Samarkand contains some of the most stunning sights in Central Asia. Its huge majestic architecture and blue azure domes are a big attraction. It is not a museum city however, it has the feel of a functioning place. People pass through the old centre in the morning on their way to work or to market. You get the impression that people who live here no longer marvel at its beauty, just as Londoners no longer ‘see’ St. Pauls cathedral.
Being a living city there are some sights that are just ‘monuments’ such as the Registan, and some that retain a religious significance beyond their outward beauty. Shah I Zinda, or tomb of the living king is an impressive example of this. It consists of a street of tombs once elaborately decorated with ceramic tiles. Largely unrestored it’s partly ruinous state encourages the imagination to recreate the original splendour.

The name Shah I Zinda refers to the mausoleum of Qasan Ibn Abbas, a cousin of the prophet Mohammed who is said to have brought Islam to this area. The simple ante room which connects to the actual burial chamber via a small door is a much visited shrine. Tapers are left to burn here and suras (Koranic verses) are read almost continuously. I found myself moved once again by the devotion displayed here, and somewhat mystified by the numbers of video cameras that roamed the sight. Perhaps here more than any other sites we have visited the difference between the tourist and the pilgrim is most obvious.
Once again everyone is welcome but it did leave a slightly uncomfortable impression.

Just across the road from the quiet serenity of the tombs is the noisy chaos of the main bazaar. In the heat of the day people argue over prices and laugh and joke together. Once again this is the living city of Samarkand, the farmers market where people buy and sell their produce. Its noisy cassette stalls and vivid colour seem even more intense after the cool of the tombs. The whole market sprawls in the shadow of the Bibi Kharnym Mosque. This enormous ruin looms impressively, dwarfing all around it. It was once one of the Islamic World’s largest mosques, but gradually it crumbled under its own weight, finally collapsing in the earthquake of 1897. Around it the city bustles on.

Musaffar was still very excited about our interest in his ‘serious’ music when we returned to his shop. I hoped he had kept his promise and found me a ‘quality’ nai. Sadly he had forgotten.
The elusive nai and nai player saga continues. While we were in the shop Musaffar suddenly began playing and singing a maqam. His voice seemed to be slightly out of practice and several notes missed the mark, but I sensed a great deal of integrity in his performance. I asked him to play ‘Munadjat’ (one of the most famous maqam pieces) which he performed wonderfully on his rubab. I asked if we could return later to record some of these pieces. Before I left I purchased a good frame drum case, at least the drums may survive the journey ahead.

Culture is a living thing. The way people dress, the artifacts they make tell their story. As part of Russian imperialism the ‘State Museum of the Cultural History of Uzbekistan’ takes Uzbek culture and sets it in stone. Faded costumes are a poor reminder of a peoples history. As ever the saddest exhibits are the musical instruments – sentenced to a mute death. Tar, gidchak and rubab never to sing. On a positive note the museum does feature a very large Koran, possibly the largest in the world and some intriguing pre-Islamic stones, similar to the ones we saw in Almaty. (see Day 3)

Back home in England it’s the sad relics of empire that strive for dignity in the British Museum. Even in the West a museum can be a poor testament. Here surrounded by a population living in a new republic a Soviet conceived museum seems an irrelevance.

The real culture of Uzbekistan is out there on the streets, celebrated in kaleidoscope clothes and the throb of a distant doira. In contrast the Registan across the road has life, a focus for current events animated by dancers and mad trumpets. The heat of the day in Samarkand sat still like a dosing alley cat. It had been well over forty five degrees and it still felt dangerous to be out in the roaring sun. The pollution and general ambient noise added two more disturbing ingredients.

When we returned to Musaffars shop at four he had his fan on, cooling his small shop to a bearable level. He and his son, Nabishon looked eager to play for us but they had work to do, so we could not take them anywhere quiet. Vehicles and disco music were part of the general chaos outside the window. We needed the fan switched off to enable a reasonable recording. The heat rose. Musaffar picked up his tar, his son grabbed the nearest doira and they burst straight into a ‘number’. They had done this before! The perfect duo, accelerating and decelerating in synchronicity as only father and son could. Nabishon tastefully decorated the instrumental sections with his doira. They both seemed to enjoy playing as much as repairing. Their main income comes from repair work, performing gave life to the instruments. The biggest surprise for me was Musaffar’s voice, now much improved, it rose above the tar and doira. As they played the second piece the workshop became a sauna, sweat rolled off Musaffar’s brow splashing onto his now slightly out of tune tar. We had witnessed a traditional music, passing from father to son without any suggestion of a generation gap.

Tomorrow on the way to Tashkent we hope to meet a Sufi Sheikh (mentioned in Day 18 Mail), and we go in search of the elusive Baysun Ensemble.