In October 2024, I took a 2-week long trip to Uzbekistan. A country in Central Asia with very rich history. Below I present my raw notes from the trip and a few photos I took.
On my trip I visited four major city: Tashkent, Samarkand, Bukhara and Khiva.
First day in. Arrived at 5 am today; it’s about 3 pm here now. Not exactly sure how I’m operating,, but I've already accomplished a lot. First, I go to the very first place and find the artist I’ve been googling for the last few weeks. I won’t show it yet and I will see if I can find him in Bukhara as well.
Then I head out to the local bazaar. Where else. And get myself a local trail mix. I thought of trying something else. But maybe not on the first day. Won’t risk it. Just dry fruits and nuts for now. Uzbekistan is of course famous for its dry apricots, raisins, and walnuts.
First impressions? Quite a civilized place, polite people, hospitable, reserved. A real mix of cultures: Turkish, Caucasian, Muslim, russian and of course uniquely Central Asian.
Salam!
Day 2(ish).
It’s 7 am here on Day 2, but I’ve been awake for 5 hours and can’t fall asleep, so time for another update.
First day, a lot accomplished. I’ve learned to ride the local metro. I visited oriental bazaar. I tried Azeri-Uzbekistani food. Local cops checked my bag. eSIM is working. Uber and local ride-sharing apps don’t. First mild food poisoning. First museum. First 20,000 steps. First power blackout.
Things that annoy me. Seeing Russian tourists around. They, of course, feel like everyone owes them and they can do whatever. We were in a local museum when the power went off. And this Russian couple said something snarky and laughed that everyone around them had to use flashlights. Little do they know how often the power goes out in that country they shamelessly attacked. People learn only through their own experiences. I wish Russians would have many more nights without power. Maybe then they’ll understand
Things that surprised me. So many girls and adult women are wearing hijabs. Everywhere. That’s not what I’d expect, but it does make sense. While Russian is still the lingua franca after ~150 years of colonization, the airport was full of Uzbeks returning from Hadj in Saudi Arabia. It’s funny that one of the mosques is built in a surprisingly Russian style. But others are definitely mosques.
However, I feel that the Silk Road spirit lives on here, and people are overall nice and respectful to visitors. Uzbekistan is a great mix of cultures, with no single dominant one.
On to the next day. Jet lag will bug me for a while, but hopefully no more than 2-3 days. Where should I eat next?
Salam
Day 3(ish).
It's 5 am on Day 3, I am finally waking up at an almost normal hour, and so it's time for another report.
My day starts with a very Soviet breakfast—eggs with Vienna sausages (sosiski), plus bread and jam. I think I grew up eating sosiski with ketchup and eggs. But... local jam and bread, on the other hand. Fig, strawberry, raspberry, apricot jam and two other kinds I don't remember. And local bread, "lepeshka", though it has a proper Uzbek name too, which I haven't learned yet. Anyway, for my ex-Soviet friends, let me know if that was your staple breakfast growing up.
Today (well, yesterday, really), I head out to the Museum of Oriental Miniature, named after Kamaleddin Behzad. "He is regarded as marking the high point of the great tradition of Islamic miniature painting," as Wikipedia says. I will read more about it when I get home.
However, the museum is closed. As I just learned, I am going to miss the great Biennale of Uzbekistan Contemporary Art, which is about to begin, but I will be in Samarkand at the time. And the exhibit will be in the museum. Regardless, I met this old russian/Soviet lady who, besides giving me a lecture on Zelensky, gave me a tour of the museum. She also connects me with a local art student who is painting miniatures himself. We connect on Instagram, chat, he brings another friend, gives a masterclass to local high school students, someone complains he rushed through it, his boss comes in, he feels awkward, and more people show up after they learn I am from the US. Long story short, we part. I give them two "San Francisco" postcards, and everyone's happy. (except the folks who didn't get the souvenirs).
