A Carpet Ride to Khiva: Seven Years on the Silk Road (16 page)

We entered one of them and I watched Davlatnaza peel off his filthy trousers, explaining superfluously that this was his first time in a homom. There was no bathroom in his house and I wondered
when was the last time – if ever – that he had actually washed. He used the shower first – a thick snake of dirty water pouring down the drain. Once showered, we sat in the sauna and I asked them if they knew how the Anusha Khan homom got its name. They didn’t, and – as it was one of my favourite stories garnered from Isak the guide – I decided to tell it to them.

There had once been a young
prince called Abdul, who fell madly in love with his distant cousin, Anusha. They talked of a future together, the prince declaring that he would take no other wives, for his heart would always belong to her. Tragically, Anusha suffered from incurable ill health and as she lay on her deathbed, the prince sobbed, clasping her hand. He vowed never to forget her, promising to name his first daughter
Anusha in her memory.

The years passed and the grief-stricken prince became Abdul Gazi, Khan of Khiva. Determined that Anusha’s memory should live on through a daughter, the Khan was constantly frustrated as his plethora of wives bore him son after son. Finally, in exasperation, he summoned his entire harem and railed against this conspiracy. The next woman to bear him a son, he declared,
would be executed along with her baby.

This was particularly bad news for one heavily pregnant wife, and even worse when she gave birth to a son. In desperation, she wrapped the baby in swaddling clothes and – with nothing to lose – presented him to the Khan, saying: ‘At last, my master, here is your first daughter, Anusha.’

The Khan, happy to take her word for it, was delighted and
Anusha quickly became his favourite – the mother showered with favours.

Anusha grew up freer than other girls, keen to ride and hear stories of battle. The Khan enjoyed her company, secure in the knowledge that a daughter would not be plotting patricide as some of his sons were wont to do. Anusha, pained at the deception, longed to tell her father the truth, but knew that this would condemn
both her and her mother to death. The Khan, oblivious to this, could not understand why Anusha, at the ripe age of fourteen, had dissolved into tears at the mention of marriage.

But all plans for Anusha’s betrothal were placed on hold as the Khan prepared for war against the Emir of Bukhara. Together with his sons and vast army, the Khan rode off to battle, leaving the city of Khiva largely
undefended. This fact had not escaped the attention of a marauding band of Turkmen robbers. They planned a massive raid on Khiva to loot and pillage with impunity. Wisely, the Khan had installed his spies among the Turkmen and one of them sent word to Khiva of an imminent attack.

Pandemonium broke out within the harem, but as the Khan’s wives became hysterical, Anusha veiled herself and
ordered the Royal Guard to assemble before her. She had a plan, simple and audacious. The remaining soldiers were to call up the entire adult population of the city and have the women dress in men’s clothes, bringing with them all horses and donkeys. They would then assemble in battle formation outside the Grandfather Gate, with the Royal Guard stationed in the front two rows.

This done,
Anusha joined the ranks of unlikely soldiers standing before the gate. Soon, a cloud of dust, visible in the distance, announced the arrival of the Turkmens. They drew closer and closer until the captain of the Royal Guard gave the order to charge. The pretend army surged forward on horseback, on donkeys or on foot. The ruse worked. The bandits, assuming that the Khan had discovered their scheme
and returned to slaughter them, turned tail and galloped away as fast as they could. Anusha had saved her city from certain destruction.

Hearing of this, the Khan swiftly returned from the battlefield, throwing a lavish banquet in honour of Anusha. As the celebration progressed, the Khan summoned his daughter before him.

‘Anusha, my daughter,’ he began. ‘Today I owe you my Khanate
and my honour. What is it that you want? Name it and it shall be yours.’

Anusha thought for a moment and said in a quiet voice: ‘If it please my father and master, I ask for only two things: my life and the life of my mother.’

There was a puzzled silence, followed by assent from the Khan. Anusha then took his father aside, revealing his true identity and explaining his mother’s subterfuge.
The Khan was gracious, and declared: ‘Behold, my son Anusha. To him will I give my inheritance and he will become Khan after me.’

