful necropolis.
The traces of history had nothing more to do with present-day Samarkand. As a tourist, I was mechanically going from one ruin to another, trying to glean a faraway light from each of them. She was tired of talking about the fading Samarkand and the past that have been cut off from the present. With nostalgia, I crossed the Registan toward Shah-i-Zinda. Slowly, I found myself blend into a small stream of people going to Shah-i-Zinda.
Most of them were Tajiks and Uzbeks. The women were wearing traditional clothing, and the men were wearing hats. A few tourists like myself were accompanied by English- or French-speaking tour guides. Shah-i-Zinda is a necropolis of consorts and nobles from the Ulugh Beg era.
The design of every mausoleum was elegant, with smooth mosaics and bluish green domes. One octagonal mausoleum was entirely Azerbaijani, which showed how vast the Timurid Empire was. In , the government renovated the Shah-i-Zinda. Many felt that its beauty was clipped. Each mausoleum is at the same time a mosque, thus Shah-i-Zinda is a sacred place. I saw a group of Tajiks sitting on the benches by a mausoleum, and reciting Arabic scriptures with an amateur imam.
The imam was a middle-aged man with well-defined facial features, and he wore a leather jacket. After the prayer, we struck a conversation. He told me that he was just an average Muslim. He had taught himself Arabic, and how to say these payer scriptures in a measured tone. He led the prayer here, and everybody would give him some changes. They came here to visit the mausoleum of Kusam Ibn Abbas. It was at the end of the stairs. He annoyed the Sogdians, who believed in Zoroastrianism. As Kusam Ihn Abbas was praying, the Sogdians chopped off his head.
A sentence from the Quran was engraved on his coffin: those who died because of faith in Allah did not die, they are still living. The Soviet era was an exception in the history of the Shah-i-Zinda. This sacred religious site was turned into an anti-religion museum.
Like the others, I looked at his casket behind wooden fences. Behind me, a row of female pilgrims was sitting on a bench by the wall. They all wore a turban, which could not hide their fatigue from a long journey. They were praying quietly, occasionally raising their coarse hands into the sky. Among them, there was a young girl, who did not wear a turban. She was wearing a red skirt and a cloak-like jacket. She wore fine makeup and earrings.
She looked like she was in her 20s. Later, she told me that she came from Tashkent, and was studying religion and philosophy in college.
She had many Pakistan and Indonesian teachers, who wore turbans. After leaving the Kusam Ibn Abbas Mausoleum, we parted ways. I watched her slowly walk downstairs, and that wisp of red finally blended into the surrounding twilight. It was my last night in Samarkand. I decided to go to a disco. In my opinion, be it a city or a country, they all have two faces—which are different during the day and the night. Even a place of decorum will take off its mask at night, and become relaxed or even wild.
The nightlife in Samarkand begins in the restaurant. After dinner, the restaurant turns into a disco. Traditional Uzbek or Tajik music will be played, and people who have just had a full meal push the tables aside, and start to dance. Most people who go to a restaurant are families. Thus not only young people but also older uncles and aunts dance as well.
The scene can be amazing, a local specialty. But the prerequisite is that you have to dine in that restaurant until very late. At the bar there were a couple people. There were also two pairs of whispering lovers in the booths. The waitress had a punk hairdo, and wore a black T-shirt, which revealed the tattoos on her forearm. I ordered a beer, and asked her whether there was a place to dance. She thought about it for while, grabbed a pen and a piece of paper, and drew me a simple map.
There was a Brit sitting next to me. He had already been in Uzbekistan for over a week. Just like me, his next station was Bukhara. He wanted to see the famous oasis town. In , two British officers were brutally murdered the process of torture and murder was unimaginable , which became a footnote to The Great Game.
I hailed an illegal cab, and went to the disco recommended by the waitress. Compared with those in Tashkent, the discos in Samarkand were more conservative. There ware no dance girls here, only young men, who kept drinking one shot of vodka after another. The men and women on the dance floor were also normally dressed. However, once foreigners appeared, the locals would come up, and gather around them. Soon I was invited for a shot of vodka. As I belted it down, I was given more and then more.
Soon I found myself in the middle of the dance floor. A daring girl came up to me, and shook her bottom. A round of exciting whistles could be heard. I was again pulled back to the bar to keep drinking vodka. Now I was drinking this thing like water. We drank one shot of vodka after another, until I was about to leave.
An Uzbek in a while shirt wanted to drive me home. Before that, we had toasted together a few times. I thought it better not to take on his offer. But he looked quite sober, and insisted. As we walked out of the disco, the night of Samarkand was cool like water. I was in his broken Lada, and we were driving fast on the empty streets.
What I last remembered was that we shook hands in front of the hotel, called each other brother, and felt that the friendship between China and Uzbekistan had reached another level.
On the following day on my way to Bukhara via Shahrisabz, I was thinking of the scenes the night before. Alcohol was like a mouse that has chewed my memory blurry. The only thing remained was the broken arch of his summer palace. Earlier, one could walk up the stairs to the arch, but too many young people had chosen here to commit suicide, thus the stairs had been closed off.
