Nukus

Our trip ended in Nukus, a city famous for one thing: the Savitsky Museum. Home to 90,000 pieces of art, only a fraction of it is on display. If the museum were anywhere else, the collection of Soviet Avant Garde versus Socialist Realism would have been confiscated, but because the founder, Igor Savistky, a Ukrainian electrician-turned-artist, had a good relationship with the city, the polarizing styles of art under the Stalin era remained in safe hands. Its size and variety is second only to a museum in Saint Petersburg. While most tourists use Nukus as the starting point for trekking to the Aral Sea, the museum alone would warrant a visit even as a day trip from Tashkent. You could catch a mid-morning flight (nothing opens before 11:00) and walk 30 minutes to the museum. Maybe you pick up a coffee at Cinnamon Cafe across the street beforehand. Spend an hour or two at the museum and then head to Sofram for some Turkish food. Walk back to the airport and head home to Tashkent.

My favorite piece

Socialist Realism: glorifying labor

Trying to make art fun

Schlink Fall break
Day 1: Urgench/Khiva
Day 2: Forts/Yurt Camp/Camels
Day 3: Bo'ston Museum/Forts/Truck-Stop Lagman
Day 4: Nukus/Savitsky Museum

Another Stan in the Books

You don't know fun unless you've driven for two days in the Karakalpakstan landscape of desert, low mountains, and oil towns in a marshrutka stuffed with six adults, four kids, and no snacks while on a mission to see the famous and ancient Khorezm Fortresses. A really fun part comes with the ominous promises of boredom and barfing, but the most fun is telling the kids there's still one more fort to see after the 4th. Or fifth. Or sixth. 

Karakalpakstan is an autonomous republic in eastern Uzbekistan. The region is vast and stark, intimidating and stunning. It has about 50 forts that were built well before Ghengis Khan showed up. They've long since pillaged but after the Soviets came, the forts remain unmanned and rarely maintained. Visitors can climb and freely explore the petrified architecture, which is a combination of clay, grass, and wood embedded within the layers.

Thousand-year-old pottery pieces are easily spotted on the ground throughout too, though all the fancier pieces have been taken. Our guide was an archeologist who had participated in a few fort excavations years before and just by looking at the curve of the piece, he could identify what it had been used for: there were pots for holding food, water, or beer. Other pieces hung off a saddle or were used as baking slabs, pestel and mortar. Standing on top of a wall and looking beyond the horizon, he helped us visualize the path the ancestors took throughout the centuries- always following the water. At least until the Soviets came and forced the water to follow their path, he said.

Our venture in the stark yonder included a yurt camp stay, perched on top of a plateau. After a gut stuffing dinner and steep temperature drop, we had no choice but to hide from the cold and get some sleep. Each yurt was equipped with daisy chained bed warmers and split packs for the summer. Ignoring the charr on the extension cords, I plugged us all in, layered up, and huddled under thick blankets. 

David spent the morning feeding their "pet" camel stalks of a dead, reedy plant that was seen all over the land. Shortly after, a thick, weathered woman brought out scraps for its breakfast. She deftly picked up a stick, whacked the camel and dumped the food before the camel could retaliate. I spent the morning inadvertently walking on semi-buried goat carcasses and trash. The blessing of garbage trucks simply isn't a thing out here.

Shivering, we piled back into the marshrutka for another full day of driving. First up: the Bo'ston History Museum where we saw a chain mail shirts, an ancient butter churn, and giant, paper rubles among other Karakalpak treasures. The manager eagerly followed us around presumably Snapchatting our experience as guests at their museum. 

We saw a couple more forts before begging the guide to stop by a mini-mart for snacks, any snacks - as hanger was getting pretty serious in the car. (Note to self: pack snacks in the luggage next time. Oh god. Is there going to be a next time?!) We ended up at dubious truck stop that had no running water to eat lagman and Uzbekistan's famous yellow torpedo melon. To hell with sanitation! We were hungry.

There was one more locale to visit before getting to Nukus for our final night: the Tower of Silence.  Zoroastrians built this huge circular plateau around 9th century CE to place their dead and allow for sky burials. Located somewhat off the highway, had I not known it was a historical site, I would have simply mistaken it for a butte, as if I was driving through Castle Rock, Colorado. At the top of the ascent, we could see Turkmenistan to the south, covered in autumn gold. It was a beautiful panoramic respite, but I could't help feeling disappointed that no mystics or spirits stopped by while we were there. 

Irascible from the long and dusty day, the now extra-small feeling van puttered into Nukus where we had booked separate hotel rooms for the kids. We eyed the children, said we'd see them at dinner, and bolted to hot showers and crisp sheets.

