We traveled to the lush area of Uzbekistan The Fergana Valley to see one of the last Silk factories in the world where the process started by worms becomes the most precious fabric in the ancient world, a process so treasured that the ancient Chinese kept it secret for centuries, and, as legend has it, the cocoons were smuggled out in the beehive hairdo of a woman. Nowadays modern factories literally spin out miles of the stuff in high speed centers. But in a town in Uzbekistan, women still toil over hot vats and make the spun silk one thread at a time. The end product is used for a special process which takes place in only two places, Italy and Uzbekistan where it is done in the traditional way…silk velvet weaving…Carol has been interested in seeing this since our last visit to Uzbekistan two years ago, and it turned out that I had some facebook friends from the area, so we doubled up on our motives and made a quick journey five hours drive from Tashkent.
The entire Fergana “valley” is not like any valley we have known…it is a wide swath of arable land between two mountain chains, the Pamirs and the Tian Shan….this wide alluvial fan extends literally hundreds of miles long and wide enough to not be able to see from side to side…It is the San Joaquin Valley of Uzbekistan, providing the majority of fruit and produce for the entire country. Because of the fertility of the land, it has become the most densely populated area in all of Central Asia, with cities over 100,000 population dotting the area…It is also a very hot one climatically speaking….no problem growing tomatoes here, sweet, wonderful tomatoes like we haven’t had since we moved from California.
We arrived in Fergana, the city, and immediately headed for Andijon where I have three friends studying in universities….two in medical school, and another studying languages. Andijon was a center of Islamic activity a decade or so ago, and so as we traveled east, the police and military presence was noticeable, but not oppressive as it was in the Uighur area of China…stops for passport checks, armed soldiers guarding entrances and exits to tunnels, and security checks made us realize that the Uzbek government maintains a very visible presence for all to see.
Andijon and Fergana both are experiencing a building boom and workers are seen everywhere constructing in brick, the building material of choice out of necessity. Wood is used for ceiling joists and rafters but we saw no houses made of wood…Maybe in the forested areas of the mountains it might be, but basically, the entire country appears to be brick and block construction. Long rows of small houses dot the drive. All looking alike, same design, same color, same floor plan. Felt like a long line of row houses we might see at home…but still quite a change from the standard 9 story rectangular apartment flats which have no distinguishing features from the outside.
The entire region is such a contrast from the upscale, fashionable, and modern Tashkent….Here in the valley traditional Uzbek and Islamic culture are far more prevalent…a sizeable proportion of the women wear the head scarf and quite a few do not venture out of doors without the hijab….The streets are a cacophony of noise since the streets are narrower than the broad avenues of Tashkent. Our taxi driver who was called by the hotel nodded his head when he was told which part of Andijon, an hour away, we wanted to be taken…I assumed that he knew exactly what he was doing. However, upon arriving in the city, he asked someone on the street how to get there, was pointed in the right direction, then stopped to ask further directions…this continued for 6-7 times until we reached our appointed spot…no doubt, the potential of a $50 round trip fare he was earning for the trip would totally make his day, and he wasn’t going to miss out on that puppy. It felt like how I get from points A to B…Get pointed in the right direction, confirm with another person as soon as the first person is out of view, and continue reconfirming, each time adding a new piece of information to the map that is developing in my head..Hard to blame him for doing the same.
Sardorxon, my facebook friend, was there by the side of the street as we arrived and he took us to meet Gulira’no and Dildora who were waiting for us….we walked around the bustling streets of the old city, visited a museum which overlooked the city, and up a long street filled with iron workers…I’m always amazed at the similarities of the world…In so many cities, in so many varied countries of the world, we see the same thing…It may be fabric, glassware, or souvenir shops…but dozens upon dozens of people selling exactly the same things, seemingly undistinguishable to my eye, at least, from all the others. I always ask myself the same question. “How do they make a living when everybody does the same thing in the same place?”
Amongst the row of shops selling hoes and shovels and other implements, we stopped to see a blacksmith working in an open air forge, and with Sardorxon working as interpreter, we talked about blacksmithing in the old west and how it is a dying art only practiced at showcase events now. The blacksmith and I exchanged ages, we’re both 72, and agreed to meet at his shop when we are 100…something to which I can look forward…they’ll have to wheel me around the broken, rutted streets, but, hey, I’m in. The whole area seemed very much like Kashgar, that western outpost in China which is, shall we say, definitely not a “Chinese” area…more of the old “semi-autonomous” regions the Chinese are so fond of creating. Andijon seemed a long way from Tashkent in many ways more than physical distance.
