It started with a pin drop: meet him at the T-section of R-36 and an unnamed road between 2:00pm and 3:00pm, and he would lead us up the mountain valley to someone's homestay for 2 nights. Maybe his name was Sherzod, the person we communicated with from Responsible Travel, a tourism company based out of Nurota, maybe it wasn't. The drive took us 3 hours southwest to Jizzak, then 1 hour 45 minutes northwest through the Forish region, which has a dynamic landscape of exposed, desolate steppe, steep, shrubby mountains, and algae green valleys. The Forish Region is home to Aydar Lake, military training sites, and remote villages that are are laden with rich culture and traditions. There are heritage sites, historical monuments, and state protected archeological sites that leaders in ecotourism are trying to expand and promote.
We chilled on the side of the road, watching the sporadic passing of ambling trucks overstuffed with harvested wheat. Pieces of wheat swirled along the ground as impatient, white sedans overstuffed with passengers flew past. A motorbike driver chugged his way down the valley a with a rider and his dead sheep draped across his lap. And we waited for... someone. When someone did arrive, it wasn't Sherzod, but a man named Lubek who said he was Sherzod's brother told us we would follow him to his home in the mountains. Later, we would come to find out Lubek wasn't his actual brother, but rather a brother in the fraternal sense. Work colleagues really, yet following some guy into the remote mountains felt oddly normal. Anywhere else, this would be the beginning of a horror film. Sometime later, the road petered to an end, literally to the gate of his house. We parked on his lawn underneath a huge walnut tree and were met by his wife, 3 and 5 year old kids, their earless dog, and about 20 sheep.
The dog had a gentle air about him. He was quiet, loving, and cute. He seemed like he had an earnest soul we liked him immediately. After settling into our room that contained literally only four twin beds, a dim overhead light, and a window that looked into the dining room, we decided to wander the area before dinner. The family pet who the kids nicknamed Doggo, joined us. Soon we were met by a shepherd, his flock, and a fellow earless sheepdog. Unfortunately, things escalated quickly and the two dogs attacked each other.
The shepherd half-heartedly tried to separate them, but it only made them fight harder and I was calculating the odds them biting him in retaliation. Shrugging his shoulders, he continued on with his sheep. We had no choice but to do the same, and not twenty seconds later, Doggo rejoined us exhilarated, and blood dripping from his neck. We now know why many of the dogs up there have no ears. Later that night at dinner, I told Lubek about what happened to his dog and he merely shrugged his shoulders. That's life, he said.
Lubek spoke some English, his Russian was better, but like most people we have met beyond the Tashkent region, he and his family primarily spoke Tajik. The youngest of ten, his mom was a legitimate Mother Heroine, an honorary title given to women who bore and raised at least ten children during the reign of the Soviet Union. This was his summer home, a place to raise sheep, harvest fruit trees, and to escape the heat. Plus his extended family lived throughout the valley.
Come winter, though the small family would relocate to Jizzak where his wife's extended family lives. It felt like winter already, particularly after the sun ducked behind the mountains. There was no heat, so we kept warm by drinking bottomless pots of tea, shooting vodka, and sleeping with heavy blankets. We slept pretty well those nights, listening to animals talk and the rushing mountain stream that ran through their property. And, after being spoiled rotten for stars and views of the Milky Way in Namibia, I was convinced no place could ever compare. I was wrong. Uzbek skies are bold and breathtaking.
Lubek's wife cooked in an outdoor kitchen where she prepared simple meals. She not-so-hinted that this was not her favorite place to be, preferring city life over the solitude of village living, but she played her role admirably. Indeed she was the one who brought out the vodka, taking shots with us and insisted that finishing the bottle was the only polite thing we could do.
Surprisingly, the next morning was met without hangover. Lubek said it was because the air up there was so fresh and clean. I couldn't argue. Per our initial plans, another brother, a guide named Cher arrived via taxi to take us hiking. He wore a light jacket and carried a small backpack. As usual, we looked like American fools, shivering in our winter gear and carrying camping backpacks stuffed with liters of water and food and a wilderness first aid kit. The trail started where the road ended, leading us deeper into the valley. It was the same, well worn route the local residents took to get home either by foot or donkey, hugging the side of the mountain. We hiked past long stretches of stone walls, fences, homes, and historic mahallas, everything hand-built. Cher showed us petroglyphs of wild mountain goats and where eagles nested high on the mountain cliffs. Along the way an old man wearing a sports jacket and knitted hat handed the kids fistfuls of walnuts. Women in colorful dresses and shawls gathered buckets of orange hawthorn fruit. A child in Manchester United gear led his firewood-carrying donkey down the trail. Finally, we reached a national park entrance, but only permit holders are allowed to enter so while the locals continued on, we had to turn around.
Most of the time we had electricity and running water. Mark got the only hot water that weekend. I tried to shower but only got as far as wetting the back of my head before it ran out. I couldn't tell what I was more annoyed at: that I couldn't take a shower, or that I had wasted time stripping off every single item of clothing I had brought, and was standing in Mark's shower water shivering like a naked mole rat. We also spent an inordinate amount of time debating whether the large knife in the bathroom was meant for cutting blocks of detergent or for cutting other... things.
Was it worth getting away? It always is. Fresh air, peace, camaraderie made up for the temporary discomforts and inconveniences. But would we return to this particular homestay? It wasn't as weird as sleeping in a shipping container, but probably not. We found this one via guidebook and our local friends told us vehemently that relying on word of mouth will always work better. That's what we get, one friend said, for trying to be all American and independent about things.
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| At the pin drop. |
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| The Soviet touch |
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| Sleeping arrangements |
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| The least fun part of our stay |
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| The most fun part of our stay |
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| Credit: Mark |
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| Credit: Mark |
