OVERLAND TO TAJIKISTAN 7: Khujand (bullet holes on the balcony)

My kind hosts didn’t understand the concept of travel for travel’s sake. 

I only outlined my travel plans to Jyldyz once we arrived at her house, because she slept for most of the journey from Osh. 

She was so perplexed at the idea I was going to Dushanbe for a holiday that I hastily invented some friends I’d be seeing there. 

A mistake; she and her relatives immediately started working out the quickest, most direct way to get me there. 

A plan is formed

A plan was formed. Jyldyz’s brother will drive me to Istaravarshan, where I would be handed over to a friend of theirs who would put me into a shared taxi down to Dushanbe. I’d be there by evening. 

No, I insisted. I planned to stay at the hotel in Khujand and visit the city. I would then move on to Istaravarshan and travel down to Dushanbe the following day. 

“But don’t you want to see your friends!” exclaimed Jyldyz. 

Ah no, my imaginary friends had gone on an imaginary holiday and wouldn’t be in Dushanbe to receive me until the day after tomorrow. 

So it was decided that Jyldyz’s brother would take me to visit the Arnob Culture Palace in Khujand then drop me at the hotel, from where their friend would collect me in the morning, and drive me to Istaravarshan on his way to work. 

No, they wouldn’t allow me to take a bus or a taxi, they insisted. “You are our guest!” 

Escape from my kindly hosts

This afternoon, Jyldyz’s brother, who mused about travelling himself when we were eating lunch in Khujand together, drops me off at the Hotel Leninobod by the river with a stern warning that the city is full of narcotici (drug addicts). 

“You can stay in here and watch TV,” he says — presumably until his friend comes to pick me up in the morning. 

Instead, I wait until the coast is clear then walk out of the hotel, passing a group of staring men in the lobby. 

I want to make the most of my afternoon sightseeing in Khujand, but the fortress seems to be closed. 

Two boys loiter in a car, staring at me, so I swiftly turn back towards the hotel, then walk across the river. I pass a Lenin statue, with a cow grazing on a patch of grass nearby, and gaze across the expanse of blue water at the hotel. 

Panjshanbe bazaar

In the other direction, I come to Panjshanbe bazaar — Thursday market in English — one of the major bazaars of Central Asia. I don’t want to draw attention to myself by taking photos inside, but wander the vast pillared halls, and buy some chewy lipyoshka bread, ripe tomatoes and creamy cheese for dinner. 

Later I eat them alone on the hotel balcony, with a bottle of beer, listening to the sounds of Khujand far below, and watching the Syr Darya flow past. 

Hard to believe on this peaceful evening, but behind me on the balcony wall are dents made by bullets fired in the Tajik civil war that ended just 12 years ago.