Escape to The Maldives

The vacation was supposed to be mountains, rivers, and hikes. In the Bovec Mountains we would hermit ourselves and ignoring reality by taking forest baths and labyrinth walks. But, Europe was closed. So we pivoted, opting for an island trip with stringent covid precautions and easy flight connections that avoided Europe altogether: Republic of Maldives. There would be no jet lag and only one connecting flight through Dubai to get to Male. A seaplane would get us to our final destination, Amilla Fushi, one of 150+ resorts that have been established in the 1,190 island archipelago. 

In choosing which resort, it helped to prioritize our wants and desires. We focused on two things: immediate reef access for snorkeling, and the opportunity to swim with reef mantas, possibly whale sharks. Our villa was reef side, which meant we could step out onto a private deck where we could see the sunrise and sunset, climb down a set of stairs into the water and go snorkel. I loved this best because I loathe sand. Even while living in Brazil and in Namibia, I never did find peace with it and they are possibly two of the sandiest places on earth, beyond my own swimsuit. 

My dislike for ocean water is a close second, but thanks to Mark (and the Wirecutter), we got proper snorkel gear that allowed us to swim without fear of equipment failure and choking on all those salty fish tears. Great gear meant my confidence would grow during our stay, culminating with an ultimate nighttime snorkel trip where we saw all the things that go bump (and bite) in the night. 

We started at 7pm. After swallowing a little bile and a whole lot of fear, we jumped into pitch black water, pointed our flashlights down toward the seafloor, and took off.  We watched translucent squids devour small fish, nursing sharks taking their warmup swim, fluorescent colored morays doing some fish-watching, and millions of bioluminescent plankton throwing the tiniest, most spectacular, neon rave. Of particular nighttime interest, we swam past tons of needlefish. They have a silvery sheen and are easy to identify by their needle shaped noses and creepy, googly, deadeyes. In the daytime, they jump out the water like a synchronized swim team and are generally harmless. However at nighttime, we were warned not to shine the flashlights above us, lest we spook the needlefish and get bitten, or worse, stabbed by their snouts.

Daytime snorkeling was a fine affair too, where we saw all the pretty things typical of a tropical reef. It was on an "ocean discovery" excursion where we spotted two huge reef mantas swimming in deeper water. It all happened by chance because the boat had stopped when Deets spotted a pod of spinner dolphins, but a nearby roaring speed boat ruined the moment. Pausing to decide our next plans, we saw a huge, drapey shadow near the surface of the water. Reef manta! We jumped in, snorkeling for our lives to catch up to the gorgeous beast. Spotting a second one, we trailed them for a good 15 minutes as they cruised around the navy water, snacking on plankton. Speaking of plankton, these microscopic drifters are essential to life on Earth by maintaining the health and balance of the ocean and land -  scientists think they are responsible for at least half the photosynthesis on this planet. Also, plankton rash is hella itchy. 

To celebrate Deets' 11th birthday, Deets, Mark, and Grandpa Schlink went scuba diving, and now my son has yet another hobby to blow all his money on. He came back from his lessons wearing the biggest grin I have ever seen.  

Shore wise, we all had personalized, ill-fitting cruiser bikes that we loved and rode all over the island in between snorkel hopping the various reefs. Margo learned to juggle, play with fire, and perform silk rope acrobatics. Deets found a prized stick which became his favorite tool to play with in the enormous swimming pool. Mark and I drank gin slushies and ate ice cream cones every day. The kids learned to make sushi and loved eating it too. Most meals were unforgettable, though if we ever go back, we will avoid family style meals. I can't handle the guilt of not eating all the things on a set menu. 

It wasn't all fun and sun fuzzies. We went standup paddle boarding, but realized very quickly what a terrible idea it was. Turns out, waves, strong currents, and SUPs make for clown show debacles. We went heels up, cartoon style over and over attempting to stand before we resorted to sitting. Deets almost got cast out to sea. Sharing a board, Margo and I struggled to get back to shore, opting to carry/drag the unwieldy board back to safety instead of paddling. Only Mark made it back via original route and after that, he was an emotionally and physically exhausted papa bear. 

