A Carpet Ride to Khiva: Seven Years on the Silk Road (31 page)

Clearly something was wrong. But I wanted to know what before deciding what to do. I’d arranged to meet friends in the Shah bookshop, so I headed that way, aware that the anxious
crowds were all fleeing in the opposite direction. I was wearing Western clothes and a backpack and looked painfully foreign. Passers-by glanced up with looks of pity and bewilderment, clearly aware of my imminent demise. A young man stopped me.

‘Don’t you know what’s happened?’ he asked. ‘It’s very bad for you foreigners now. You must get out. Go and hide!’

Before I could thank him
or ask him any questions, he was gone. I offered up a quick prayer and wondered what I should do. A nearby school was emptying and there were fewer and fewer cars on the streets. I retreated back past the entrance to Chicken Street, which had been a popular target for anti-Western feelings in the past. All the shops were now shut up, and it was clearly not a good place to be caught. I tried the
next street along but my way was barred by a soldier.

‘You must let me pass,’ I pleaded. ‘Please, I’m a foreigner!’

A nod from his commander and I was through. Scurrying along, scrabbling in my bag for the phone Dave had lent me, I just wanted to know what was going on. I stopped to put the backpack down and rummage properly. A passing Afghan, or possibly an angel, assumed I couldn’t
find the doorbell for the building next to me and rang it. A burly, bearded Afghan peered out as I tried to apologise for the misunderstanding.

‘What are you doing out here? Are you crazy?’ he asked with an American twang. ‘Get in here now!’

He beckoned me into a spartan hall, offering me a seat before running off to attend to urgent business. I waited and was offered a bottle of water.
He returned fifteen minutes later to introduce himself properly. He was an Afghan American who had recently returned to Kabul as a cultural advisor for the American embassy, and he had just been briefed by the embassy on the unfolding events. I’d found someone who knew exactly what was going on.

Early that morning, fighting had broken out in a suburb of Kabul and a convoy of American soldiers
was dispatched to quell it. They drove in formation, until one of the soldiers – either stoned, drunk, or crazy – broke ranks and drove his vehicle over several civilian cars. As mangled bodies were dragged from the wrecks an angry crowd formed, exchanging insults, stones and then bullets. Whoever fired the first bullet, the Americans were soon firing into the crowd, which dispersed but returned
with weapons. The Afghan police, sent to aid the Americans, turned on them once they saw what had happened. As the Americans retreated, the crowd – now a violent mob – began its rampage through the city, targeting anything or anyone connected with the West.

‘When will these guys learn?’ he asked wearily. ‘The Soviets actually helped us. All our electricity still comes from the dam and hydro-electric
plant they built up in the mountains. Still, the moment they started to behave like they owned the place, we turned on them. Now these kid soldiers think they can run over anyone they like. Kabul is pissed and it’s people like me who are gonna get it. Guests we treat with respect, but occupiers …’ He made a slicing motion across his throat.

We heard gunfire approaching. My host led me away
from the exposed hallway to a courtyard garden sheltered by tall buildings. The walled garden was full of pomegranate trees and flower-beds, with a carefully manicured lawn – an American lawn, I was told proudly by my host. Echoing around the walls were the sounds of gunfire and the angry screams of the mob out on Chicken Street. Soon, bursts of gunfire were punctuated by shattering glass, exploding
cars and the deep-throated ‘thump’ of rocket-propelled grenades. Wreaths of gunpowder smoke filled the garden – this tranquil image at odds with the jarring sounds of violence all around us. We took shelter inside.

It was clear that I’d be there for some time, and my host kindly invited me to lunch with the male members of his family. We watched BBC News report that the riot was over as
the sounds of warfare continued around us. The phone networks were jammed. No one knew where I was or that I was OK. My host’s nephew – around my age – looked bored and I presented him with some DVDs I’d just bought on Chicken Street, asking if he wanted to watch one. He chose
Munich
. Soon, explosions and gunfire could be heard both on and off screen. I couldn’t watch, and went out to the garden
where the sound of fighting was beginning to recede. I managed to send a text to say I was alright, and another giving the address I was staying at.