In contrast to the narrow alleys and winding streets of the old city, there is a long broad avenue which was built from scratch called Uzbekistan Street. Islam Karimov, the president in permanence, it seems, came to dedicate the street, but given the past troubles, it was a ceremony not open to the public lest some “unpleasantness,” as the Chinese euphemistically call , might give the wrong impression…the street is lined on both sides by upscale shops which, while filled with goods and products, had few visitors while we were there…In contrast, the narrow streets working their way out from the bazaar like spokes on a wheel were filled with humanity all looking for the that perfect loaf of bread amongst the dozens of bread sellers. The old city was alive with humanity and life, whereas Uzbekistan Street had a very sterile, antiseptic feel to it. I’ll take the old city, thank you very much.
The five of us had a pleasant afternoon, and then we walked back where our cabbie was dutifully waiting as he had promised to be…not giving him his cab fare before returning to Fergana certainly added to the incentive of his stay…I don’t mean to imply that he would not have been there, but money is never exchanged before the end of the transaction here….or as Carol heard once, “trust in Allah, but tie up your camel.”
The following day we headed for Margilon, about 15 minutes north of Fergana. We got directions from a different hotel, ours was no help, on how to take a taxi to the place where the shared taxis ply the short run between the two cities of 100,000 people. The woman at the hotel wanted to know why we just didn’t take a taxi, period, it was quicker and easier….I told her we wanted the shared taxi, and she said, “Ah, the cheapest way.” I told her that money wasn’t the issue, the difference in the two is $2 per person as opposed to $0.50, but that we always like to see how local people do things, not how the tourists do them. She was very pleased at that and was more than happy to help. It was suggested instead of the shared taxi, we take the local bus…even cheaper, $0.40, and was filled with the sights, sounds, and smells of real people living real lives…two middle aged women replete in traditional dress and gold teeth kept looking at us and smiling and through hand signals and good old iphone photos stored on my phone we passed the time “talking” about our families and lives…it’s always amazing to me how much communication can take place when people work at it.
My friend “Sandra,” (actually Shahnoza, but she likes Sandra Bullock) provided me with a local phone and telephone number, which has been invaluable to us in making connections here. A quick phone call to the Ikat workshop allowed the directors to give directions to the taxi driver, which are, simply speaking, everywhere, on where we were headed. . I expected the “village” of Margilon to be just that, a sleepy little hamlet where life continued as it has for untold centuries. Instead, I found the same bustling energy that imbues the entire valley with its life…
We visited the Ikat fabric workshop. Carol knows a woman who has worked with them for years and we got the name of the directors who greeted us with warmth and generosity of spirit…we were going there anyway, but the personal touch was wonderful…lunch was offered and a tour of all the processes, the weaving, the block printing, the dying of colors all explained in detail….fascinating stuff even to a non-fiber schlep like myself. Carol was totally into it. Girls who have finished lyceum are learning the skill of the weaving and there is always a waiting list for those wanting to learn…A master weaver from Iran, Persia, they still say here, who has one of the kindest faces on this planet, explained how it all worked. We were then taken to where the specialized velvet weaving is done in private homes on ancient looms which look like they were built by people who lost several pages of the instruction manual. A young, shy girl of 18 explained how she wanted to help her family’s finances and that is why she is learning from her aunt who is a master weaver…life is hard here and any skill which brings in money is a major asset.
At the silk factory itself, large bags containing thousands of cocoons filled the room with 6 large work stations of vats and wheels…two ladies worked the large vat of hot water which loosened the fibers of silk…the one lady spun the large wheel pulling the silver threads onto the bobbin while the other fished around the vat with a stick, raising several cocoons from the water, taking several threads and letting them be gathered into the twist of the other fibers to create the desired thickness of the yarn they were working on….she put the fibers between her fingers as they spun towards the bobbin, and has such a fine touch that she could tell whether she needed to add more individual fibers to reach that desired thickness….what a magical ability to be able to tell such fine differences. Between 25-30 individual fibers make up what we call silk thread…they are that fine.
