Overland adventure travel

Mention certain words to me and immediately they conjure up a picture in my mind that takes me into a world so fabulous that I am oblivious of anything and everything that is happening around me. Mostly, the word is reminiscent of somewhere I have been, or something that has happened to me. However, there are times when the word is pure fantasy. Something, that has never happened or a place in my dreams.

Reality can be fantastic, unbelievable, incredible, emotionally overwhelming as I have proved over these last few months. However, fantasy has the touch of mystic allure. In simple words, it has an added magical emotion that only you or I can feel.

I know I am a dreamer and there are many places, words, or simply feelings, which instantly take me to another world.

One word keeps cropping up over the years. It has power to waft me across the sea to lands of the Far East. It is a real place but I have never been there. I have only read about it, yet at mention of the name, it instantly sends my mind into a tangent of fanciful dreams of intrigue, mystery, and romance.

Now, no longer is it only a word in my imagination. I am in Samarkand.

Perhaps you have never heard of Samarkand. Perhaps the name means nothing to you. For me, it is the pure magic of a make believe world.

Am I dreaming or is it real? I can answer that question myself. No, it is not a dream; I am definitely here in Samarkand.

Better still, I am feeling and experiencing the mystical magic. It is for real. It is no wonder I am feeling a trifle overwhelmed.

First impressions can be deceiving. Our big yellow truck had to park a few blocks from our Hotel. As I walked up the narrow rutted streets, with an open gutter in the middle of the road, my heart sank. Was this the magical Samarkand of my dreams? An old rusty sign proclaimed the entrance to ‘The Legend Hotel'.

I walked through big wooden doors into a courtyard. It was very hot. A large shady tree in the centre of the yard cast a cooling shady patch. In one corner were inviting Bedouin seats ready to sink down and relax.

This looked much better.

All the ground rooms opened on to the courtyard with wooden staircases leading to more rooms at upper levels. The walls around the courtyard were a backdrop to display treasures from yesteryear. Typical old local plates and pottery, antique clocks and hangings adorned the walls. Big earthen jars were dotted around the courtyard, some used as planters others needed no embellishment, their artistic shapes ample evidence of the potters artistry.

Once I stepped through that old wooden door, it was like stepping back in time to another era. An era when Samarkand was one of the busiest stopover's on the Silk Road route.

This was definitely better. I started to feel the pull of by-gone times.

My room was upstairs in a little cranny. It was delightful. It had a cute little low casement window. If I desired, there was no need for me to walk through the conventional door as I could step through the window directly into my own peaceful retreat.

During my stay in Samarkand, I noticed that most of the houses had courtyards with one or two big central trees to give shade and coolness to the interior area of their houses.

I could not wait to explore.

Next morning I was away at daybreak. I made careful note of the maze of streets so that I would not lose my way on return. This might sound simple but I have to make a conscious effort to remember certain landmarks. The last thing I want to do is to give the young ones any opportunity to think the ‘old girl' is getting past it.'

Once out of the maze of tiny back streets it was easy to find my way around. At first sight of the magnificent Registan building all else fell into insignificance. The wonderful green and blue mosaic work all over the buildings and domes and minarets is an eye-catching sight. Mosaic work is one of my favourite expressions of art and the green and blue mosaics, which abound in Samarkand, are very restful on the eye. Even the crooked and tilting medressas add attraction and fascination to the complex. In medieval times, the Registan was the centre of commercial trading and the Plaza was probably a wall-to-wall bazaar.

My mind is brimming over with ideas I would like to create in my little pocket garden back in New Zealand. It is easy to be enthusiastic so far away. When I get home, I may need to cultivate my artistic ability before I try to put my creative ideas into action.

Good dreaming material though.

Mosques, ornate mausoleums, and monuments are dotted round the city so in my wanders there is always something fresh and impressive to keep my mind in overdraft.

Ornate edifices and buildings are impressive, but for me, most of the magic of Samarkand centres on the traders and the camel riders of the Silk Road. I wanted to see today's equivalent in the market place or bazaar.

I adore markets. Especially when on holiday and you have time to wander at leisure and absorb the atmosphere and people. Samarkand was no exception. Crowds of people, pushing, shoving, jostling, everyone bent on their own thing. Buying, selling, people elbowing for space where there is hardly a spare inch of air, let alone standing space.

Everyone was intent on setting up shop, anxious not to miss good trading time.

People, manoeuvring goods through confined spaces, over rough pavement or lumpy shingle. Anything on wheels, that will carry their wares. Trolleys, carts, old prams, bikes, wheelbarrows, or boxes made mobile by attaching old wheels. Men and women, all ages, carrying heavy sacks on their backs or bags slung over their shoulders. Some were carrying numerous bulging plastic bags, using every finger in their hand for a separate bag. I like the women who stand so straight and tall and balance the most precarious loads on their heads. Women particularly showed great expertise in this balancing act. Although barely room to walk the crowd seemed to squeeze aside as a few old, dented cars made slow progress to their stalls.