Margo and I took a class on coconut painting which resulted in her ditching me to play foosball, while I got criticized by the teacher for not following his frustrating instructions. Margo got a manicure with her grandmother which lasted so long that she picked off the polish while the manicurist did the other hand. I tried Tai Chi and the instructor was disconcertingly aggressive and nearly tore my rotator cuff. I guess I never realized it was a contact sport? I also came home to Uzbekistan with sea lice, fever blisters, patchy sunburns, a bit of cellulitis, and scarecrow hair - whereas everyone else's skin cleared up. There always has to be one person that the ocean hates.

Regardless, the Maldives trip was very much a relaxing, fun, enjoyable success. So much so, that we are planning another snorkeling, sand filled adventure for our next trip out of Uzbekistan. 

the way to breakfast (12 sec.)

pre-game snorkel before snorkel

the boy

silks practice

Margo's fire coach

credit: Mark

  credit: Mark

credit: Mark

credit: Mark

credit: Mark

 credit: Mark

credit: Mark

credit: Mark

credit: Mark

credit: Mark

credit: Mark

credit: Mark

black tipped reef shark. credit: Mark

Bukhara: a very nice place

After spending some time in Bukhara and wandering through its impressive collection of madrasas, mosques, and mausoleums, I understand the paramountcy of religious excursions. Through the history and detail of great beings who lived, and through the tiles and towers designed to inspire devotion, the feeling of being surrounded by a greater goodness is abundant in Bukhara. 

Many times, we watched dozens of men of all ages, answer calls to prayer with beads in hand and shoes lined up along the carpet edges. Elders sat in chairs while others remained on their knees. They prayed among ancient, yet gloriously tiled buildings, among foreign and local tourists, kids flying kites or driving Power Wheels, and among jovial vendors. It was special and important, but also seemingly no big deal. 

Everyone we met in Bukhara was friendly and eager to chat, though there was one waitstaff who had an uncanny resemblance in both looks and mannerisms to Orin from Parks and Rec. He was morose and stared a lot, offering few words other than "no." Overall, Bukhara's friendliness was the biggest thing we noticed. Grannies handed out candies to the kids when they left a neighborhood wedding celebration. Kids begged to have their pictures taken while practicing their English or Russian. Bathroom attendants made sure there was plenty of toilet paper on hand.  Advice on things to see and do was plenty, so every day in Bukhara felt like a very good one.

Based on our experience, a stay at Komil Boutique Bed & Breakfast is our own piece of advice. Stop by the Studio of Applied Arts on Arabon St. (not 100 yards from Komil B&B) to meet artists and their work. The Meat House, owned by a man who trained at Hilton Head in South Carolina, promises high quality dishes and basically non-existent corking fee. We wished we had bought more tools from the blacksmith located a few steps north from the Tim Abdulla Khan Trading Dome on Khakikat Street. His shop was closed on the last day we were there, so we had to settle on the Museum of Metal Chasing's "gift shop" instead. 

Poi Kalon Mosque

Bolo Hauz Mosque

Poi Kalon Mosque southern view from the neighborhood

Poi Kalon Minaret and Mosque in background

Beauty salon space in vacant madrasa  

Space and cold

Mirzo Ulugbek Madrasa

Bolo Hauz Mosque Prayer Schedule

Bolo Hauz Mosque wood and tile work

Nodir Devon Begi Madrasasi

"The idiot." I can't tell what is more classy: 

that the donkey's butthole was as shiny brassy-gold as the saddle 

where 1,000s of tourists have sat upon, or that I noticed it.