Upon our return to the hotel we were greeted by a “Our manager wants to speak with you.” He informed me that they did not have a room for us the following night…I told him that we had reserved and paid for a room for the three nights. His response was, “we don’t have a room for you tomorrow.” I told him that the registration card they had given us when we checked in showed three nights. He replied, “we don’t have a room for you tomorrow.” This conversation was going nowhere…He then told us that he understood that we had friends in Fergana and that we should go stay with them..and that they would be happy to give us a discount on the room that we were not going to use. They also said that they were willing to violate the law which says we can’t stay in private homes and state on the registration card that we stayed there all three nights.
So, as I understood the concept, we would not have to pay for the entire cost of the room that we were not going to use and that we should stay with friends who did not invite us to stay and he would lie to make everything legal despite the fact that it wasn’t. I love travel….LOL.
It was a scramble to rearrange everything to return a day earlier to Tashkent than planned…driver and car had to be rescheduled and our hotel in Tashkent had to rebook the reservation to make the extra night…Our driver was supposed to arrive at 8:00 but by nine had not arrived, so I called my sleepy-voiced Tashkent travel agent on a Sunday morning and she made it all work…but 9:45 we were on our way back to our home base, the Uzbekistan Hotel in Tashkent…the desk clerk with whom I have a good, bantering relationship after our many visits here, said there was no reservation, but he made it all work…we joked about Carol being “Plus 1.” On our arrival the first time, he pulled the reservation for the night and said: “Mr. Jim Owens for tonight, plus 1.” I thought he was referring to the number of nights we were staying and I said: “No, Plus 3.” He looked very confused and discombobulated , until he realized I was talking about the number of nights. “Oh, no, the Plus 1 refers to the number of people in your party.”…He thought at first that I had three wives…so when we checked in on our return, he looked at Carol and said: “Hello, Plus 1.” It’s been our running joke. The Uzbekistan Hotel is getting a little long in the tooth, but it’s home to us in Tashkent and we are always very comfortable here, physically and emotionally.
So today, plus one and I are back in Tashkent celebrating our 35th wedding anniversary, and I’m happy to say that I don’t want, nor need, “Plus 2.”
In contrast to the narrow alleys and winding streets of the old city, there is a long broad avenue which was built from scratch called Uzbekistan Street. Islam Karimov, the president in permanence, it seems, came to dedicate the street, but given the past troubles, it was a ceremony not open to the public lest some “unpleasantness,” as the Chinese euphemistically call , might give the wrong impression…the street is lined on both sides by upscale shops which, while filled with goods and products, had few visitors while we were there…In contrast, the narrow streets working their way out from the bazaar like spokes on a wheel were filled with humanity all looking for the that perfect loaf of bread amongst the dozens of bread sellers. The old city was alive with humanity and life, whereas Uzbekistan Street had a very sterile, antiseptic feel to it. I’ll take the old city, thank you very much.
The five of us had a pleasant afternoon, and then we walked back where our cabbie was dutifully waiting as he had promised to be…not giving him his cab fare before returning to Fergana certainly added to the incentive of his stay…I don’t mean to imply that he would not have been there, but money is never exchanged before the end of the transaction here….or as Carol heard once, “trust in Allah, but tie up your camel.”
The following day we headed for Margilon, about 15 minutes north of Fergana. We got directions from a different hotel, ours was no help, on how to take a taxi to the place where the shared taxis ply the short run between the two cities of 100,000 people. The woman at the hotel wanted to know why we just didn’t take a taxi, period, it was quicker and easier….I told her we wanted the shared taxi, and she said, “Ah, the cheapest way.” I told her that money wasn’t the issue, the difference in the two is $2 per person as opposed to $0.50, but that we always like to see how local people do things, not how the tourists do them. She was very pleased at that and was more than happy to help. It was suggested instead of the shared taxi, we take the local bus…even cheaper, $0.40, and was filled with the sights, sounds, and smells of real people living real lives…two middle aged women replete in traditional dress and gold teeth kept looking at us and smiling and through hand signals and good old iphone photos stored on my phone we passed the time “talking” about our families and lives…it’s always amazing to me how much communication can take place when people work at it.
