Monday, 28 September 2026

 

Start: Samarkand (UZ) 9:30

Arrival: Bukhara (UZ) 16:00

 

Total: 277 km

 

 

The tiniest mandarin ever! At breakfast this morning, they had the usual sliced bananas, oranges, apples and watermelons, and then they had, tadaa, a plate full of these buggers.

 

 

"Are they sour?" Sonia asked sceptically. "Not really." I relished a tiny toe. "They taste like Christmas." My sister dared take a bite, and then we each had one more mandarin. :)

 

We made an early start. The roads yesterday had been quite bad, the traffic pretty heavy and the constant stop-and-go in the villages more than annoying. If we wanted to visit the summer palace in Bukhara today, better not tarry. 250 km stretched themselves like chewing gum in this country.

 

 

The road between Uzbekistan's two main tourist highlights is even in worse condition than the highway segment between their capital and Samarkand. One would not think it possible. More than once, we drove straight through construction sites. I can rationalize that: at least a road is being built. Progress in action. But even the stretches that looked relatively new were full of waves, uneven patches, dangerous tarmac crests to the sides. The older stretches were much worse. Cracks mutated into holes, waves had transformed into what I call camel backs. A large crest running along the middle of the road. "Don't drive in the ruts", Sonia warned, and indeed: our car did not have enough clearance. Twice the underside of the car scratched along the middle hump. "Drive with at least one tyre on one of the humps!", Sonia urged me. Easier said than done, I'm not a funambulist. And it's not like these humps were in a straight line. I changed into the passing lane. Here the road was marginally better, cracks, holes, side crests, but at least no hump.

 

 

Unfortunately, every two minutes or so, an Uzbek rowdy tried to push me off to the right, tailgating, blinking, honking. I'm driving at the speed limit and the car in front of me is not going any faster, so fuck off. I learned to ignore them. Feel free to pass me from the other side, mate.

 

Somewhere between Samarkand and Bukhara, we passed the 10,000-km mark and the odometer switched back to 0. Wow, we've come a long way. Sonia immortalized that memorable moment in a pic, while I tried to drive as wobble-free as possible, always in the left lane, of course.

 

Unfortunately, the passing lane also served as the U-turn lane. Thus every few kilometers, a car came to a full stop at an opening in the road, and you were either stuck behind it, or swiftly changed into the camelback lane, where trucks thundered by at 100 km/h. The numerous people crossing the highway on foot made for additional fun braking. Where did they come from? Where were they going? A mystery. Some women were in high heels and long, brocaded robes. Right in the middle of nowhere!

 

 

 

 

We drove the entire stretch to Bukhara without a stop. There are no quiet restplaces that are not taken over by vendors, and I did not feel like parking on the gravel sideroad in the heat, with traffic rumbling by.

 

We found the car park for the Summer Palace without a glitch. It was wonderful to get out of the stuffy car. Despite the heat, the wind provided instant relief and there was ample shade under the trees. Unfortunately, the best spots were taken by souvenir stalls. Yep, Bukhara was a tourist town. The first dyed-in-the-wool tourist town on this trip.

 

 

We paid about five euros each and entered the courtyard. Clothes racks, paintings, knick knacks everywhere. "We paid to enter a souvenir market", Sonia commented, resigned. I dared not look at anything for fear of attracting the eager eye of a seller. Luckily, there were French, Russian and Chinese tour groups present, so they had to divide their attention among many people.

 

Meanwhile, Sonia had found the entrance to the palace proper. The last emir of Bukhara had built this place for his beloved wife Sitora. Sitora is the Persian word for Moon, and the emir called the palace "Sitorai Mokhi-Khosa", "The moon is like the stars", as a hommage to his wife. Sweet.

 

 

The interior of the palace was painted in bright colours, mixing a myriad of styles and ornaments. It had a certain South Asian feel for me. Maybe steppe designs mingled with Persian and Russian elements? I prefer a more sober line, choose one or two ideas and stick with them. But I was not the one who had to like it. As long as Sitora had been happy with it.

 

The main building housed an exhibition of 19th-century vases and sculptures. Interesting, though I must admit that I liked the Palace in Kokand better.