They promised that a van would come and pick me up. Madrim called from the cooperative, oblivious to the rioting which hadn’t affected Dashti Barchi, wanting to know why I hadn’t turned up. I held up the phone so he could hear the gunfire and
asked him to be careful when returning to our compound. The General also called to check that I was safe.

The gunfire died down and the van arrived. I was given a turban to wear and instructed to sit away from the windows. I thanked my Afghan American hosts for their unexpected hospitality. We drove past blackened hulks of cars, looted shops, broken glass and pock-marked walls. I tried not
to think what might have happened had a fleeing Afghan not taken time to ring the doorbell on behalf of a foreign stranger – if I hadn’t been offered a garden of sanctuary in the middle of the riot. I offered up a prayer of profound gratitude.

* * *

There was a city-wide curfew that evening. A number of Western compounds had been destroyed in the looting, including Oxfam’s. Local staff
at the Serena Hotel had been dragged out and gunned down, and this was declared the worst riot in Kabul since the fall of the Taliban. There was nothing in media reports about the Americans opening fire on the protesting crowd, or about the Afghan police siding against them.

The next day, back in my shelwar kamiz with my face obliterated by a headscarf, I headed to the still-peaceful suburb
of Dashti Barchi with Madrim to continue our workshop on dye-making. We purchased more weaving combs and hook-knives for Madrim to take back to Khiva, and I spent an hour in the bazaar finding gifts for my Uzbek family, returning to a rainbow of dripping wool skeins. Madrim was drawing up a couple of new designs taken from the Kabul museum, and I felt we had succeeded in equipping the cooperative
as best we could.

The General insisted on one more visit, despite my protests that a curfew was still in force. He waved aside this objection, declaring that he knew the password. We enjoyed another enormous feast and I left laden with gifts for my mother and each member of my family, promising to encourage my mother to visit soon.

We drove back through deserted streets, an armed soldier
accompanying us. At each checkpoint, nervous Afghan soldiers aimed their weapons at the driver’s head – particularly disconcerting as I sat directly behind him. The soldiers barked out the first part of a password, to which our driver responded with the second. Hostility abruptly dissolved into banter, backslapping and wishes for a safe journey. We relaxed until the next checkpoint, where the
process would repeat itself.

As I was to leave the following day, I spent the morning with Madrim. We went for a roadside banana milkshake – a rich blend of bananas, almonds, dates and cream, and our traditional treat in Afghanistan. Everything had already been said, but I repeated the greetings he should pass on and tried to avoid saying anything that might cause emotion. Dave drove us
to Dashti Barchi and I said my farewells to the dyers we’d trained. Finally it was time to say goodbye to Madrim. I wanted to say something positive, about my hopes that we would meet again and that we would still keep in touch, but we just embraced without words, only tears. I thought about all the carpets we’d created together, the jobs we’d provided, and the lives that had been changed as a result.
I thought about the interweaving of my life with all the people I’d never been allowed to say goodbye to: the weavers and dyers, my Uzbek family and friends, even my ginger cat. This tapestry was far more meaningful to me than our most extravagant carpet or ambitious suzani. Somehow Madrim, my one living link with Khiva, embodied all of this, and I realised that I wasn’t just saying goodbye to
a close friend, but also to Khiva and a whole chapter in my life.

Dave was waiting in the van and smiled sadly at me as I tried to compose myself. The dust from Dashti Barchi mingled with my tears, leaving brown streaks down each cheek.

Epilogue

September 2009

Out of my window I can see the Afghan mountains, close enough to reach on foot in half an hour – plus a bracing swim across the Panj River which separates the Afghan and Tajik Pamirs.