My friend “Sandra,” (actually Shahnoza, but she likes Sandra Bullock) provided me with a local phone and telephone number, which has been invaluable to us in making connections here. A quick phone call to the Ikat workshop allowed the directors to give directions to the taxi driver, which are, simply speaking, everywhere, on where we were headed. . I expected the “village” of Margilon to be just that, a sleepy little hamlet where life continued as it has for untold centuries. Instead, I found the same bustling energy that imbues the entire valley with its life…
We visited the Ikat fabric workshop. Carol knows a woman who has worked with them for years and we got the name of the directors who greeted us with warmth and generosity of spirit…we were going there anyway, but the personal touch was wonderful…lunch was offered and a tour of all the processes, the weaving, the block printing, the dying of colors all explained in detail….fascinating stuff even to a non-fiber schlep like myself. Carol was totally into it. Girls who have finished lyceum are learning the skill of the weaving and there is always a waiting list for those wanting to learn…A master weaver from Iran, Persia, they still say here, who has one of the kindest faces on this planet, explained how it all worked. We were then taken to where the specialized velvet weaving is done in private homes on ancient looms which look like they were built by people who lost several pages of the instruction manual. A young, shy girl of 18 explained how she wanted to help her family’s finances and that is why she is learning from her aunt who is a master weaver…life is hard here and any skill which brings in money is a major asset.
At the silk factory itself, large bags containing thousands of cocoons filled the room with 6 large work stations of vats and wheels…two ladies worked the large vat of hot water which loosened the fibers of silk…the one lady spun the large wheel pulling the silver threads onto the bobbin while the other fished around the vat with a stick, raising several cocoons from the water, taking several threads and letting them be gathered into the twist of the other fibers to create the desired thickness of the yarn they were working on….she put the fibers between her fingers as they spun towards the bobbin, and has such a fine touch that she could tell whether she needed to add more individual fibers to reach that desired thickness….what a magical ability to be able to tell such fine differences. Between 25-30 individual fibers make up what we call silk thread…they are that fine. 
Upon our return to the hotel we were greeted by a “Our manager wants to speak with you.” He informed me that they did not have a room for us the following night…I told him that we had reserved and paid for a room for the three nights. His response was, “we don’t have a room for you tomorrow.” I told him that the registration card they had given us when we checked in showed three nights. He replied, “we don’t have a room for you tomorrow.” This conversation was going nowhere…He then told us that he understood that we had friends in Fergana and that we should go stay with them..and that they would be happy to give us a discount on the room that we were not going to use. They also said that they were willing to violate the law which says we can’t stay in private homes and state on the registration card that we stayed there all three nights.
So, as I understood the concept, we would not have to pay for the entire cost of the room that we were not going to use and that we should stay with friends who did not invite us to stay and he would lie to make everything legal despite the fact that it wasn’t. I love travel….LOL.
It was a scramble to rearrange everything to return a day earlier to Tashkent than planned…driver and car had to be rescheduled and our hotel in Tashkent had to rebook the reservation to make the extra night…Our driver was supposed to arrive at 8:00 but by nine had not arrived, so I called my sleepy-voiced Tashkent travel agent on a Sunday morning and she made it all work…but 9:45 we were on our way back to our home base, the Uzbekistan Hotel in Tashkent…the desk clerk with whom I have a good, bantering relationship after our many visits here, said there was no reservation, but he made it all work…we joked about Carol being “Plus 1.” On our arrival the first time, he pulled the reservation for the night and said: “Mr. Jim Owens for tonight, plus 1.” I thought he was referring to the number of nights we were staying and I said: “No, Plus 3.” He looked very confused and discombobulated , until he realized I was talking about the number of nights. “Oh, no, the Plus 1 refers to the number of people in your party.”…He thought at first that I had three wives…so when we checked in on our return, he looked at Carol and said: “Hello, Plus 1.” It’s been our running joke. The Uzbekistan Hotel is getting a little long in the tooth, but it’s home to us in Tashkent and we are always very comfortable here, physically and emotionally.
So today, plus one and I are back in Tashkent celebrating our 35th wedding anniversary, and I’m happy to say that I don’t want, nor need, “Plus 2.”
