A Carpet Ride to Khiva: Seven Years on the Silk Road (23 page)

Although I had no first-hand experience, I was aware that torture was routinely used and that people regularly
disappeared. Young men in custody were raped into signing confessions, although this was less common now as a more effective method was to haul in the victim’s mother and strip her in front of the accused, threatening to rape her if confessions weren’t signed. Sometimes, as I walked down Broadway with an ice-cream, past the former KGB headquarters, I wondered what was taking place in the basements
beneath me.

Often family members of suspected Islamic fundamentalists bore the brunt of government repression. Young, radical men who would willingly give their lives for
jihad
were soon stammering for mercy when their frightened fathers or sisters were hauled in for interrogation and threatened with long prison sentences or worse. Sometimes loved ones of an absconded young man were taken
as unofficial hostages. Jihad and paradise suddenly became tradeable commodities for young men anguished at the violent retribution they had brought upon their families.

Nor were Islamic fundamentalists – dubbed wahabis – the only ones to suffer. Many pious Muslims with no violent aspirations were persecuted for their beliefs, expelled from state employment and often imprisoned or used as
scapegoats. It seemed baffling that a government proud of its Muslim heritage would persecute the faithful. Many compared the political situation, particularly in the Fergana valley, to the purges under Stalin, as people still disappeared and the general population were kept in check by state terror.

Khiva was not immune from this. A father, emboldened by too much drink at his son’s wedding,
announced: ‘I want to give a toast to Putin because it’s Moscow and President Putin who give my son work. He’s the one that keeps bread on the table for us here in Uzbekistan!’

Perhaps there was an informer at the wedding, or the secret police obtained a copy of the wedding video. Two days later the man disappeared and was never seen again.

The government persecuted other faiths as
well. Bakhtior, my gangster friend turned Christian, was regularly hauled in to the former KGB office for interrogation, and was even offered a lucrative contract as an informer. During one session he was presented with a photo of the two of us drinking tea in an open-air
chaikhana
or tea-house. Who was this foreigner, they wanted to know, and what was the purpose of our meetings? He told them
we were simply friends, but they didn’t believe him.

Our office phone was tapped by the secret police, as were the phone lines of all foreigners. Unwanted listeners were a silent reminder that certain topics should be avoided, and that calls lasting longer than 40 minutes would be cut off as the recording tape needed changing. I heard from an American who’d lived in Tashkent in the early
days after independence. His call had been interrupted by a heavily accented voice requesting: ‘Please, speak a little slower.’

The state employed many secret police – a job with the former KGB was considered an aspirational career option – providing them with generous salaries. New enemies of the state were constantly needed to justify their payroll. For now the focus was on pious Muslims,
for whom I felt sympathy, little realising that soon they would turn their attentions to foreign development workers.

* * *

For the next few days, we arrived at the shop each morning, worked on the loom, and provided tours. We sold the large medallion rug, which I’d been concerned was too large and pricey for a tourist budget. I met Neville, the new director of the British Council,
who purchased the rebel rug. Over lunch we discussed the possibility of future collaboration.

Word got out among the delegates that I could offer free and impartial travel advice. For those wanting to visit the fabled Silk Road cities, an official package was offered at an astronomical price. Delegates enquiring about independent travel were told that the road to Samarkand was closed for
repairs, with the official tour by plane their only option. Happy to subvert this fiction, I explained where to take a shared taxi to Samarkand and recommended small, family-run hotels there.

Nor was this the only duplicity taking place during the conference. The government had been heavily criticised for its paltry state wages – averaging around $20 a month – clearly not enough to cover
even a weekly grocery bill. In response, secret police entered the two bazaars nearest the Intercontinental, ordering stall-holders to write new prices next to their piles of fruit and vegetables – a fraction of their normal cost. Their plans backfired as chaos broke out in the bazaars. Customers demanded the incredible prices displayed, stall-holders refused to sell, and the sham was exposed.

Creating the illusion of progress was something the government was well practised in. All over Tashkent, the shells of gleaming glass buildings exuded a sense of modernity. Entering them, it quickly became apparent from the crumbling concrete and ageing interiors that these were mere facades built over existing Soviet blocks.

The issue of corruption was also raised at the conference
and a new term – neo-feudalism – coined to describe the transfer of state property into the hands of an exclusive coterie of oligarchs. Uzbekistan, in the economic sense of the word, was now merely a euphemism for the deep pockets of its oligarchs. Most notorious was President Karimov’s daughter Gulnora, who had built up a huge empire of factories, hotels and businesses, buying anything she wanted,
whether it was for sale or not. She divorced her husband – director of Coca-Cola Uzbekistan – who had enjoyed government favour, and the fortunes of Coke rapidly soured, government harassment leading to the closure of all their factories.