And so Anusha became Khan, and he and his father are both entombed in the Pakhlavan Mahmud mausoleum. The Khan bequeathed Anusha the city of Hazerasp, and named Khiva’s homom after him.

As the story reached its conclusion, all three dyers gratefully staggered
out of the sauna to douse themselves and get some air.

We began scrubbing ourselves, and as the streams of filth slithered off Hoshnaut and Davlatnaza they both became visibly lighter in colour. Toychi – ashamed of nothing – scrutinised me, wanting to know whether British men were usually circumcised, why I didn’t shave my pubic hair, which brothels I frequented and who was my favourite.
He then explained his own sexual frustrations. Although just seventeen, he’d been engaged and set to marry when his father unexpectedly died. All wedding plans were postponed until a year of official mourning had passed, leaving Toychi’s passions untrammelled. This inevitably gave rise to the subject of donkeys.

My first confrontation with this subject had taken place while wedged in the
back seat of a shared taxi on my way from the Tajik border to Samarkand. The journey was long and, as I tried to read, my fellow passengers quizzed me on my sexual conquests in Uzbekistan. Disappointed with my answers, they then suggested that, as a wealthy foreigner, the least I could do was to pay for a trip to the brothel. I declined. Would I, they ventured, prefer a stable-stop instead? At first
I thought this was a joke, but soon they were regaling each other with amusing anecdotes of their own teenage liaisons with donkeys, agreeing on a preference for foals. Hadn’t I heard the proverb, ‘An Uzbek man’s first wife is his donkey’?

I asked whether any donkey would do, or whether it had to be female, provoking an outraged response. What sort of men did I think they were? Of course
they would never touch a male donkey, and nor would any other animal arouse their ardour. I was obviously extremely ignorant, and they helpfully asked a policeman at the next checkpoint where the nearest donkeys were tethered, to initiate their foreign guest. Only a feigned deep sleep changed the topic of conversation.

Eager to avoid more talk of donkeys, I asked the dyers about their family
backgrounds. Toychi’s was predictably scandalous. His mother had left her husband and eloped with a young musician, despite the fact that she already had three sons. This was unheard of, even among the few Russians living in town. Toychi had been their love-child and had inherited his father’s impudence and charm. His older half-brothers had all gone to Russia in search of work and Toychi would
have joined them if he hadn’t been given a job at the workshop.

Hoshnaut – small and wiry – was born in Turkmenistan but had moved to Khiva as a child. It was from other sources that I learnt he had been placed in the Khiva institute for those with learning difficulties and was considered something of a joke. He strutted around the workshop declaring to no one in particular that he was a
dyer now and a man of importance, and the weavers took great delight in baiting him. Toychi and Hoshnaut bickered and fought like cubs, but Toychi leapt to his defence whenever Hoshnaut was picked on.

Hoshnaut and Davlatnaza were good friends and neighbours – Hoshnaut living in an equally tiny and squalid hovel. Davlatnaza was thrilled to have work. He had always been told what he couldn’t
do because of his disability, but now he wasn’t just living on a pension and maybe people would take him seriously.

* * *

It was a week after a subsequent trip to the homom with the dyers that I finally decided to investigate the source of constant itching. Having stripped, I discovered that these were no mosquito bites but colonies of body-lice – one particularly fat louse in the
process of laying eggs. Cursing Davlatnaza – undoubtedly the source of these creatures – I wondered what local or Soviet cures were available to get rid of them. All I knew was that I had no intention of being ‘radiated’ again.

‘Radiation’ was probably my most bizarre experience of Soviet-style medical treatment. It took place during an integration camp for the disabled run by Operation
Mercy in the mountains near Tashkent, and began with the discovery that two deaf brothers from Namangan had scabies. The camp doctor examined them and – rueing the day she had ever consented to let these disabled vermin into her camp – ordered that we must all leave at once.