However, the donkeys were my favourite. Donkeys with little carts are a popular means of moving produce to the market. No doubt about it the donkeys stole my heart. One day I made a passing comment to Susan.

"They are so affectionate and have soft kind eyes."

She laughed. "How can an animal have kind eyes? She obviously did not notice the personal details of these lovable little animals.

They are such gentle creatures and love you to pat and stroke them yet they are so strong and carry heavy loads. I do not like when the driver, sometimes a young lad, uses a small stick to make them move but it had the desired effect and the donkey does not seem to mind. When pushing my way through the crowds it was common to come face to face with these lovable little donkeys trying to pull a cart through the thronging masses.

Stall holders, were shouting out in a strange language reasons why you should buy their produce, explaining the superior quality of their wares. I could not understand what they said but I could watch the expressions that were flitting across their faces, and make my own deductions.

Colour and happy noise. Weather protection shades of every kind and colourful hue. Wares, of every imaginable kind, and colour and size.

Old prams loaded up and ready to sell on the spot was a common sight. Some have rickety display tables or sit on mats on the ground. Many, who have a few trifling wares to sell, sit on any little vacant stony spot they can find.

I went past a line up of enterprising young boys with wheelbarrows. They were offering their services to anyone who needed an extra pair of hands.

An interesting item to see was the variety of scales they used to weigh produce. Every conceivable kind. From small hang up scales to big heavy manufacturing machines. I was amused to see some little hold on, hang up scales the same as my maternity nurse used many years ago to weigh my children when they were babies.

I bought some cherries from a lad who was crouching – a popular stance for locals - beside two red plastic buckets of cherries. They were the best cherries I have ever tasted. When I went back later to thank him, he had gone. I guess when he sold his two buckets of cherries he was finished for the day and went home. Either that or I was looking in the wrong place!

I found water to wash my cherries and I wandered out the back and found a shady tree to sit under. I needed a little respite for the noise and smells and people. Just a short break before I returned to the milling mass. I think markets are addictive for me.

Samarkand was everything a market should be. Confined spaces that are noisy, smelly, dusty, and hot! A crazy hive of activity. It is difficult to define the smells that abound. They are a mixture of spices, food, flowers, people, and animals.

One thing that amazed me is that often sitting quietly beside mum or dad would be a little toddler. It was very hot yet those little ones never seemed to complain. I taught two tiny girls to blow a kiss. One was a very quick learner.

As I walked home from the market, I heard a child's cry. It was so unusual that I stopped and wanted to cuddle the dear little grubby fellow with his tear stained face. He had obviously come to the end of his endurance. His mum was close by planting some marigolds into soil that was well watered. Even so, I wondered how those hardy little plants could survive planting in the heat of the day. Three days later, before we left I noticed they were sitting up pretty and perky. You have to be a tough flower to survive in the heat.

I showed a cherry to his mum indicating was it okay to give him one. She nodded and was happy for me to give him something. He stopped crying and obviously enjoyed the cherries as the red juice dribbled from his mouth mixing with the tear stained face. I asked if I could take a photo and his mum drew him close to her side and beamed at him with pride. Her love for the little one was clear to see. It was not lack of love that made the little one cry but distress over the heat and his tiredness. It was with difficulty that I stopped mum from wiping his face clean with her sleeve. I wanted a photo of tears and juice mixed up together.

Samarkand is a huge market. It is vibrant, alive, and full of happy chatter noise and smiling faces. Space is at a premium and walking along almost requires tightrope-walking skills. As I moved to let a cart through the milling crowd, I over-balanced and landed in someone's lap! Fortunately I am not too heavy and no damage was done except to my dignity.

Everything is sold at Samarkand market, simply everything! Produce, food, meat, beautiful decorated cakes, lollies, clothing, sunglasses, brooms, garden implements and scythes, and hardware, to name just a few.

Mountains of flat bread and other bakery delights.

However, the spices and teas brought back the nostalgia of times past and the Silk Road traders. There were stalls piled high with every kind of spice or condiment alongside nuts, dried fruit, and herbal teas of every description. All tempting to the palate and the aroma of the colourful spices was more than enough to take me on a journey back in time.

Only the camels were missing to bring alive my fantasy dream.

Market day is a long day for the stallholders. In Samarkand, it starts at 5am, and does not close until 7pm.

I came back at closing time and watched as they packed away their wares. Some were left on the spot and tied up with flimsy protective covers, but many were trailed away for the night, no doubt after the owners had a few hours rest, they would repeat the process the next day.

I did not get physically lost going back to my hotel but my mind was lost in trading times of days gone by. Silk Road traders would have encountered the same conditions. Heat, dust, noise, smell and all the things that add to the allure of Samarkand's market today.