Next I head to a commercial art gallery where I see more weird russian old ladies; both are real art "experts" who look down at me (probably because of the way I'm dressed), but I am happy since they leave me alone and I can comfortably browse through their collection. They're about to film an interview with some famous architect; he's wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt. This fancy-dressed art critic/interviewer comments on his outfit, and she realizes that "all interesting people dress in simple T-shirts." While I was asking the local gallerist questions, the famous architect noticed my shoes and me. We both realize that while everyone around is wearing fancy dress shoes, black suits, ironed white shirts, etc., we're both wearing simple sneakers and T-shirts. Mine is plain grey. He doesn't say a word; I don't say a word; we both get it.
Enough with art, I am starving! And super dehydrated as well. Today, I will finally taste traditional Uzbek Plov. And since I've done my research, I am going to none other than the "Central Asian Center of Plov." I just love this name 
. After taking the metro (super convenient in Tashkent), I am there. Just like in any good authentic Indian restaurant (Shalimar?), I have to wait for the table to free up, and no one is sitting you. So you stand next to people finishing up and wait until someone takes away their dirty plates.
You also get to watch another russian (you don't see a trend, do you?) who seems drunk and looking for a fight. He yells at the waiter for being too slow (they're super efficient here, as it's a thousand people eating). Note, Uzbeks are polite and quiet (kind of like the Japanese), so several people notice the belligerent russian. The waiter takes no shit from the guy and confronts him. He's in his own restaurant, his own country, and he has pride. He calls someone to settle the issue. The owner of the restaurant comes and chats with the russian. He tells him, "Finish eating and then let's go outside and talk." The "finish eating" part is very Central Asian. This belligerent a-hole is still a guest, and he's in the middle of the meal. Whatever happens to him after the meal and outside the restaurant... no one cares. The russian can't wait until the end of the meal, storms out with the owner to "talk". 20 minutes later, russian plates and food are cleaned off the table. He's not to return.
But.. the plov was amazing. I went with the "Wedding" variety, which included quail eggs, mixed lamb plov, horse sausage, tomatoes and onion salad, cherry "kompot", green tea teapot, and "lepeshka". A ton of food but I finished almost all of it, and it was delicious. Something about fatty rice, with carrots and great meat. If you had the plov, you know, if you haven't, do try it. Now, I feel like this was my last meal of the day at 3 pm, and I can barely walk.
But I force myself to check off another item on my checklist. I am traveling by metro to the outskirts of the city to visit the framing shop one of the artists recommended. Since my Yandex Taxi app doesn't work, I have to walk everywhere. After like an hour, I finally make it there and find a real framing shop with about 15+ people working in a real woodshop with heavy machinery. I spend almost 2 hours there, with the locals giving me a tour of their facility with modern laser cutters and routers. We talk about framing. They call more experts to see how they can do the frame that I want. Then, more people, then finally, we talk sizes, prices, payment plans, delivery schedules, timelines, etc. I leave at 6 (they close at 6), and I do learn that the global economy still works. The intricate woodwork I saw earlier is not made by hand but by commercial laser cutters. Their wood frames and wood come from China, not some ancient Uzbek forests. Again, at first, I get ignored for my sneakers and T-shirt (and wait for about an hour), but then, at some point, they figure I mean business and become nicer to me.
The rest of the day was largely uneventful. My body was digesting the plov. My mind was ready to fall asleep. I made it back to the hotel and fell asleep.
Until the next day, Salam!
Last day in Tashkent for now (I'll be back in ~1.5 weeks) and I'm taking the high-speed train to Samarkand.
I completed my Tashkent checklist for now. So, I went to Alay bazaar and got two types of spices from this young gentleman. I am still to master the art of negotiating prices, but oh well. At least I have spices for plov (oh yeah, cumin is the secret ingredient), and a "universal" mix that works for everything. A lucky winner might be getting this as a gift when I return
Then I visited the Timur Museum. Timur, or Tamerlane as he's known in the West, was born in Uzbekistan and founded a huge Timurid empire in the 14th century that spanned from the Nile to India. Timur's 9th-generation grandson ultimately built the Taj Mahal in India. The museum was built relatively recently, but it's absolutely stunning.
Then, of course, another trip to a plov restaurant. Internet's second recommendation, and I am trying "Samarkand plov" this time. Great plov, of course, although I kind of like the hassle of the "Central Asian Plov Center" more. In today's place, for some reason, it's almost exclusively all men eating.
And finally, a high-speed train from Tashkent to Samarkand.