Catriona reasoned with her and we were grudgingly given permission to stay. There was one condition. All those from
our camp wanting to use the swimming pool must be radiated. Some of our foreign volunteers, horrified at what this might entail, refused. I on the other hand had endured a long dusty summer in Khiva and was unwilling to relinquish my swimming rights for anything.

That afternoon, I found myself in the medical facility monitoring a group of boys from our camp, all of us stripped to our underwear.
The girls had been radiated that morning and had told us the routine.

‘First I must power up ze machine!’ explained a mad-scientist Russian matron in a lab-coat. I caught a glimpse of a large lamp on a stand in the room behind her that emitted ultraviolet light. Once the radiation lamp was powered up, I had to blindfold each boy and march them all into a circle around the lamp. We all dropped
our pants, blindfolded, and stood spread-eagled as the lamp was switched on. Thoughts of cancer and infertility flitted through my mind, but I focused on the cool pool I would soon be plunging into – a bellow from the nurse outside signalling that it was time for us to turn and radiate our backs.

I brought my embarrassing louse situation to Madrim’s attention, miming the word for louse which
I’d never needed before. He agreed with my conclusion that Davlatnaza had been the source, and with
anti-bit
written on a scrap of paper, I headed for the chemist section of the bazaar. Dousing myself with half a large bottle, I gathered my clothes and laid them in the sun for a few days, as nits were often laid in the seams. Davlatnaza received the remaining half-bottle and a lengthy homily on
hygiene. Regina, an occupational therapist working with Andrea, had recently suffered from an outbreak of fleas after spending the night in one of the village houses, and found them breeding in her own house. I knew of other foreigners who could only visit village houses wearing anti-flea cat-collars on their wrists and ankles, having proved particularly popular with the local parasites.

* * *

Although I spent time with the apprentice dyers, they were younger and there was always the barrier of my being their boss. It was with Madrim that I became really close. He would often invite me to his home after work and we’d lounge on corpuches, drinking bowls of green tea and discussing the latest challenges at work. I told him of my original misgivings about employing him, as Koranbeg’s
brother, but how grateful I was that we had. Never had I come across someone so untiringly scrupulous in their work.

Madrim told me more about his background. He had been painfully shy at school, weight-training to defend himself in the playground. His fine physique stood him in good stead during his service in the Red Army. Like so many Khivans on army service, he was sent to Leningrad
speaking almost no Russian, having never travelled further than Tashkent. Suddenly he found himself eating pork, drinking vodka and joining in with the inter-ethnic fighting that made for recreation in the barracks. Uzbek and Azeri recruits were the bitterest opponents unless a squabble broke out with Russians or Ukrainians, at which point they leapt to their fellow Muslims’ aid.

I asked
him if there had been any romances with Russian girls during his service and he just laughed. On arrival at the barracks they were given a medical which included injections repeated twice a year. They soon realised that these caused impotence for around six months, ensuring that soldiers kept their minds on the job. He had been promoted as an exemplary soldier and had even served briefly in Afghanistan,
although had never experienced any fighting.

Madrim returned from the army and his parents began looking for a suitable wife. He mentioned a girl in his class who he’d always liked, and the marriage was arranged. He wanted to train as a doctor but instead applied to the Institute of Restoration, learning the different styles of
naqsh
, or design – both arabesque and geometrical.

Loving
his job, Madrim had always worked hard, restoring the Naqshbandi mausoleum in Bukhara and a couple of mosques in Shakrisabz, as well as the Khan’s palace in Kokand. Slowly, he had saved enough money to buy land and then build a house. Along with his wife and three children, he had lived a simple but happy existence until the realities of independent Uzbekistan began to sink in.

‘When they
told me that there was no more work for me, I didn’t know what to do. In the Soviet times everyone had work, or the government would help you to find work. Now they just said
bulder
, it’s finished, you’re on your own. We were still setting up our own home and there was so much work to be done, and three children to feed. I talked with my brother and he told me that I must do what everyone else
was doing and go to Russia or Kazakhstan as a builder. I asked around and found a man who knew someone who knew someone and, together with four or five others, we travelled to a place near Chimkent.