I’ve been living in the Pamirs for two years now. The region is known as Badakshan and covers bits of four different mountainous countries: Tajikistan (where
we are apparently semi-autonomous), Afghanistan, China and Pakistan. The people are Ismaili and speak a variety of obscure and complicated mountain languages. The one I’m learning and writing a textbook for is called Shugni.

I live with a local family and try not to draw comparisons with my Uzbek family in Khiva. In fact, life over this past year has been a conscious effort not to make comparisons,
and to live in the present, not the past. The town of Khorog itself is shabby and uninspiring, and I still yearn for the spectacular view of madrassahs and minarets that I had from my balcony in Khiva. Still, the enormous mountains that surround Khorog are full of natural beauty.

I’m in contact with friends in Khiva and plan another dye-buying trip with Madrim to Afghanistan, once this year’s
tourist season is over. I still get to use my Uzbek a bit here, when talking with the Kyrgyz who live in the high plateaus to the east of us. I’m working with yak-herders there, introducing yak-combs and buying up yak-down – traditionally thrown away – to be knitted into luxury sweaters here in Khorog. So I’m about to start another workshop, and I’m hoping that my experience in Khiva will help
with that. We’ve established a brand name, Yak-yak (www.yakyakstory.com), and I’ve just visited a traditional Pamiri house for sale that, with a bit of work, would make a great workshop. I’ve had some adventures already: a misguided swim that ended in Afghanistan; being gored by a yak; and being confronted at gunpoint while soaking in a hot-spring on the Afghan–Chinese border.

I’d love to
write more about this, but it’s a new chapter, and first it needs to be lived.

Glossary

Abke
Literally ‘older sister’ in the Khorezm dialect, but also used as a generic term of respect towards older women.

Abrash
The mottled effect created by subtle differences that affect anything dyed naturally. This can also be more noticeable in a carpet where different dye batches with different shades have been used.

Achik
Spicy or sharp-tasting; also
a description of objects or substances which can ward off the evil eye.

Agha
Literally ‘older brother’ in the Khorezm dialect, but also used as a generic term of respect towards older men.

Aksakal
A white-beard.

Amin
Similar to ‘Amen’, and said at the end of prayers.

Arabesque
Intricate swirling patterns, often incorporating floral motifs.

Beshik
A Central Asian cradle
into which swaddled babies are strapped.

Beshik toy
Literally a ‘cradle celebration’, similar to the christening of a new-born baby.

‘
Boshka iloyja yoke
’ ‘There is no other way.’

Caravanserai
A huge courtyard for trading and bartering large quantities of merchandise, surrounded by storage facilities, the upper storey functioning as an inn.

Chowkidor
A guard, often called
on to perform other household duties, in Afghanistan and Pakistan.

Corpuche
A long, narrow, cotton stuffed mattress for sitting on.

Dasturkhan
A tablecloth laid on the floor on which food is placed. The same rules apply as if it were on a table, so walking on it is a big cultural faux pas.

Field and frame
Both carpet terms, the field refers to the main design within the central
rectangle of a carpet, and the frame is the border of the design that frames it.

Frontispiece
A detailed painting or geometric design that appears on a double spread at the front of antique, hand-written books.

Gok
Literally ‘green’, describing the first shoots of clover that emerge in spring and are minced and cooked, tasting much like spinach.

Gul
Flower, both literally and
as an abstract floral motif in textiles.

Halpa
Either the female folk Islamic equivalent to a mullah (presiding over spiritual gatherings of women such as funerals) or a female singer of folk songs.

Hoja
A title of respect given to someone who has made the pilgrimage to Mecca.

Homom
Public bath-house (pronounced ‘Hamam’ in Turkish). Older ones are communal with steam rooms and
hot marble to lie on. Soviet ones are just shower blocks with the possible addition of a sauna.

Ichan Kala
Literally ‘inner city’, referring to everything within the city walls of Khiva.

Ikat
A style of dyeing in which warp threads carry the pattern, having been resist-dyed.