 

Karnay horns at a wedding

 

Tashkent Victory Museum

Timing is everything. A year after they announced its construction, Tashkent's Victory Park (G'alaba Bog'i in Uzbek) opened last year on May 9, 2020 - VE Day for the Soviet Union, to commemorate not only the 75th anniversary of the Great Victory over fascism, but also the Uzbeks who sacrificed and gave to the war efforts. By official count at the Shon Sharaf Museum, nearly two million soldiers from Uzbekistan fought, 538,000 died, and 158,000 souls never came home. Afterwards, millions of evacuees and orphans also started new lives in this country.

Embracing a gray, crappy and cold Sunday, we bundled up for a visit. The roar of airplanes, tanks, and machine guns played over the loudspeaker as we walked past hammer-and-sickle studded fencing. Sounds of battle lingered while we walked past bunkers and into the trenches. Visitors snapped selfies with statues of the fallen and a few others posed on top of T34s. The park was otherwise empty. Soviet music started playing over the speakers as we found our way into the museum that is built underneath a huge obelisk and 20 foot tall wartime heroes standing around it.

The staff were particularly skittish about video recording, but photography was fair game provided you paid the fee. Inside, we ran straight into video footage of Hitler on the big screen. We looked at weapons, mementos, scores of official paperwork, models, and thousands of military medals. Provided we stayed on the marked arrows, we walked through seven years of history. Homage was played too to the women and children who stayed to at home, supporting heir troops abroad with depictions of women farmers and manufacturers. The most memorable part was a reenactment of Nazis losing in battle, bodies splayed in agony and fear and defeat.

Outside, patriotic music continued to play when we walked past train cars. From a distance we had worried the train cars represented something else. They were meant for transporting patients, wounded soldiers, and the fallen coming home, complete with waving and smiling statues. There was an audible sigh of relief. For us it was only two hours of merely looking at war and it was exhausting. Living and breathing it 24/7? My heartbreak is visceral.

                              

 

Ice Mud and Good Company

The original plan was to drive 3-4 hours north by northeast on the R5 highway, past a military checkpoint, and park near a village named Pskom (or Pskem) and hike to Urungach Lake, located in the Ugam-Chatkal National Park. Google photos of the lake seemed so blue and fresh, and more importantly, peaceful. I was giddy to get away from work and enjoy some silence that only mountain life can provide. Mountains that on the other side, Mark wildly loves to point out, lead to Kazakhstan.

We left behind untypical 60 degree, sunny February weather and ended up in boggy ice-mud, fog, and an impassible road. Granted, we tried. Locked into 4WD, we made it only 1/4 mile before we got stuck. I got out in a hurry to guide while Mark backed the car down to safety. I chased the car in a pair of ill begotten Chuck Taylors and no jacket, regretting many clothing decisions I had made that morning.

Parking on a less icy side of the road, we thought we would start the hike there instead. Until, my daughter announced she forgot her boots and a local farmer named Johnny, wearing knee high rubber boots approached, urging us to change our plans. He insisted that avalanche danger was legit and that we would be better off trying again in May. He had a valid point, exemplified by wet clumps of snow falling off the trees around us. Having driven all morning, we opted to hike along the road, away from the snowpack. I couldn't decide what was more fun, slip-walking in the ice-mud where shadows still ruled winter, or trip-walking in mud-mud, the kind that makes your footprint larger than the one before it. The calming sound of the running creek put my crabapple mood in check. Uzbekistan is double landlocked plus it has a huge, dried out portion of the Aral Sea, so any sight of water is, honestly, deeply appreciated by everyone. It's hard to be a jerk when you are around water in these parts.  