Leaving Tashkent, I must say, I am impressed. The streets are superbly clean. Trees and flowers everywhere. The subway, buses, and public transportation are super efficient. Everyone is polite and well-dressed. Car drivers are polite and follow the rules. Pedestrians wait for the green light and don't jaywalk. Tashkent is super young; well-dressed students are everywhere. Twice today, on subway, I was offered a seat by young students (I guess I look old enough —nice parks, public restrooms, police at every metro station. People seem happy and smiling often.
It's hard to imagine that when I am back in SF, I will see filthy streets, aggressive and impatient drivers, terrible public transportation, bad infrastructure, rude, angry and over-stressed people.
Dear Americans, I know we think we're super special and everyone is beneath us, but have you been to Uzbekistan? You know, Uzbekistan's GDP per capita is $2,200, and in the US, it's $76,000. We have all the resources to live better in the US, so what's the problem?
Day 5(ish).
I woke up at 5 am today, so I guess it's time for another update.
I am in the great city of Samarkand. This city is almost 3 thousand years old. Per Wikipedia, "The city is noted as a center of Islamic scholarly study and the birthplace of the Timurid Renaissance. In the 14th century, Timur made it the capital of his empire." The great ruler Ulugh Beg (grandson of Tamerlane) turned the city into a major center of astronomy and mathematics.
As I am trying this at 5:30 am, the Muslim morning prayer comes on. I can't tell whether it is a recording or someone singing it live, but it is distinctly it. Someone, please tell me the proper name of the morning prayer song. I haven't heard it in Tashkent, but I remember hearing it every day when I traveled to Morocco.
Anyway, while I haven't done enough research on Samarkand, I will when I get back. I am tempted to say it is the birthplace of modern astronomy, but I am not really sure.
Today (actually yesterday), I am taking it a bit slower, so I only get to see one major sight: the Registan. The three madrasahs of the Registan face each other in a semicircle, creating a massive public square. You can see two minarets for each mosque, although the two in front are small.
I opted for a guide to walk me through the Registan, but... I thought of saving some money and ended up in a group tour with a bunch of russians. A mistake I shouldn't repeat again. First, it was hard to hear the local guide; second, I couldn't ask questions; and third, these were russians. That means they had to argue with the guide about everything. Like when the guide showed them a hand-woven carpet, this lady started arguing it was machine-made because she learned about it in Iran. I always love total non-experts arguing with experts. I love watching the experts' facial expressions the most.
So, don't be like me; don't cheap out on group tours. Get an individual guide and ask questions. Next time! I have more to see in Samarkand.
For the next half of the day, I chatted with a local taxi driver. Learned from him about "osh" vs. "plov" (don't call it "plov", call it "osh", that's the Uzbek way). We also talked about a possible trip to the mountains, exchanged phone numbers, and he pointed me to a few good local restaurants and osh places. Also, pointed me to a local art gallery. Another lesson when traveling: always talk with friendly locals.
So I visited a local art gallery (actually, two; one was inside the Registan), got their info, noticed a work by an Uzbek artist I spoke with back in Cali, noticed another work by another artist I learned of before, but still unfortunately didn't see anything specific I really liked. So far, I visited 4-5 art galleries and spoke with a few artists; I like the work of just one of them. Hopefully, I will have better luck in Bukhara. Fingers crossed.
Finally, since the taxi driver told me that "the best plov (osh) is gone by 11:30", I figured 5 pm is too late for plov, and I tried a local restaurant. More like a cafeteria, or maybe a diner, we'd call it. The dish I thought I'd try is called Lagman; it is Uyghur soup of sorts. Basically, it's handmade noodles in a soup with lamb, carrots, onions, garlic, and a lot of spices. A true mix of East (noodles) and West (lamb carrot stew). It was pretty good; the spices were super nice too, a lot of them.
That's it for today; I might head out and see Registan during the sunrise.
Salam!
Day 6(ish), honestly lost count.
I slept most of the day, but before I did, I managed to hit a few sights. I planned to hit 2-3 major sights, then have some plov, then spend the night in a nice tea place overlooking one of the sights.
Well, "Man plans, and God laughs," as the old saying goes. And two days of constant rain rolled in. But rain or shine, a tourist must do what a tourist must do. And that is to explore.
