Tuesday, 29 September 2026

 

Start: Bukhara Hotel (UZ) 15:00

Arrival: Bukhara Hotel (UZ) 20:00

 

Total: about 4 km on foot

 

 

The old centre of Bukhara, the legendary hub on the Silk Road - we've seen it! The day started out rather sweaty. The AC in our room didn't work properly and our windows faced southeast. By noon, we felt like in a sauna. "We can't go outside, it's 30 degrees out there", I whined. So the lobby. The hotel sported a huge glass dome in the middle of the foyer. A beautiful stylish hothouse. Maybe not the smartest architectural design in a desert town. Sonia ventured out of the hotel. "It's actually great outside", she announced when she came back, "much better than in here." Yay, terrace café here we come! We ambled toward our hotel's roadside bar and sat down at a table. Seconds later, a waiter appeared. Wow, much faster than yesterday evening. "Closed today", he announced. We looked around us, non-plussed. The tables and chairs were all set. "We just want to sit here," I explained, "we don't need drinks." No can do, we had to get up and leave, now. "Tomorrow is open", he assured us and returned to his counter to chat with the other waiter. Well, we won't be here tomorrow, nor any other day in this life.

 

We re-organized some stuff in our car, ran back to the hotel room to get dressed and at half past two, were ready for Bukhara.

 

 

 

 

A cab brought us to the Ark, the town's ancient fortress. The driver was happy to chat in English. He had worked in Malta for a while and asked our opinion on opening an Uzbek restaurant in Germany. His children were learning German and he was full of praise about the free language courses sponsored by the Uzbek government. We are all for free and enthusiastic language learning too, so the five-minute ride to the Ark flew by in no time.

 

 

The old fortress has an undeniable wow factor. If dropped in front of it, I would have thought Mali or Mauretania, before I would ever have guessed Uzbekistan. The round mud work with those stubs sticking out? Definitely gives off a North African vibe. Maybe the architect was from over there. The Vauban of Timbuktu.

 

 

We climbed up to the entrance gate. Befitting the Antediluvian name, there was not a stairway, but rather a gangway-like incline leading up into the Ark. At the ticket counter, a detailed list greeted us: more than a dozen museums, all with an individual price tag. What to choose? Before I could stop her, Sonia had asked the woman behind the counter: "Do you speak English?" She nodded and muttered: "Sixty". Undeterred, my sister launched her second question: "How much is it to just walk around the inside of the fortress?" The woman's knowledge of English was, quite obviously, limited to "sixty". She called for help. A guard came to the rescue and explained that the fortress and the museums inside it were all included in the sole entrance ticket that could and must be purchased. For sixty thousand som per person. Then why put up the confusing price list? Not trying to understand, we each paid our obolus and were allowed in.

 

 

Clothes racks and souvenir stands greeted us. A market again! But beyond the stalls, a small mosque invited you in. Beautiful blue and golden colours, a lofty high ceiling and, as a bonus, free explanations from the French tour guide talking to his group.

 

 

The fortress has innumerable nooks and crannies filled with exhibitions on the nature, history and culture of Bukhara. These were probably the museums priced individually on the list in the entrance hall. Good thing they did not make you pay for each one. I don't think many people would have gone in. As it were, most tourists hogged the benches in the narrow white-washed alleyways or on the sun-drenched plateau outside.

 

 

Wishing we'd brought our umbrellas, we hastened through archaeological remains towards the viewpoint over Bukhara. Yes, impressive, especially the radiance was highly impressive on my white skin. "Picture, and back", I groaned. Click. Retreat. But wait - maybe we could make a little detour, have a look at that reconstructed pottery kiln over there. It was further than I'd thought, and the sun burned down without pity. I rushed past the kiln. Old building for burning pottery, nice, but where's the path back into the shade? This pottering old lady does NOT want to be burnt to a crisp.

 

 

"It's actually very scenic", Sonia mused. "We should take a pic." That would mean ten more seconds of roasting! I gave in, then ran towards the welcoming walls. What use is an Ark without the promised downpour?