We hiked into the village, catching up with Johnny along the way as he walked to his father's house. Johnny studied agriculture at one of the universities in Tashkent. While he speaks Russian and is an Uzbek citizen, his heritage is Tajik. In fact, most people in the village speak Tajik as their preferred language. Pskom farmers grow an assortment of fruits and vegetables, but particularly love their sour cherries and potatoes.  They cultivate walnut orchards, keep bees, and herd cows and goats - producing fantastic yogurt, cheese, and butter to go with traditional Tajik naan. Their loaves are bigger and flatter than Uzbek naan, like a large sized pizza crust. Johnny told us about his wife who teaches school in Gazelkent, and his children who study at university. Johnny is 40, by the way, and he laughed at Mark when he admitted he was 43 with kids still in elementary school. 

It wasn't the cerulean lake hike we'd hoped for, but we did walk away feeling peaceful and refreshed in a different way - the kind of peace that comes with meeting wonderfully kind, new people in a foreign country we are only starting to get to know. We parted ways with Johnny, who insisted he'd take us on an even better hike than the one we'd planned, the next time we return to Pskom. I hope he does.

 

NE on the R5 past the checkpoint where 

piles of blasted mountain lines much of the road.

The point where we realized we'd need to 

drive backward to get ourselves out.

Winter bees

Mountain runoff draining into the Pskom River

Walking with our new friend Johnny

Traffic

"Welcome to Pskom" in Tajik

Credit: Mark

Dachas and Sharsharas and Topchans

Nanay Sharshara

The owner called it a "dacha", a historically Russian term for mini vacation home. I might have called it a cabin, but upon discovering our weekend rental was made from storage containers, vinyl, and glued on siding for a brick look finish, I wasn't sure I could. Regardless what to call it, it was only a five minute drive from Amirsoy Ski Resort. The inside was like a fish stick: heated on the sides but cold in the middle. We had a grill that we couldn't use which overlooked Coin Slot Mountain and the dregs of Wonka's chocolate river and our view from the front was the highway above us. There were no towels, soap, or couches, but we did have hot running water, Netflix, and a fabulous sauna. Plus, the place had the most wild wallpaper; each room contained floor to ceiling menagerie of pattern. 

During this weekend, the weather was glorious but skiing was a mess. There had been no new snow so half the mountain was closed. The kids and I found out how hard it is stay upright when you hit dirt patches and we all winced when we saw the bottom of my skis after a particularly rough fall. Chunks of my soul were torn out, along with chunks of polyethylene. So when we discussed next day's plans, the decision was unanimous: we would go exploring instead, driving further into the mountains in search of a good hike and waterfall. As Mark and I lay in our twin beds that night, he found a town called Nanay, which had both. 

From Gazalkent, the drive is either an hour or hour forty on the R5 and R12 roads, both which hug the Charvak Reservoir.  See map for details on getting the Nanay Sharshara (Uzbek for waterfall). It doesn't matter which way you go because the mountain views are breathtaking, and the roads are... always full of character. 

Driving to the end of Nanay, we parked our car on the side of the road that had seen many rockslides that day due to the unseasonably warm weather and took off on foot. We either squelched our way through thick mud in the sun, or slid along icy trails in perpetually stuck in the shadows. It takes only about a 15 minute walk to the waterfall, but you can hike well past it too. Because the paths cut through tight mountains with many bends, the urge to "see what's around that next corner" is very tempting. Outdoor bed-like frames meant for tea and social gatherings called topchans dot the path, evidence that Nanay is a popular hangout in the summer. 

Tired, filthy, and satisfied, we returned to our storage container down by the river for one more night before heading back to Tashkent. Did we love our stay? Yes. Did we have good laughs? Also yes. Will we return? No, thank you. 

Photo credit: dacha owner

Storage containers on both sides, 

living room built in between - pretty cool idea overall.

Countertop with original plastic wrapping left on.

"Master bedroom"

The sh'tter

Post-It Note Hell

The inside was once the outside. 

Coin slots and cracks: 

results of erosion and construction

Admittedly a gorgeous sunset.

Credit: Mark

Mountain: our happy place.

Credit: Mark

Past the waterfall

Credit: Mark

Credit: Mark

Nanay, Uzbekistan