So, Bibi-Khanym mosque, check. That's where Timur's second and favorite wife is buried. Well, it's where she's buried, and the mosque is in her honor, too. This old lady, who looked like she was from the 19th century, was my guide, but also a fortune teller. She asked me to walk around this old Quran and make a wish,, assuring me it would come true. Ok then.
Then, I visited Shah-i-Zinda, without the guide this time. But surrounded by a ton of Italian tourists, and in the rain. Very, very impressive, but without a guide, no story, so I don't really know what I saw there, but it was nice. I also chatted with a nice Indian man who took my photo.
BTW, maybe too much info, but I decided not to shave for the last few days, and today I noticed something: all men in Uzbekistan are clean-shaven. So I googled it, and it turns out that men with beards get special attention in UZ. Men with beards are more likely to be devout Muslims, and they get stopped often by the police. In fact, I witnessed exactly that later in the day. I think it's time for me to shave.
Anyway, I ventured out to try one of the best osh (or plov) places. A friend of mine said that I am not a foodie. He thinks being a foodie means trying out all super expensive San Francisco hot spots. I think being a foodie means traveling across the world to try authentic Samarkand osh, and then in the rain, an hour-long taxi ride, far from the tourist zone. So I did: I took a taxi and drove to a far-away place. I happened to be, of course, the only "white guy", i.e., the place was full of local men, very few women, and everyone came here for the osh (plov is more like a russian name; locals call it "osh").
Osh was great. Salads were even better. Of course, I felt super full after that and tried to catch a taxi back. Since I couldn't get my Uber-like apps to work, I had to stand on the side of the road and wave to find a taxi. Also, the way "Uber Pool" works in Samarkand: a taxi full of people stops by, you say "Registan", the driver shakes his head and drives off. You repeat it about 10 times, until finally a driver agrees to take you. While he's driving you to your destination, he stops 5 more times and picks up or doesn't pick up more passengers. After another hour in the rain looking for local art galleries (and not finding them), I finally end up back in the hotel and fall asleep.
That was yesterday, and today, on a rainy day, I think I am going to explore Shahr-e Sabz; it's a 2-hour-long day trip with a local taxi driver who convinced me to go. Wish me luck.
Salam!
Day 7(ish). 8 pm Samarkand train station
I’ve got two more hours to wait here. Traveling for a while isn’t all rosy. You go through ups and downs. Eventually events back home catch up with you. Eventually, you get caught up with yourself. Bourdain, out of all, I think described that process the best. The days of deep introspection. Or maybe not so deep, but still introspection.
It rained for the last two days. A bit of a change of plans. But also it was time to look behind the facade. Behind the for-tourists-eyes-only. So I thought I would spend a day with Ixtior, a taxi driver I met a couple of days back. Now, notice that the letters “x” and “h” are used interchangeably here in Uzbekistan; his name is more like “Ihtior.” One way or another, we take a trip to… let me check my notes. Shahrisabz
Shahrisabz was nothing interesting. Some well-manicured tourist sites, a huge park dedicated to who else? Yes, Amir Temur. The founding father. But it rained, and the whole place was almost empty. Even the numerous little shops were closed.
So instead, the trip became more of a 5-hour conversation with Ihtior. Rather, I was mostly listening. Of course, taxi drivers in Uzbekistan are probably not much different than taxi drivers in San Francisco. Actually, a true story: a day before I flew to Tashkent, I took Uber in SF. The driver was from Uzbekistan and didn’t speak a word of English or Russian. I kept saying, “plov! Plov! Plov!” He kept saying, “osh! Osh! Osh!” That’s how I finally understood that “plov” isn’t an Uzbekistani word; “osh” is.
Anyways, back to the windy roads south of Samarkand. I learned that Ihtior served in Afghanistan with the Soviets in the 80s. Learned about what his kids do, about the pandemic. And his dear sister, who died of COVID. And his wife. And how much she gets paid, and the car he wants to buy, a Chevrolet Cobalt (made in Uzbekistan, by the way). I shared that I’ve been to Ukraine and what’s happening there. And how brutal that war was. He didn’t know. And he was shaking his head the entire road back and repeating “1000 dead a day”. He told stories from his days serving on the border with Afghanistan and his comrades.