I had lunch at a restaurant named Shanghai, and ordered a Shanghai pork stir-fry. The stir-fry was not very Shanghai. I thought perhaps the boss came from Jalal-Abad in Kyrgyzstan. The city was close to Uzbekistan, and had a district called Shanghai. The boss walked out of the kitchen smilingly. He was a big guy with a moustache. After we struck a conversation, he told me that he called the restaurant Shanghai, because he had been there once, and found it beautiful there.
Upon return, he opened this restaurant. Besides regular Uzbek food, he also offered stir-fry with Shanghai flavors. I looked around, and saw that this restaurant had a lot of business. Many customers were young people. Out of Shahrisabz, the van was driving in the almost white desert. Occasionally I saw trucks with cotton or big rocks limping on the desolate highway. I closed my eyes, listening to the engine. When I opened my eyes, the bleakness remained around me.
Except for a highway, there was no landmark in sight. Roman historians had marveled at the talent of the locals: they relied on stars in the dessert sky for directions, like sailors on the sea.
It was this endless desert that had cut off Bukhara, and became its largest obstacle. In , the Mongolian nobles, who had fled from Astrakhan, ruled here. At that time, the Silk Road did not exist anymore. The Sunni-controlled Bukhara and the Shia-controlled Persia were in conflict with each other. In that long period, there had been temporary prosperity and change of political power, but seen in the long river of time, these were negligible waves.
More often, Bukhara was synonymous with cruelty, decline, and slave market. However, no single force could easily occupy here. Even Russia could only turn Bukhara into one of its protectorate, until the arrival of the hot-tempered Bolsheviks. In the direction of the setting sun, we entered the new town of Bukhara. I saw the hotel built by the last Bukhara emir for the Tsar at the time the railway had just been connected. This was a well-preserved Western-style architecture, very much like something that the Four Seasons Hotels Limited would use as a luxury hotel.
However, the Tsar had never been here, nor had Western capital. In the Soviet era, this place was used as library, school, kindergarten, but now it was deadly quiet here. I saw swaying branches of a tall eucalyptus tree and groups of crows flying through them, making strange sounds, and ready to call it a night.
I asked the driver about a few places that I had been on my last trip. Without an exception, they all had been closed down.
The desert climate was also unusually strange. Yesterday it was still 25 degrees, and today it dropped to 5 degrees. One fellow traveler had obviously had enough of this, and decided to end the trip right away. But all the planet tickets and train tickets had been sold out. This medieval old town, like a living fossil, was still inhabited. Some of these stone gray houses had been renovated, and some others were already dilapidated.
Like silent mouths, these carved wooden doors were tightly closed. From the cracks, sounds of plates and whispers could be heard. Occasionally I saw women wearing colorful robes and turbans or men wearing sheepskin hats. Their facial features could not hide their Iranian provenance, which reminded me that the Tajiks were the majority in Bukhara.
They speak Tajik, but have nothing to do with Tajikistan. For a long time, the identities of the people in Bukhara were entirely based on this city-state. I accidently walked into a madrasa, which turned out to be a souvenir shop. A beautiful, tall Tajik female shopkeeper showed me her scarves. She looked like an actress in Iranian films. Obviously, she was quite confident about her appearance. She took down one scarf after another, and tried it on for me.
She looked straight in my eyes the whole time, and was not at all shy or contrived. I stood there, and found myself admiring the model instead of the scarves. Therefore, I used the common international language—US dollars, bought a scarf, and left the madrasa.
Near a pond, I sat down on a bench. In the center, there was a water storage pond. In the black and white photos of this place in the early 20th century, it was full of secular life here. Mulberry trees were planted around the pond.
There was a bustling outdoor teahouse. People were sitting on wooden sofas, chatting, playing chess or daydreaming. The above picture is of a tribal woman forcibly displaced from her home and land by District Forest Officers in the district of Ganjam, Odisha. Her cashew plantation burned in the name of protection of forests. Please note that the picture is to illustrate the story and is not from Baphlimali. Esther is a member of the indigenous Ogiek community living in the Mau Forest in Kenya.
Her family lives in one of the most isolated and inaccessible parts of the forest, with no roads, no health facilities and no government social infrastructure. The Ogiek were evicted from some forest areas, which have since been logged. The Ogiek consider it essential to preserve their forest home; others are content to use it to make money in the short term.
Esther has a year-old daughter living with a physical disability who has never attended basic school, as it is over 12 kilometres away. Young children living in these areas face challenges such as long distances to school, fears of assault by wild animals and dangers from people they may encounter on the journey.
Because the Ogiek have no legally recognised land rights, despite hundreds of years of residence in this forest, the government is refusing to provide social services or public facilities in the area. Ensuring that the Ogiek can access health services and education is essential and will mean that they can continue living on their land, protecting and conserving the environment there. We are also advocating for equity in access to education and health by supporting OPDP to ensure that budgets for services are allocated fairly and are used well.
The consequence of this wealth is that successive governments — colonial and post-colonial — have seen greater value in the land than the people. This has led to extensive open cast mining which is doubly damaging to the climate, despite the opposition of the Khadia tribe. Archana is a rare example of an indigenous activist who is involved in UN debates; we need to support many more indigenous peoples and acknowledge their expertise.
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