A Carpet Ride to Khiva: Seven Years on the Silk Road

by Christopher Aslan Alexander

  A group of Belgians arrived at the workshop, without a guide, and decided to buy the carpet called Shirin. They were the first of many customers who desperately wanted a rug without ready cash to pay for it. I explained that we couldn’t take credit cards, as this would entail a time-consuming attempt to extract our money from the bank – impossible without paying a hefty bribe. Instead, we asked customers to pay what they could and take the carpet on trust, completing their payment in Tashkent – where larger hotels had cashpoints – by leaving the money at the Operation Mercy office. It wasn’t a very professional way of doing things, but no one ever abused the honour system – extended only to those we deemed trustworthy.

  Toychi bundled the carpet into a bazaar bag while Madrim wrote out export documents. I handed the rug over with a sudden rush of mixed emotions. This was our first sale and a cause for celebration, but I felt as if I were giving away one of my babies, thinking of all it had taken to bring this carpet into existence.

  ‘You will take good care of it, won’t you?’ I implored. ‘Remember, silk doesn’t have the bounce that wool does, so make sure you don’t leave furniture on it. You should walk on it, though, as the friction of your feet polishes it and fluffs open the knots.’

  I was sure there was more I could have said, but the Belgians just nodded indulgently and assured me that the carpet was in good hands. They took photos of themselves with the weavers and promised to send back a picture of the rug in its new home. The whole workshop came out to see them go. Madrim gave my shoulder a squeeze and I felt stupid for getting emotional.

  * * *

  September and October were the most popular months for tourism, and a time when small hills of melons were on sale in the bazaar. The days were warm and the nights crisp. This pleasant weather ended abruptly in late October when a few days of rain and cloud sent the temperature plummeting. The flimsy wooden doors of each madrassah cell were no match for the icy draughts, and we needed some form of insulation. I set off with Madrim to enlist the help of Khiva’s last felt-maker.

  We were greeted by the felt-maker himself – a diminutive old man with a flowing white beard, stooping heavily. I shook his extended hand and he yanked mine sharply, knocking me off balance.

  ‘You see!’ he cackled, ‘I may be 80 but I’m still strong as an ox! Just you ask my wife. Every night I’m ready and she doesn’t have the strength to fight me off anymore!’

  We smiled weakly at this revelation as he beckoned us in. His wife had positioned herself over a beshik cradle and was breast-feeding her grandchild. Many village grandmothers still lactated, and grandchildren as old as ten or eleven often came for a cuddle and comfort feed.

  ‘I’m the last felt usta, you know,’ the old man explained. ‘My sons, they’re all lazy. None of them want to make felt when they can run off to Russia every summer. What will happen when God takes me? Who will you go to then?’

  In his workshop behind the house, tufts of wool were laid out on the floor on top of a large sheet. Most of the wool was a natural cream or dark grey, but some had been dyed a lurid magenta, to which the usta proudly drew our attention. He explained that the clumps of raw wool, laid out in a rough pattern, were rolled up in the sheet and covered in boiling water. The sheet, folded into a reed mat, was then rolled continually for a couple of hours as the shrinking wool fibre matted, creating felt. This would keep the draughts out nicely, and we ordered enough mats to cover each cell door.

  Once nailed in place, the felt insulated the cells effectively but left a pervading odour of sheep. Now I understood why felt alone was enough to wall the yurts used by nomads in winter, keeping out the sharpest wind and cold. According to Gustav Krist, the infamous kara kurt or black widow spider never ventured onto felt, making it the ideal ground-sheet for camping.

  It was now the end of 2002, and Barry emailed announcing his return to Uzbekistan and plans to visit the workshop. I wondered how he’d react to our ‘rebel rug’, now one third complete. We would just have to let him rant and then get on with life as normal.

  On his arrival he wanted a tour of the premises, and surprised us all by complimenting us on our progress and admiring the finished carpets. Assuming that his approval would be short-lived, I reluctantly led him into the weaving cell where the ‘rebel rug’ was taking shape.

  ‘Please, ask the girls to leave,’ said Barry, his eyes glued to the rebel rug.