 

 

For all my theatrics, I actually quite liked the citadel. On the way back out, we even found a prison cell, complete with two unfortunate inmates!

 

 

 

 

Now for the old alleyways that Bukhara is so famous for. We strolled through a small park and soon found ourselves in a setting that seemed more theme park than anything else. Beautifully restored pedestrian streets with cafés, restaurants, arts and crafts shops, carpet stores, a covered bazar and many picturesque hotels.

 

 

These guesthouses had a lot more charm and individuality than our run-of-the-mill tourist hill. They certainly looked exclusive. But everything classy had been booked out when we had tried to secure a room. And it would have been a headache to stow away the car near the old town. But we got to experience the atmosphere now, so all was well.

 

 

We sat down on the terrace of a café, I ordered a pomegranate juice and we people-watched. A wonderful half an hour, and the fresh red juice was so refreshing and astringent. At last. We had crossed almost the entire length of Uzbekistan before I had found a glass of the fruit that led to humanity's downfall - or the beginning of humanity, as Sonia said. And it was delicious!

 

"In retrospect, I would rather have spent more time here than up in the Ark", Sonia mused. The old town was really wonderful for a stroll. Everything a tourist could desire, food, drink, souvenirs and old buildings to gaze at. Nevertheless, I feel that this is not the true Uzbekistan. It's a bit like Magic City in Tashkent. A great place to spend the day, but as much modern-day Uzbekistan as Neuschwanstein is 21th-century Bavaria. But then, even driving through the country for a week now, I do not claim to know much about the everyday reality of its people. We are all, in the end, just travellers on our own way.

 

 

We'd had an ice cream, but nothing else since breakfast, and it was slowly getting dark. The restaurants in the old town were mostly crowded and loud. I had found a highly-rated place slightly on the outskirts, but was it worth walking one more kilometre, when every second building here was a restaurant? In the end, we did walk all the way to the Afsona, chiefly because we couldn't make up our mind about anything else. It was the best choice ever!

 

 

Downstairs was a cute French pâtisserie that made us sorry that we didn't stay one more day. Upstairs, a comfy terrace restaurant that offered local cuisine. The waiter was friendly and fast, the food hot and delicious. I ate my second plov, which was just as yummy as the first, and Sonia had an equally excellent Indian-inspired dish.

 

This day had been a total success. Nice cabbie, interesting sightseeing and good food. All boxes checked. Thoroughly happy with our visit of Bukhara, we stepped out of the restaurant and decided not to walk the 1500 m to our hotel. Taxis were so cheap here, and the direct way home was unlit, uneven and without real sidewalk. Better play it safe.

 

I called a YandexGo and two minutes later, our ride stopped in front of the restaurant. I hopped in. "Hello." Sonia got in on the other side and closed the door. Out of nowhere, the driver started screaming in Russian. Like really loud. Something about closing the door more gently. We were flabbergasted. Sonia softly said: "Sorry, what?" He turned around, eyes bulging, screaming on top of his lungs. What the hell was wrong with that guy? "We're getting out", I said and opened the door wide before he might get it into his head to drive off. But he seemed happy to be rid of us, shouting god-knows-what at our departing backs. Safely back on the sidewalk, I took a deep breath: "What the hell was that?" Sonia was furious. "I didn't slam his stupid door. I had barely gotten in when he started shouting. Maybe his girlfriend just left him, but that's no way to treat paying customers." Speaking of. I looked at the Yandex app. The ride was marked as "completed". What! I started typing. Rating: worst. File complaint. Want my money back. The ride only cost 0.7 euro, total exploitation, I know, but I wanted to make a point. Who knew what he might do the next time a customer didn't treat his precious car with kid gloves.

 

I called another YandexGo. This one was a normal taxi driver, taciturn but efficient. No road rage, no sudden tantrum. In less than five minutes, we were at our hotel. Yay, it had been a great day! Tourist traps do have their upsides. Not least in the form of yummy pomegranade juice.