A puff piece on Tashkent

I arrived at the Tashkent airport after a two-hour flight with Uzbekistan Airways from Bishkek prepared for the infamous checks by Uzbekistani* customs agents. The checks were rumored to be invasive, extortionate, and immigration plus customs could mean up to three hours waiting under the drab fluorescent lights of the receiving area. While there was a good measure of chaos and idiocy at the airport, I passed through the entire process with no baggage check and in under an hour.

When you arrive at the airport, you are herded into a line which leads to three processing stalls, which in theory accommodate six immigration agents. However, on my arrival only two agents were working. There was also a sign overhanging one line that suggested express processing, with the phrase "Business Class" printed in English only. Of course, any pretenses of civility were completely ignored and the line became a manifold of piglets, pushing and shoving their way through. I met one Russian pharmacologist rolled her eyes as a man butted to the front of the line and passed immediately without presenting documents after catching the guards attention. "That's his friend," she explained.

The rest was relatively easy, compared to both the accounts given in various travel guides and in comparison to stories I heard from fellow travelers. However, generally speaking, Travel Guides such as the Lonely Planet are a good starting point, but their information is usually at least one or two years old by the time of publishing.

At the terminal exit, I was met my two local men approached me offering a taxi ride. Defensively, I tried to lose them as I've had my visits hijacked by pushy drivers in the past, but they simply would not go away. They demanded $20 for a ride to my hotel. "This is normal price," the fat boss insisted. I counter-offered $5, which they refused. I then told them that I would call my hotel, and started off towards the telephones, with the men still following me. Then I heard the smaller man call, "Mister, mister, please! Okay, five dollars!" I felt sorry for him.

He then drove me to the hotel, his wiry, clench fist pumping the stick-shift of his aging, white Lada. He offered me a cigarette and asked where I was from and how long I would stay in Tashkent. And on arrival at my hotel, he insisted on giving me his mobile number in hopes that I would bring him more business during my stay in Tashkent and flashed a broken-tooth smile as he watched me go.

Gulnara's Bed and Breakfast was one of the few guest houses, hostels, or hotels that has been memorable on this trip. A large, traditional Uzbek house, with high gate that opens to a quiet courtyard lined with persimmon trees, branched hanging heavy with fruit. Run by Gulnara, a 60-ish Uzbek woman, who seems learn the names of each guest and speaks warmly in broken English, which usually trails into Russian after a few words. A grandmotherly woman, when asked about the persimmons, Gulnara invited me to take all I liked, and then she walked me over to the best of them, a particularly ripe, sweet fruit. In addition to being popular with the guests, by all appearances, she does a cracking business, which includes nightly "traditional Uzbek" feasts, which literally draws French pensioners (who account for 97% of Uzbekistan's GNP) by the bus-load -- with tables in the courtyard or dining room large enough to accommodate about 30 guests.

I remained in Tashkent for only three nights, as I was anxious to leave for Nukus, Moynaq, and the remains of the Aral Sea, and I spent the majority of my time their chasing my visas for Turkmenistan and Azerbaijan.

* Note: "Uzbekistani" refers to the nationality of Uzbekistan, while "Uzbek" refers to the Uzbek ethnicity.