Isfan
A dried herb which gives off a pungent smoke when burnt and is reputed to drive away evil spirits
or microbes, depending on your worldview.

Iwan
A tall, three-sided building that faces north, usually with a carved wooden pillar or two holding up the side without a wall. This open-air room is shaded from the sun and captures the northern breezes, circulating them and acting as a simple air-conditioner. All traditional dwellings include an iwan.

Jinn
A devil or demon.

Kilim
A flat-woven floor covering which, unlike a carpet, has no knotted pile.

Kelin
A term used to describe both a bride and her position of daughter-/sister-in-law within her husband’s family.

Kufic
An ornate stlye of Arabic calligraphy.

Laghman
Thick, hand-stretched noodles, usually served in a meat and vegetable broth.

Madder root
Madder is a straggling weed, known as
royan
in Uzbek and
Rubia tinctorum
in Latin; the roots, once matured, give a pinkish/brick-red colour that can be enhanced by the use of mordants and tannins, such as oak gall.

Madrassah
An Islamic school of learning, usually based on a courtyard layout with residential cells for studying and living in.

Maidan
A central square or plaza.

Majolica
Tiles using a colour palette of white,
turquoise and blue, originating from the island of Majorca.

Medallion
Used in carpet terminology to describe a large, irregular, central pendant design surrounded by smaller, floral designs.

Namaz
A Muslim prayer, recited five times a day facing Mecca.

Naqsh
A generic term used to describe patterning or design that can apply to anything from tiling to carved wooden inlay, etc.

Nashallah
A blend of beaten egg-whites, sugar and cream of tartar, eaten raw with bread during Ramazan.

Navruz
One of the largest festivals; celebrated on 21 March, marking spring and the New Year, with Zoroastrian roots.

NGO
Stands for ‘non-governmental organisation’ – usually doing development work of some kind.

Non
Traditional flatbread baked in an earthen oven.

Oak gall
Nut-sized round nodules formed by certain types of oak in reaction to wasp eggs laid in their trunks. High in tannin, they work with madder root to create vivid reds.

Paranja
An all-enveloping covering worn by women in Central Asia along with a horse-hair veil, until banned under Communism.

Plov
The greasy national dish of Uzbekistan, consisting of rice, carrots and mutton.

Ramazan
The Uzbek name for Ramadan – the Muslim month of fasting.

Remont
A Russian term used to describe the continual patching and mending of buildings and cars.

Resist-dyeing
A form of tie-dyeing in which parts of a fabric or warp threads are bound to prevent dyeing and other parts are left open to receive the colour.

Samovar
A large urn for boiling water and brewing tea.

Samsa
A pastry parcel filled with meat, potato or pumpkin, similar to a samosa.

Sericulture
The rearing of silkworms for silk.

Shashlik
Skewers of mutton or beef on a stick and cooked over charcoal.

Shelwar kamiz
Cotton baggy pants covered in a long top, commonly worn in Afghanistan and Pakistan.

Sumalek
A brown paste made from mashed wheat-shoots, stirred continually
for hours and cooked primarily at Navruz.

Suzani
Literally means ‘needlework’ in Tajik and describes the embroidered tapestries of southern Uzbekistan and Tajikistan.

Tanish bilish
‘Useful connections’; similar to the proverb ‘It’s not what you know, but who you know that counts.’

Turkestan
A historic term used to describe the area of Middle Asia now occupied by the former Soviet
Central Asian states, northern Afghanistan and western China.

Usta
Master at something (of either sex) but also a generic term for a handyman.

Vellum
Skin from the stomach of a sheep or goat and superior to paper in book-making.

Wahabi
The term used to describe Islamist fundamentalists, referring to the strict Saudi Wahabite sect which advocates jihad.

Warp
A weaving term
describing the vertical threads that make up the backbone of a carpet.

Weft
A weaving term describing the horizontal threads that weave between the warp threads.