Central Asia XV: Bukhara

 On the morning of October 22, 2021, we took the high speed train to Bukhara.  Our train ride was 1 ½ hours, but it took our driver, George, more than seven hours to catch up with us.  He left at 3 in the morning in order to meet us at 10:30 at the Bukhara train station.  

As we waited for the train in Bukhara, I began to feel sick to my stomach.  That is the chief dread of an active trip like this one.  I soldiered through the train ride and our tour of the Bahauddin Nagshbandi Mausoleum, but I then crashed at our hotel as Abdu, Dave, and Mike finished the day's sightseeing.  I was feeling better by evening.  Simply too much good food.

The Bakhauddin Nakhshbandi Mausoleum is a place of pilgrimage for Sufis, a branch of Moslems.  The mausoleum honors a Sufi holy man who lived from 1318 to 1389, and left many aphorisms, such as this one:  "If you sow the seed of good it will grow into seven ears, and then yield seven hundred good deeds."  Our guide, Abdu, told us he is a Sufi.  Abdu likes the sect's emphasis on personal righteousness and good deeds, rather than outward display.

We wandered the grounds of the mausoleum, which included welcome pools and greenery.

The complex is noted for its highly decorated ceilings.

Dave took this photo of me accepting an Asian floor toilet to ease my aches and pains.  That was very brave.

The Hotel Amelia was within Old Bukhara and was unique and charming.

Our bedroom was draped with velvet and decorated with panels of pastel paintings.

A special feature of this hotel was the extraordinary breakfasts fixed by the elegantly dressed maître d’, who, Abdu said, also baked the pastries.  “Each morning the pastries are different,” Abdu pointed out.  I especially enjoyed the rolls, with different fillings.  One morning they were stuffed with spinach, and the next with cheese and onions.  Our table was also full of little dishes of cheese and sausage, sweet cheese pastries, watermelon, tomatoes and cucumbers, a basket of flatbread, and crispy pretzel-like rounds.  “Eggs? Omelet?” the maître d’ asked, while sliding a plate of crepes onto the table.

In the evening, I felt better, and Abdu took me back to the places he had shown Mike and Dave.  “You didn’t miss anything,” Dave assured me.   We walked about the beautiful old city in the golden light of evening. 

The Kalon Minaret is one of the defining symbols of Bukhara.