Fort #1

Fort #3

Fort #5

Fort #6

Ayaz-Kala Yurt Camp

yurt ala IKEA

Schlink yurt

bigger on the inside

Strikingly similar vastness to Namibia's

A Quickie in Khiva

My Russian teacher insisted a visit to Khiva could be done in a day. Considering that this Silk Road city is 982km (610 miles) away, 15 hours by car or 80 minutes by plane, I had a hard time imaging how one could really get to know such a historic place in less than 24 hours. But she was totally right. The old city is compact and walkable within its 32-foot high clay walls. It's full of UNESCO sites, museums, guest houses, and residents. It's a darling city (though medieval slaves would heartily disagree about the darlingness, as Khiva was once a slave-trade hotspot) with its intricate, lapis and turquoise tiles, and pedestrian walkways lined with artisanal crafts. Khiva's madrassas and mosques feature two-thousand years old, hand carved pillars, and Uzbek homages on display in dim lighting: instruments, uniforms, jewelry, face rugs, etc. We marveled at literally all the things in only few hours. Khiva: done and done.

The corner where everyone, EVERYONE takes a photo

Cool hats to be sure, but how many heads have tried them on?

Cats and carbs

Shergozikhan Madrasa Medical Clinic

Kalta Minor Minaret

dutar and accordion master

Mug on a rug

Heading toward the Islam Khodja Minret

5th wedding sighting of the day

locals taking a morning walk

A homestay, a dog, and a weird bathroom

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.

At the pin drop.

Photo credit: Margo

The Soviet touch

Sleeping arrangements

The least fun part of our stay

The most fun part of our stay

Credit: Mark

Credit: Mark

Embassy wife reviews Embassy Wife

I am an embassy wife. I've never called myself that, but considering the alternatives of toity "diplomat's wife" or cringeworthy "trailing spouse," for the sake of a book review - I'll own it. I've leaned into this role for over ten years and four countries, reaping the benefits of travel and serving my country abroad. Some of this lifestyle is admittedly lavish: embassy wives get black books. Housing and schooling is generally paid for, allowing the paycheck to stretch much differently than it would in the U.S. (ie: hired help). We get invited to fancy balls and dinners. Sometimes we get to meet famous people and dignitaries. Others might have gotten to meet Wynton Marsalis or President George Bush. I for one, got to meet Katie Crouch. She's a mega babe.

However, embassy wives also capitulate to homesickness, frequent unemployment, and the exhaustion that comes with starting a "new" life every few years. It can be pretty intense trying to make friends and build a community in rapid succession when nothing is familiar. Limitations might be the high turnover of families arriving to and leaving post, where gatherings feel more like speed dating. Often, there's language and cultural barriers too. Just try ordering a taxi when the only vocabulary you know is from Duolingo. Or ordering a pepperoni pizza only to find there's no timeless, cured meat discs on top, but rather a pile of extra juicy pepperoncinos that have soaked all the way through the cardboard. Freedom of movement might be restricted to an embassy compound or to city limits because of crime or poor infrastructure. But, perhaps the biggest limitations are boredom and loneliness- particularly when there's no job or palatable hobby to pass the hours. Day drinking anyone?

That's not to say anyone should feel sorry for embassy wives (or husbands), it's just that all the parameters we constantly are forced to adjust to ultimately make us weird. Like, super weird, and it lingers a little bit more with each post. So much so, we forget how kooky this lifestyle looks from the outside. I had the honor of meeting and befriending Katie Crouch along with her daughter, son, and partner Peter Orner, who moved from California to Namibia as a Fulbright Scholar. The program is an outward facing part of the State Department. That was how Katie found herself in the middle of an embassy wives' coffee hour, freshly arrived not even days before. There she met a handful of us weirdos all at once: the Real Housewives of Embassy Windhoek only without the lady fights and spray tans. But we did have the chic hostess, ultramarathon athlete, yoga teacher, CrossFit junkie, and other assorted mom squads.

Katie's book was begging to be written. How could it not?

Embassy Wife makes for a quirky perspective of diplomatic life, where "two women abroad search for the truth about their husbands—and their country." It's tall-taleish and funny, but the story goes beyond the notion of entitled spouses spreading hot goss and drama of who's the secret agent. The true heart of the story comes from the cultural exchanges that the supporting characters allow us to see. The housekeepers keep the reader grounded as they astutely observe the Americans agonizing over abundance of choices with menu planning, or the helplessness of a sad, whiny, white man who'd been robbed and feels like the end of the world. "And to have no money, that is a problem. But you are white. There's always more." After that smackdown, he figured out how to get over himself.

Mila's story could stand alone. Her past wrought with racism, poverty, and heartbreak, should have led her down a different path. She should have failed, fading into the Namibian landscape. But we get to meet her her as a domineering wife to a high ranking government official and in between then and now, the we get to understand a little bit about what it's like to be raised in one of the many Namibian cultures. The more Mila opens to her American characters, the more we get to see too. She shares hard moments of living in constant danger from wild animals, heat, drought. These moments feel very private, intimate - especially for someone who embraced Namibia in a manner just like the rest of the embassy wives: privileged. It's not something I to take for granted.

Serious homage aside, the book is antic and fun. I laughed and smirked my way through each page. Most of all, it made me miss the country and the people in it.

Embassy Wife on an embassy couch.

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