  Galvanising myself for a huge row, I asked the weavers, who were nervously exchanging glances, to step outside.

  ‘That’s better,’ Barry continued. ‘I just needed some space and quiet to really enjoy this magnificent design.’

  I wasn’t sure what to say. Barry was transfixed, examining the borders and then the field and comparing it with the laminated graph-paper pattern. He asked me to inform the workers how pleased he was with our progress, so much better than the Bukhara workshop. This last comment was particularly well received, marking a turning point in my relationship with Barry. We still had occasional disagreements, but a little praise had gone a long way to improving our working relationship.

  * * *

  A few weeks later the first really cold snap arrived, with temperatures down to –15°C at night. In timely fashion, there was also a gas cut for the whole town. Uzbekistan curiously managed to export gas but never seemed to have enough for its own population, who shivered as the fat cats running the state gas company disappeared to Thailand for some winter sun. My Uzbek family colonised one room, where two electric heaters took the edge off the cold. Here, they ate, slept, bickered and watched TV. I was invited to join them, but opted for peace over warmth. Sleep was possible only if I wore a woolly hat and snuggled under two duvets with a hot-water bottle. Each morning I began my winter routine, lifting weights to warm up a bit before jumping under the freezing cold shower just enough to lather up. As I’d discovered, most Uzbeks were unwilling to brave the perils of cold water – fearing immediate death – which meant the sickly-sweet smell of unwashed bodies pervaded every crowded bus, train or building.

  Our house wasn’t equipped for the cold at all, having been built in the Soviet heyday of cheap and plentiful gas supplies when women would leave their stoves on all day in order to economise on matches. Before the arrival of gas pipes in the 1960s, charcoal – scarce and expensive – was the main source of fuel. Houses were built with a small living room in which everyone huddled together in winter. A small pile of burning charcoal kept the samovar brewing for hot bowls of green tea. In the centre of the floor was a depression in which a brazier of coals was placed. A low table stood over it, covered by a large quilt. Family members sat around the table wearing layers of robes, their nether regions covered by the quilt and warmed by the brazier’s heat. At night, during particularly cold winters, it wasn’t unknown for whole families to freeze to death in their beds.

  The gas cut meant that progress at the workshop ground to a halt. Madrim tried to coax a tiny flame under one of the cauldrons, but after a brief flicker there was nothing. The price of firewood rocketed. We had no choice but to buy a donkey-cart’s-worth. While the weavers sat huddled at their looms, bundled in woollen shawls, gloves and headscarves, fogging the air with their breath, the expensive gas heaters that Barry had insisted on stood cold and redundant. We bought some simple electric heaters and promptly overloaded the electric circuits.

  Power cuts were a fixture of life, although the walled city was generally spared – tourism requiring a facade of development. Too many people trying to use electricity to heat rooms and cook, however, meant long cuts even in the walled city, so we gave everyone a week off while we looked for alternatives. The weavers were grateful, as Ramazan – the Uzbek pronunciation of Ramadan – was approaching, and they would be expected to cook huge evening banquets for their extended families.

  The imminent arrival of Ramazan was heralded each evening by gangs of small boys who roame
d the streets knocking on doors, expecting payment in coins or sweets, shouting a traditional poem that announced the month of fasting. By the third evening of incessant knocking, rewards were usually replaced with scolding, the boys running away jeering and undeterred to the next house. In Khiva few people actually fasted, but it was still considered the done thing. Invariably, whenever I asked someone if they would do the fast this year, their faces assumed pained expressions followed by explanations that, if only their kidneys, or heart, or some other body part were functioning properly, they would gladly, with God’s help, observe Ramazan.

  Much to everyone’s surprise, Abdullah, Koranbeg’s wayward brother, had decided to fast this year. Koranbeg, in solidarity, opted to join him. They spent the first day miserably in front of the television, switching channels whenever vodka or Maggi instant noodles were advertised. That evening, our family hosted a special banquet for the faithful to break their fast in style. On television, a mullah announced when nightfall was official (when it was too dark to distinguish between a white and black piece of string) and cupped his hands in prayer.