All that is pretty useless info, I guess. But it is part of a journey. More so than seeing another mosque.
At some point, when we were crossing a mountain pass, Ixtior stopped for a few minutes. I took a few photos. What I didn’t realize was that you could almost see Termez on the horizon.
Termez was the border town with Afghanistan. Right in front of me was a long valley; to the left was Tajikistan and its capital, Dushanbe. On the right was Turkmenistan, one of the most closed-off countries, run by a Turkmen-bashi dictator for the last 30(?) years. Right in front: Taliban Afghanistan, with Mazar-i-Sharif, inhabited by the same Uzbeks and Tajiks living in Samarkand, and Kabul not too far either. That was probably the highlight of the trip.
The road was mostly uneventful. Especially if you know the way people drive in this part of the world. No seat belts. Passing on windy and rainy roads on the opposing side of the road, centimeters from the oncoming traffic. The Japanese tourist I met at the hostel was very concerned about the lack of seat belts in cars—head-on collisions on windy mountain roads with big semi-trucks. Seat belts won’t help. And we passed tens of them today’s. Luckily, those who don’t drive well don’t make it for too long. So I trusted Ixtior would get me home safe and sound. And he did.
Anyways, no major discoveries today. I did learn a new joke though from Ixtior:
Putin is in hell. He's been getting cooked for weeks in a giant pot. So hot in hell that he’s begging to let him out.
“Please, please, would you let me out just for a day??!”
Finally, the devil agrees to let him out of hell for just a day. Putin gets out of the super hot pot and lands in Moscow. Everyone is celebrating something in Moscow. Putin walks around and everyone he meets is super happy and joyful. Putin goes to a small cafe and asks for a cup of coffee.
“How much do I owe you?” he asks the waiter. “Ten hryvnas,” the waiter replies.
I guess I also learned how local silk paper is made and talked with a local ceramist who explained the entire process. But that’s another story, and who has time for that.
Oh, and I also tried local shashlik! My only regret is that I ordered only one. That’s why I’m cold and hungry in this empty train station. Well, maybe tomorrow I will order two. For 20 hryvnias. In Moscow.
Salam!
Day 8(ish).
And that means that I passed the halfway point of my journey. Ouch, a little scary. I'll have to come back to the real world soon. Really scary!
Yesterday was another long-short day, or a short-long day. That means the day only has one part, morning to afternoon, no evening. My first real "business trip" day (well, I did some research and met people in Tashkent). And that means I am meeting local artists.
First off the bat, I randomly met someone I found online a few months ago through her artwork, then searched her on forums, ended up connecting with her husband (but I wasn't 100% sure), and then I walked into a small workshop and saw a familiar face. We chatted at length in a mix of russian, French, and English. She's the niece of a famous local artist whom I will try to meet today.
Next, I met with two other artists. One I'd spoken with for a few months already; I also found him online. I met his son, saw him selling a few of his works to Indian tourists, chatted with them, watched him switch from English to French in an instant, shared our condensed bios, and agreed to meet again.
Then another one, who was apparently selling his works for thousands. Me being me, of course, I tend to ask tricky questions, like: Could you please show me the difference between a good and an average work? What type of brush do you use here? What is it made of? Have you heard of Japanese woodblock prints? What about Nepalese thangkas? Old Apple interviewing school yeah, i don't understand why he'd charge $5k for his work, i think he's full of it. "Oh, where did you get this composition?" "I copied it from the internet," he said. Dude, common
I remember interviewing 178 people back at Apple and hiring only 8 of them (1 out of 22). Working with artists is no different: you get to see and talk with thousands of people. How do you select the best ones? Well, you ask questions and listen to what people have got to say.
After that, I visited another place I'd researched for a while. Met more people, asked more questions. Took some photos, asked more questions, took some videos. Haha. I am like an art spy. I think they might have given me a look like "Who is this guy and what does he want?" Well, I am going to try to meet with the owner of this school this week, too. He's an important person in the local community. Hope I will make it out alive
Salam!