Nor was corruption restricted to the upper echelons of society. My initial disgust with school teachers expecting bribes from students was tempered when
I learnt that they in turn had half their salaries stolen by their directors, and were threatened with the sack if they complained. Doctors and nurses wouldn’t operate without a bribe, gas meter-readers were financially induced to ensure low gas bills, and of course the police were the biggest law-breakers, some even renting out their uniforms to friends so they could wave down traffic and collect
‘fines’. Factory workers stole produce to sell in the bazaar, and so it went on. Work hours in government jobs were treated with scant regard. The rule of thumb was: ‘You pretend to pay me and I’ll pretend to work.’

Corruption had created a grey economy with no regulation, recourse to justice or accountability. The reality and danger of this unworkable system was brought home when one considered
the latest crop of graduating doctors; the majority being rich kids who had paid their way through study and knew little about medicine.

It was impossible to determine a person’s real income merely from their wages, as a badly-paid government job might provide excellent opportunities in the grey economy. The Mayor of Khiva, for example, somehow made his $60 a month stretch to encompass a
fleet of cars and drivers, a palatial house studded with satellite dishes, a rampant drinking habit, and lavish banquets on an almost daily basis. A friend whose father was the vice-Mayor explained how much bribe money was needed to attain the position of town, city or regional Mayor. The regional position currently demanded up-front payment of one million dollars.

Seamlessly, the country
was returning to the feudalism, nepotism and oppression of the Khans and Emirs, undoing any progress towards meritocracy made under the Soviets.

* * *

We finished our last day at the conference, selling all but one of the carpets. Our sales would pay wages for some time to come, and I gave Zamireh and Shokhla money to buy a small gift for each of our workers. We spent a free afternoon
back at Broadway, where I browsed the art stalls while the weavers haggled over plastic key-rings full of liquid and glittery hearts.

We returned by train, managing to get a whole cabin to ourselves. It was the weavers’ first-ever train journey, but the novelty of all these firsts was wearing off. Soon, tired but happy, they were curled up asleep. The evening sun slanted through the window
as we passed village women out in the fields tending cotton seedlings.

11

Warp and weft

‘You are a strange and complicated lot of people: why does a person have to waste his time three times a day, washing fifteen plates, and knives and forks, when only one dish is necessary?!’

—Observation of a local boy to the Mennonite Germans of Khiva, Ella Maillart,
Turkestan Solo
, 1933

Back from Tashkent, Zamireh and Shokhla were the centre
of attention. Weavers peppered them with questions as they recounted tales of escalators, trams and other wonders of the big city.

Our presence in the capital had raised the workshop profile, and soon orders from the expatriate community trickled in. Our most lucrative initial client was the director of a dodgy-sounding company that had a ‘special agreement’ with the Uzbek government – whatever
that meant – to exclusive uranium mining rights. They ordered a number of huge carpets as gifts for their clients.

New carpets were cut from the loom and most sold quickly. Often buyers connected with a particular design straight away and, despite looking at others, it was clear which one they would purchase. The one left-over rug from Tashkent remained unsold for weeks until a one-legged
Englishman fell in love with it, writing twice afterwards to say how much joy it gave him.

I came across an eclectic mix of eccentric travellers, some working their way around the world using conventional means, others cycling or driving antique cars. The passing travellers who stick most firmly in my mind were two middle-aged German brothers, David and his brother Helmut, and David’s son
Willy. They arrived in a large camper van, having driven overland from Germany to Kyrgyzstan and then on to Khiva. They hadn’t come as tourists, but to deliver aid and to fulfil a quest – they wanted to discover their roots. Helmut and Willy were German Mennonites, and Khiva – the birthplace of their parents and grandparents – was their destination.

The German Mennonites of the 19th century
were a Protestant sect similar to the Anabaptists and Amish and were staunch pacifists, keen to work the land in peace. Having refused to involve themselves in military service, they were exiled from Prussia and made their way east, settling in the Volga valley in Russia. In 1881 the Tsar made military service compulsory. The community refused again, and the Tsar was about to deport them when
salvation came from an unlikely source. The bloodthirsty General Kaufmann, better known for his exploits on the battlefield subjugating Turkestan to Tsarist rule, interceded on their behalf. He himself was an ethnic German and was keen to colonise the newly conquered Emirates and Khanates of Turkestan.

‘Why not send them to the heathen in Turkestan?’ he suggested to the Tsar. ‘They might
have a civilising effect on them.’

And that is what happened.