  Koranbeg’s mother prayed for our own gathering in a pained whisper that left us guessing when it was time to echo the ‘Amin’ and wash our cupped hands over our faces in blessing. The prayer over, Koranbeg and Abdullah immediately slung back bowls of cold tea and pounced on the bread, scooping up trailing white strands of gooey nashallah and bolting the whole lot down. This treacle-like mixture made with beaten egg-whites and sugar appeared only during the month of fasting, as did boxes of dates from Iran. Bowls of thick laghman noodle broth were brought through by Malika, who was also fasting but still expected to serve. These were followed by large platters of plov. Koranbeg’s friends, having heard about his fast, came by for a free meal and were soon lolling on the corpuches, replete but keen to keep eating. A bottle of vodka appeared and was opened, but Koranbeg and Abdullah piously declined – a first as far as I could remember.

  The following day they continued to fast, waiting impatiently for the announcement of nightfall before attacking the evening banquet. Koranbeg’s friends returned for another free meal and again a bottle of vodka made its way to the table. The novelty of piety was wearing thin, and this time both Koranbeg and Abdullah were soon knocking back shots, breaking the fast Uzbek-style. Koranbeg surfaced the following day at the breakfast table unshaven and hungover.

  ‘I thought you were fasting,’ I said, as he poured a bowl of green tea for himself.

  ‘How can I fast now after getting drunk last night?’ he asked ruefully. ‘Maybe next year, if God wills.’

  While the men in our household had fasted ostentatiously, Shirin – the only weaver fasting at the workshop – displayed none of Koranbeg or Abdullah’s theatrics. Although the biting cold dampened her thirst, the lack of food or hot drinks made staying warm even harder for her. Another friend working in the Mayor’s office also kept quiet about his own piety. A devout Muslim, he’d stopped attending the one working mosque and prayed only at home. He was still thought to be a little too religious and lost his job soon after – the state wary of devotion to anything other than the Motherland.

  * * *

  Khiva may have been ‘the most homogeneous example of Islamic architecture in the world’, but it now had a curious ‘pick and mix’ approach towards Islam. Once the Khan had ruled that all drinkers of alcohol – along with smokers – were to have their mouths slit from ear to ear, which proved particularly unfortunate for Captain Muraviev who had brought the Khan an embellished hookah pipe as a gift. Hearing of the Khan’s edict, he hurriedly explained that it was, in fact, a vinegar bottle. Much had changed after 70 years of Communism, and today the faithful in Khiva weren’t averse to breaking fast with a round of pork shashlik and a tipple of vodka.

  Before the Bolsheviks, madrassahs built by the wealthy and the pious attracted students from as far away as Kashgar in China. They came to study the Koran, some memorising it entirely, spending their days in the shade of a black elm debating the finer points of their religion. Sufi pilgrims heavily influenced the Sunni Islam of Khiva, curing the sick with holy breath or with dust from Mecca and collecting alms in return. Sufism proved popular with Khivans; a more spiritual approach to Islam, it was redolent of their pre-Islamic Nestorian Christian and Zoroastrian roots. Khorezm had been populated by Nestorian Christians up until the arrival of Amir Timur, who wiped out all but a few isolated communities. Their religion was propagated by itinerant monks whose woollen robes and deep spirituality gave rise to the term suf, which means wool in Arabic and was a slang word to describe Muslims wanting to emulate the spirituality they saw in Nestorians. Khorezm was also once a centre for the Zoroastrian faith. Popular Sufism, or folk Islam, was influenced by these earlier faiths, and focused on traditional folk beliefs coated lightly with Muslim rhetoric.

  Under Soviet rule, popular Sufism proved far more resilient than orthodox Islam. Mosques and madrassahs could be closed, and the faithful forced to fast in secret in order to keep their jobs; but home life was harder to control, and in this women’s domain popular Sufism thrived. As I’d witnessed, babies and cradles were covered in stuffed triangular amulets with verses from the Koran placed inside them. Bracelets of ‘eye beads’ fooled the evil eye into believing it already possessed the wearer, and strings of dried chilli peppers and bundles of the dried isfan herb hung outside, protecting houses from spiritual attack.

