Beldersay Skiing

Despite the novelty of living less than 90 minutes from a chic ski resort with a fast gondola and high-speed quad, weekends at Amirsoy leave a lot to be desired. Purchasing tickets and, if you are in need rental gear, are not unlike participating in the Most Extreme Elimination Challenge. 

Lines be damned! Masks, what are those? Need a size 8 boot? TOO BAD because the oligarch wearing seal fur and spandex in front of you just took the last pair. You can't rely on credit card machines working, or cashiers having proper change. If you don't have what they need, that's on you! Next, skid, scrape, and scramble your way up to the gondola before the swarm of socks and sandal clad selfie taking grannies get there! Still on course? You still gotta ski down the streaky brown ribbon of death, where braking and turning have NO place. 

The desire to ski beckoned, especially after our gleeful and socially conscious experience of skiing in the Spanish Pyrenees, but we weren't willing subject ourselves to such melee. So we opted to drive a few minutes further along the R12 to ski at Beldersay which operates a pay-as-you-go, 2-person chair lift with wooden seats. Each ride costs 25,000 som/adult, and 15,000 som/child, or $2.30 and $1.40. The ride takes 24 minutes and there is essentially one ski run. Most visitors get a blanket for their laps and then wander around the top, admiring the view and dodging the single-person sleds that inevitably have 3 or 4 piled on. 

There were only a few skiers out, so we pretty much had the run to ourselves, which included 6-8 inches of recently fallen snow. The kids learned what their quads were truly capable of as they were forced to make big turns to avoid crashing into powder and subsequently having to dig themselves out. Me too for that matter - I see extra squats and wallsits in my future. 

Beldersay Sport Base

Updated prices.

No parking lot. Just the side of the road.

Safety feature.

Staying warm.

Street meat, tea, gloves, sunglasses at the base.

Tashkent State Art Museum

17th century ceramic tile

Uzbekistan travel guides talk a big game about the Savitsky Museum in Nukus. Yes, the collection is huge and beautiful and a worthy visit. However, Tashkent's State Art Museum is home to the country's largest art collection and it is located not ten minutes from our house. Paintings, pottery, statues, tapestries, woodwork, and jewelry from all over the world line the walls in building that looks like it was picked out of a Sears Ugly Building Catalog. A weekday morning visit afforded zero other visitors. Security guards followed us throughout the three floors, anxious to make sure we didn't take photos of the hand carved wooden doors and partitions, the one section where photography was specifically forbidden. Why? No explanation was given.

I love portraits the most. I like to imagine what each subject is thinking in their captured moment of time. But on this visit, I paid enough attention in the pottery section to recognize the Rakhimov family name, where six generations of Rakhimovs have been creating handmade ceramics. The current pottery master, Alisher, told me that the museum houses over 300 pieces of pottery made by his father and grandfather. The Rakhimov works are recognized in ceramic circles throughout the world and despite their business being rooted in traditional Uzbek clay throwing methods, they also like to experiment with modern design and innovation. And, he's a cool dude.

The State Art Museum is also cool and has such an eclectic range of art that that there is something for everyone. It was an excellent way to spend that December 8 morning which, coincidentally, is Constitution Day. Uzbekistan adopted theirs just 29 years ago.

Family Photo Shoot

Appreciating some Rakhimov ceramics 1983

1974. My favorite portrait.

Picasso

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