The Mennonites arrived in Tashkent just as Tsar Alexander II was assassinated and General Kaufmann suffered a stroke, leaving them homeless. They travelled to Bukhara, hoping to claim asylum from the Emir, but, unimpressed with the lack of hygiene and the oppression they witnessed, they hurried on. As they followed the Amu
River, the decision of where to settle was made for them. A band of marauding Turkmen stole their horses and livestock while on Khivan territory, leaving them no option but to claim restitution from the Khan. Feruz Khan knew that the livestock were gone for good but offered instead the village of Okh Mejit (white mosque), a saltmarsh on the edge of the oasis, ten miles from Khiva.

With their
strong Protestant work ethic, the Mennonites had soon drained the marshes and built a little community; and the Khan, hearing of their skilled carpenters, employed many of them in his palaces. The result was a fusion of Central Asian and European design that can still be seen today in Khiva’s summer palace, the hospital and post office.

These honest Germans found favour with the Khan and
some became his most trusted advisors. Safe in the knowledge that they would never plot or scheme behind his back, he was also mystified at their complete lack of sycophantic behaviour. The Khivans also found them a mystery, with their different religious festivals and their austere black and white clothing, in marked contrast to the riotous colours of local robes.

Although the cultures
couldn’t have been further apart, they co-existed well and the Germans particularly endeared themselves to their neighbours when they provided them with food during a year of famine. They also introduced Khiva to the cucumber, the tomato and the potato, all unheard of before the Germans’ arrival. Happy to lead a quiet life, most Mennonites were saving money to buy passages to Canada, where many others
of their sect had settled.

In 1899 a British traveller, inspired by Captain Burnaby’s horseback adventures 25 years earlier, decided to cycle all the way from England to Khiva. After terrible culture shock and disillusionment with Khiva, he cycled a little further to Okh Mejit and thoroughly enjoyed this unexpected European oasis. Two decades later, Ella Maillart from Switzerland and Ella
Christie from Scotland travelled separately to Khiva before the collapse of the Khanate, spending time in the German village, remembering to chew slowly and not indulge in idle chatter. They noted the impact the Mennonites had on the community around them, introducing photography, glass-blowing and new methods of agriculture.

Helmut and David wanted to drive out to Okh Mejit to see what
was left of the German settlement. They told me how their grandmother, Eustina Penner, had been the Khan’s flower-girl. Under her care his rose garden bloomed and she was regularly invited to his lavish banquets. Eustina spoke both Platts German and the Khorezm dialect and married one of the Mennonite farm boys. David and Helmut’s parents were both born in Okh Mejit but were just a few years old when
the whole community was forced to leave.

In the 1930s, the village became a casualty of Soviet policy. The Bolsheviks generally found fomenting discord between the ruling oppressors and the proletariat a fairly easy task. However, in Okh Mejit the villagers already exemplified the Communist virtues of equality and had no oppressed proletariat in need of a revolution. The Mennonites had no
interest in changing their ways and, although pacifists, they were still Germans with a strong stubborn streak. The Bolsheviks, unable to change them, decided to exile them instead, shooting those who refused to leave – including David and Helmut’s uncle.

They were moved to the newly established Soviet state of Tajikistan and forced to work on collective farms. Those who would not – like
Eustina’s husband – were promptly shot or sent to gulags in Siberia. During the Second World War the whole community was once more displaced, this time to the Ural mountains where they were forced to work the mines under harrowing conditions. The survivors experienced a revival of their faith after the war but feared the brutal reign of Stalin and his religious persecution. The community elders had
heard that in Kyrgyzstan, far from the iron fist of Moscow, there was greater tolerance of religious practice, and the community were given permission to move there – where some are to this day.

Most, like David and Helmut, accepted the invitation of repatriation to Germany. They left Osh – the second-largest city in Kyrgyzstan – in 1981, to make a new life for themselves. Many found the
transition difficult, as Germany was more alien than anything they had previously encountered. They were known as ‘Russian Germans’ and often stuck to their communities – their 19th-century dialect and values jarring with modern, secular Europe.

Arriving in Okh Mejit, David and Helmut surveyed the site of their village, which had been turned into a Soviet youth camp and was now in a state
of general decay. A middle-aged Uzbek man came to investigate our presence and was excited to hear who David and Helmut were. He pointed out a gnarled old pear tree in a field.

‘Your people planted that!’ he explained. ‘And it still bears fruit. You see this well here – it still works, after all this time.’

There wasn’t much else to see. Most of the houses had fallen down or been razed.
It was hard to imagine that this was once a little slice of Europe buried in the heart of Central Asia.

* * *

We had our own departing German. Matthias finished his six months in Khiva and the workshop held a farewell party for him. We couldn’t afford to give him one of our own carpets but some of the weavers had woven a wool kilim for him. He had rescued my accounting efforts at the
workshop from complete disaster and had been a great asset to our Operation Mercy team.