  Zafar exhibited some of the seemingly contradictory ideas that many Khivans believed in. He was an atheist, he said, clearly evolved from a monkey. I asked him why, if this was the case, he still cupped his hands in prayer at the end of each meal. He paused for thought, explaining that he did believe in some kind of God but wasn’t interested in going to the mosque, fasting or praying. His belief in the evil eye, however, was unwavering.

  ‘Did you know that my wife had a twin sister?’ he asked me once. ‘She was a healthy and happy baby, while my wife was sickly. One day her parents were invited to their neighbours’ and an old woman there kept playing with her and giving her compliments. The baby became sick an hour after they returned home, and they knew that the evil eye had struck. They took her to the hospital, but everyone knew that she would die and, of course, she did.’

  Old women – often with the best intentions – were particularly capable of inflicting the evil eye if they’d never had children of their own. Babies were especially vulnerable and complimenting them was a dangerous provocation, unleashing the evil eye’s jealousy. Instead, if any compliments were given, they were either exaggeratedly inverted – ‘Never have I seen such an ugly baby’ – and stated loudly for the eye to hear, or were followed with two spits and the incantation: ‘May the eye not strike!’

  During a power cut, as the weavers squatted outside, I asked some of them what they thought of fasting. Dark Nazokat, hoping to shock, declared that she didn’t believe in fasting or Islam. ‘Father Lenin will save us!’ she declared jokingly. The majority of the weavers took a more pragmatic approach towards religion – more interested in what God could do for them than in what they could do for God. If they needed something badly, then they would pray or, better still, cook offerings of borsok, fried diamonds of dough, taking them to the tomb of a saint who might intercede for them.

  The most important saint in Khiva was Pakhlavan Mahmud. Some of the weavers told me that he had come to them in dreams, demanding their allegiance and promising good fortune in return. Barren women, often from far away, made pilgrimages to his tomb, weeping as they touched the exquisite elm door inlaid with coral, ivory and pearl, and then transferring blessing from the lintel over their faces. Bridal couples came to the mausoleum on their wedding day, the groom drawing water from the courtyard well and offering it to his bride in the hope of ensuring many children. Removing shoes, the bridal entourage entered the interior, cool in summer and icy in winter. A mullah sat on corpuches next to an electric radiator, in
toning prayers in sing-song Arabic, while the bridal couple offered fresh bread, money and borsok, watched with distinct lack of interest by an enormous white cat who lived there.

  Another popular pilgrimage site was Sultan’s Garden, an inaptly named wilderness of rocky hills littered with tombs, located halfway to Nukus. A trip to Sultan’s Garden, about 30 miles away, was the furthest most of the weavers had ever travelled in their lives, and it was one of the few places permissible for groups of women to visit. Red and white votive rags were attached to the few bushes that clung to the hillsides near carefully piled stones, symbolising wishes, placed next to the tombs of saints.

  Where saints failed to respond, tabibs could be consulted. Some of these traditional healers were herbalists, but most were akin to shamans, administering curses and love-potions, consulting mystical books in Arabic and writing out talismans. Zamireh told me she had once approached a local tabib when her wayward fiancé was led astray by another girl.

  ‘He was entranced by her,’ Zamireh explained, ‘and I realised that she’d given him a love potion or pinned a love amulet on him. I knew this spell needed to be broken, so I went to the tabib who wrote something in Arabic on old paper and then burnt it. After that my fiancé was fine and stopped seeing that other girl.’

  It seemed a convenient way of avoiding personal responsibility to me. Safargul the usta told me about her visit to a palmin, a local fortune-teller, who had read her palm and her tea-leaves. Safargul wasn’t sure if she believed it all, but had been curious. Most of the weavers, while not particularly religious, maintained a wary respect for the evil eye. As well as black and white eye-beads, or chilli amulets, they wore wisps of camel wool – a powerful talisman – wrapped around the buttons of their long cardigans to keep the eye at bay. Most of the looms now had triangular amulets hanging beside stickers of Bollywood film stars, providing spiritual protection. One of the younger weavers had removed an amulet from her loom and the heavy wooden crossbeam snapped a few days later. This had caused all to spit on their hearts twice and intone ‘May the eye not strike’ on hearing the news, and the amulet was hurriedly returned.