The story of dirty shoes. Who cares about them anyway? I’ve been walking a lot lately, and they got quite dusty. Plus, I stepped in a mud puddle the other day. A water line broke in the center of the park, and the whole area flooded, so I stepped into mud. They don’t look too fresh. Yet they’re comfortable, great for walking, easy on my feet, and, if you ask me, quite original.
These are actually made by the iconic Japanese brand Onitsuka Tiger. And I have (and had) close to ten pairs already. Their colors are pretty cool, and some color combinations are very hard to find. They sell out quickly. Both here and in Japan.
So who cares about my shoes anyway? Nobody. Usually. But yesterday I met with a very important person. And the people hosting me noticed my shoes. They looked down upon them, of course. Who am I to wear dirty sneakers to this important meeting? Laceless, no less!
Well, I couldn't care less. I noticed the person I was meeting had Bugatti shoes on. I didn’t know Bugatti makes shoes. I guess they do. An interesting choice. They say shoes tell a lot about a man. Maybe.
Another time, I felt like I was part of some shoe Olympics. It was Art Basel Hong Kong. I also got dismissive looks from the gallerists exhibiting there (I was just a visitor) because everyone dressed to impress. It was funny, though, that all those fancy gallerists wore nice white-soled shoes. The only problem was that they all wore the same white-soled shoes.
Yup, shoes tell you a story. Or, as Mac Miller used to say, Nike On My Feet. 
Day T-3.
And I’m in Khiva, Uzbekistan, after an overnight train ride through the Kyzyl Kum desert.
And since I haven’t had breakfast yet, first things first: I’m eating.
Turns out I picked the right dish off the menu: the famous green noodles of Khiva, or Shivit Oshi. Local noodles mixed with herbs like dill, plus a meat-and-potato stew. And I had to order the local carrot salad as well, since I’ve been seeing it at every local bazaar. Uzbekistan is the world's second-largest carrot exporter.
Remember, it will be on the test. I also learned it used to be one of the main slave-trading centers on the Silk Road.
While I was typing this post, a wedding party set up right next to me for the photo op. So I added a couple more photos I just snapped.
Salam!
Day T-2.
Not as many photos for some reason. I’m getting a little tired of being a tourist.
While I was having another variety of plov, Khorezm this time, an American seated next to me struggled to pay with a credit card. So I suggested he try a debit card, since in my experience that’s more likely to work. The older gentleman from New York had an unimpressed expression and wasn’t very chatty either.
But he did ask me what my highlight of the trip so far was (though he quickly left before listening to what I had to say). I struggled for a second. I should probably say it was all that awesome Timurid architecture, but I don’t think it was.
I think the highlight was the locals themselves. They are super easygoing somehow. The folks I spoke with on the train. The ceramist I just spoke with. My taxi friend Ixtior. The multiple guides I had. You know how you come to Burning Man to see all the cool art but leave most impressed with the cool vibe and super nice people? So far, Uzbekistan has been like that. I don’t see too many angry people around. If any. Kids are playing football in the dust. Ladies don’t get upset when I negotiate for prices. Men seem respectful and follow a certain code of honor. Women go about their business and don’t want your green card. People don’t take an extra penny or a tip when helping you. Teenagers seem chill and laugh all the time.
The little moments. I’m walking down the street in Samarkand and out of nowhere something hits me, like a small rock. I look up and see three teenagers across the street. I’m thinking, “Are they bullying me? Am I doing something inappropriate?” But I see one of them gasping like a little boy who just did something inappropriate in front of his parents. Hands on the mouth and probably saying “Oh shit” in his native tongue. I figure it wasn’t intentional and raise my eyebrow, pretending I’m upset. Yet they figure I’m just pretending, so we both start laughing. One of the teenagers runs up to me, stretches his arm to shake mine and apologize. We move on.
Or another one. I am at the market, trying to spend my last money and buy a few gifts. I find this cute pillow cover with a nice pattern. “How much?”, I ask. “80,000 som”, the older lady says. I’m, “Ok”, and give her the money. Then, once I put the pillow in my shoulder bag, I remember and, frustratingly with myself, “Oh, I forgot to bargain again!” She bursts out laughing. “Fine, fine.” She gives me the 5,000 back, still laughing.
So yeah, those are the highlights so far.
Salam!
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