My life took on a steady rhythm. Monday mornings were for Operation Mercy meetings which seemed to go on for ever, regardless of what we had on the agenda. On Wednesdays each team member took a turn cooking a slap-up meal for the rest of us. Saturday mornings were a ritual of sleeping in (except in summer
when it was too hot) and reading in bed, followed by a leisurely work-out. I enjoyed the local gym, considered the best in Khiva.

Our office had accumulated a decent collection of DVDs, largely from China and Afghanistan and often of dubious quality, which provided great opportunities for escapism. In winter there wasn’t much to do other than visiting friends in their homes or going to the
homom. In summer I visited the desert lakes with Bakhtior the wrestler and his mates. They were a fearless lot except when it came to swimming – convinced that man-eating catfish prowled the depths. I also hung out with Zafar and the other souvenir-sellers, discussing passing tourists in Uzbek and enjoying being the gossiper for once rather than the source of endless idle speculation. With my improved
language ability I’d often sit on a bus in silent amusement as passengers loudly speculated about me, unaware that I understood.

It was the souvenir-sellers who invited me to join a
tashkil
. At first I wasn’t too keen on this specialised collective party, remembering my first experience of revelry with Zafar and his friends during my early months in Khiva. The party had been held in the
guestroom of one of the local tourist guides.

The floor was covered with a long plastic tablecloth, plastered with food that had obviously once been laid out in an orderly fashion. Now it was covered in dismembered bones, corks, crumbs and stray pieces of salad. Around the tablecloth, sitting cross-legged on corpuches or lolling on the lap of a friend, were the other guests – about ten of
them and all male.

I attempted conversation with my neighbours but this had quickly petered out. Someone poured a large shot of vodka for me that I politely declined; another offered me a cigarette, but I don’t smoke. Huge platters of mutton swimming in fat arrived and the crowd attacked them with gusto. ‘Oling, oling!’ they said, pointing at the food. I smiled weakly, trying to explain
that I was vegetarian. Someone made a joke and they all guffawed as I tittered, pretending to understand.

‘So, Aslan,’ began one of the woolly hat-sellers, leaning towards me and putting a conspiratorial hand on my knee. ‘What do you think of the girls in Khiva, eh? Have you been getting any?’ At this point he made a fist which he slapped against his other hand. ‘What?’ he roared. ‘You haven’t
found a “mattress” yet? What’s the matter with you?’ Jabbing at my crotch, he made a slicing motion at the tip of his forefinger. ‘Are you cut?’ I looked down at my own finger in confusion. ‘No.’ He cupped my crotch. ‘Are you cut? Circumcised?’ All eyes were upon me at this point, as I sat in miserable silence.

‘Maybe we’ve got something that will give you a little help, eh?’ The hat-seller
bellowed with laughter, spraying my plate with congealing pieces of sheep. ‘Hey, have you got a sex kino? A good pornografika?’ he asked our host, who began rooting around for a video at the back of his cupboard.

Desperate to extricate myself, I was saved by Zafar, who spotted a video of
Mr Bean
and decided that I would enjoy watching a fellow Englishman. The conversation moved on, with
more toasts and another whole course of food. Belts were undone, followed by a round of belching, and the guests reclined against bolsters or a friend’s knee. Three of the men roused themselves and, with smirks, disappeared for an hour to a nearby brothel.

A rowdy game of cards ensued. Zafar tried to involve me, but however patiently the rules were explained, I proved inept. Sitting there
watching
Mr Bean
in the midst of the bawdiness, I felt complete empathy with my fellow social pariah. After all, I didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, didn’t eat meat, didn’t understand jokes, couldn’t pick up card-games, didn’t want to watch porn. What, in fact, was I doing at this party anyway?

By eleven, the party showed no signs of slowing and I asked Zafar when it would finish.

‘Maybe
till one, or maybe two, who knows? Maybe we will all sleep here or maybe we won’t sleep at all and just play cards until breakfast.’

‘What about the women who are making all this food?’ I asked.

‘What about them? If we stay up all night, then they will cook for us all night. Our women are very good and look after us well.’

I finally begged my leave, making hollow excuses about
ill health. The oldest man began a prayer as the guests, blinking drunkenly, cupped their hands, washing them over their faces at the ‘Amin’.

My first Uzbek party was a disaster and I had no intention of ever attending another one. So I treated this new invitation with caution, but reminded myself that my language ability had vastly improved and that the tashkil would include my Uzbek host
mother and an old lady who knitted socks a few stalls down from Zafar’s. If these women were also guests, the party wouldn’t get too rowdy; and I still wanted to be part of a tashkil – an ingenious party that doubled as a bank.