 

 

I tried to focus on just one small part. See the beauty in the detail. Still too varied for my taste, but the excerpt has a certain appeal to it. Lastly, a picture in a mirror. Kinda artistic, I think.

 

Back in the courtyard, I enjoyed the pleasant breeze. I could sit here forever, just watching the leaves swaying gently in the wind. Nearby, a Chinese group gathered around their guide. "Can you understand something?" Sonia asked. I shook my head. "I don't even recognize it as Chinese." I fear I've forgotten most of my Chinese during this trip. My "do at least ten minutes of Chinese a day" resolution was never put into practice. I even lost my Duolingo streak when I was sick. Ah well, one cannot do everything. Let's postpone it to the long winter nights. They'll be here faster than expected.

 

 

When the Chinese group entered the second building, we followed them, eager to catch snippets of their conversation. "She pointed to the shoes in the display case and said something. What is "shoe" in Chinese?", Sonia wanted to know. "Xie", I answered. Sonia nodded. "Almost what she said. So there. You still have it in you." Unconvinced, I turned my attention to the clothes on display. This second building, the former guesthouse, housed an exhibition on Uzbek clothes. Some of them looked a bit hot and stiff, but I could see myself in one of these abayas. Flowy, airy, bright. Nice. "You can buy them outside", Sonia reminded me helpfully. But I'm just not a buyer. I take ages to decide on one item and I hate it when vendors try to be 'helpful'.

 

 

Guest-house: check. The harem part of the palace was closed due to renovations, but the pool was accessible. Well, its surroundings, that is. Again, stalls and vendors hawking their wares. A metal craftsman, explaing how to etch a picture into a plate. He hit the plate twice, then tried to get a French tourist to buy one. She moved on, and he moved on to his cellphone. "I bet they're all made in China", Sonia said. There's a bet I won't take.

 

Suddenly, a commotion on the lawn. A family of peacocks, out for an afternoon stroll. The male's plumage was dazzlingly bright. The colours somehow fit into the decor of the Summer Palace. Neat.

 

 

We ambled back to the entrance. Another peacock. This time, Sonia got a good shot of him. To the side, ignored by everyone who stared at the peacock, sat a little kitten. The peacock suddenly snapped at her and she ran off into the bushes. Right to where I was sitting on a bench. She looked at me with unfathomable eyes. Maybe my look back was just as enigmatic to her.

 

Enough seen for one day. When we'd arrived, there had been a single stall selling freshly-squeezed pomegranade juice outside the palace gate. Now it was closed. Pity, it was the first fresh-juice stall we had seen in this country. Should have seized the occasion right away.

 

 

We drove on to our hotel. The main road along the tourist part of Bukhara was actually well paved. There were large buildings that actually seemed to be in use. The last 500 kilometres from Tashkent, we had seen building after building on the outskirts of towns, brand new, flashy, with huge bright banners announcing "Dental office", "Green energy", "Hotel Restaurant 5 stars", "International Trade" and whatnot. Each time we had looked closer, the building had been empty, unfinished, essential parts missing, heaps of cement inside, abandonment, neglect. The same picture as on Lake Issyk Kul. A boom in the making? There had been a flashy but closed shopping mall in the centre of Kokand that we had looked up on Google Maps. The reviews were from 2024: "Almost finished. This will be great." Why not finish it first, then put up the banners for the opening?

 

 

We had dinner at the hotel restaurant. "I'm turning into a nagging, it's-better-at-home tourist", I said sadly to my sister, after we had waited for almost an hour for our first drink. We were the only guests in the restaurant and the waiters were nowhere to be found. The food had been too salty, but edible. At least it had been warm. But they had not even brought us a glass of water, let alone our orange juice. Sonia got up. "I'm asking reception. I need something to drink, this is ludicrous. Who serves food, then leaves and forgets about the drinks? We reminded him when he brought the food. That was half an hour ago." She stormed off in the direction of the entrance hall. Two minutes later, a woman appeared, all cheerio. "Hello, welcome! The juice." She put two glasses of warm juice on the table. I stared at her. She looked towards the door: "She is coming." Indeed, there was my sister, back with a manager. An argument ensued. The woman pointed at the glasses. Sonia explained: "They called the kitchen." Well, that woman had been real quick then. We drank the hot juice and paid. One more Central Asian restaurant we would never again be seen in.