A Carpet Ride to Khiva: Seven Years on the Silk Road

by Christopher Aslan Alexander

  I picked up a slice of melon and discovered it had frozen. A live band blending keyboards and pre-programmed percussion with traditional stringed instruments and a large hand-held drum performed a deafening repertoire, accompanied by a professional dancer in a glittery outfit covered in jangling metal tassels. Plates of plov arrived and I gratefully ate with my right hand, the rice and carrots warming my fingers. Groups of women – their faces animated by gossip – sat bundled in cardigans and scarves. A table of men nearby were busy toasting each other. My valiant attempts at small talk with other men on my table had petered out into awkward silences. I felt alone; an unnecessary appendage to the established community around me.

  This feeling persisted over the coming weeks. Other than brief forays to museums, I was stuck in the office, succumbing to a blend of boredom, listlessness and loneliness. Remembering my encounter with Zafar the wood-carver and his invitation to visit, I returned to his stall, but it was shut up for winter. The mud-brick madrassahs and city wall that had glowed bronze in the autumnal sun were now grey and lifeless. Even the bazaar had lost its sparkle. Mounds of bright red peppers, yellow melons and stacks of fresh herbs were succeeded by lacklustre piles of drooping root vegetables. The gaudy sequin-and-glitter dresses worn by local women were now subsumed in layers of grey woollen shawls, the men all wearing uniform black leather jackets.

  * * *

  I found colour only in Khiva’s history. Bundled in blankets, over which the occasional mouse scuttled, I curled up in bed reading tales of treachery, intrigue and political manoeuvring between imperial Russia and Britain. Khiva was to play a crucial role in pushing the Russian empire south towards India – their ultimate goal – and experienced three Russian invasions.

  The first invasion in 1717 had ended in almost complete annihilation of the Russian troops. Battling against the Khan’s army and running short of water, they welcomed the Khan’s offer of a truce and discussion of terms. The wary Russians were welcomed into the city, the Khan apologising for the paucity of lodgings and explaining that the troops would be separated into smaller groups for more comfortable accommodation. The Russian generals were suspicious but were overridden by their commander – an Azeri convert to Christianity – who understood the sanctity of hospitality and did not want to cause offence. Once divided, the Russians were promptly slaughtered – a remnant surviving and put to work with Persian slaves building the Mohammed Ghazi Khan madrassah.

  The perfect pretext for a second invasion was provided by the returning diplomat-cum-spy Captain Muraviev. He visited Khiva in 1820 and discovered the city’s bustling slave trade, bolstered by captured Russians. Most of the slaves were Persian Shi’ites – considered worse than infidels by the Sunni Turkmen and Khivans. Turkmen raiders captured them, forcing any Christians or Jews among them, who were considered ‘People of the Book’, to convert to the Shi’ite faith first, making them infidels and thus worthy of slavery. Those who survived the long desert march were sold in the Khiva slave bazaar. Persian slave girls were the most popular additions to harems, while a young Russian male was considered the hardest-working and worth four camels.

  Captain Muraviev narrowly avoided slavery and imprisonment himself. He held audience with the Khan and was kept for a number of months under house arrest. During his first day in Khiva, he had seen the pitiful faces of Russian slaves in the crowds as they stared imploringly at him. The slaves made contact with him secretly through a message hidden in the barrel of a gun he’d sent for repairs:

  ‘We venture to inform your Honour that there are over 3,000 Russian slaves in this place, who have suffered unheard of misery from labour, cold, hunger etc. Have pity on our unhappy situation and reveal it to the Emperor. In gratitude we shall pray to God for your Honour’s welfare.’

  Later, Muraviev met one of the unfortunate slaves personally.

  The old man’s name was Joseph Melnikov; he had been 30 years in slavery, was the son of a soldier, and had only been married a week when he was seized by the Kirgiz near the fortress of Pretshistinsk and sold as a slave at Khiva. After 30 years of bitter bondage, when by daily and nightly work he had at length scraped together sufficient money to purchase his freedom, his master cheated him by accepting his savings, and, instead of setting him at liberty, selling him to someone else. (Captain Frederick Burnaby, A Ride to Khiva, 1876)

  The Russians had found their pretext, but waited until 1840 before acting. Summoning a vast army, they planned to attack Khiva in winter, fearing the scorching desert summers. Unfortunately they chose the coldest winter for decades and soon their army was decimated by scurvy, snow-blindness, hypothermia and wolves. Eventually they turned back, suffering massive casualties without even a glimpse of the walled city.

  It was clear that the Russians would not admit defeat, and the English stationed in Persia dispatched Captain Abbot to Khiva, hoping he could persuade Allah Kuli Khan to release the Russian slaves (now a mere 300 or so) and destroy any pretext for another invasion. Captain Abbot – a rather dour and mournful character – failed to impress the Khan and narrowly avoided being buried up to the neck in the desert, a suggestion made by the Khan’s spiritual advisor. With no news from Abbot, a dashing young officer by the name of Richmond Shakespeare was sent to Khiva. He used his charm and eloquence to convince the Khan of an imminent Russian threat – despite their recent defeat – and the need to free all Russian slaves.

  Reluctantly the Khan complied, even releasing favourite slaves from his harem. The liberated Russians followed Shakespeare in a joyful exodus across the desert to Russian territory. The Tsar – privately livid – offered public gratitude to the British for this liberation, buying the Khanate of Khiva 30 more years before the Russians finally invaded successfully under General Kaufmann in 1873.

  Trading Persian and Kurdish slaves continued into the 20th century, ending only under the Bolsheviks. Slaves were not the only source of Khiva’s ethnic diversity. Alexander the Great had conquered Khorezm, his armies taking local wives and leaving a blond-haired, blue-eyed legacy. Invaders from the East had done likewise, and Mongolian features were also present. Some Khivans could pass for southern European, while others would look at home in China or Indonesia.

  * * *

  Of the variety of mosques in Khiva, only one was allowed to function. This had been the way during the Soviet era, and the Uzbek authorities were wary of Islam and keen to maintain Soviet standards of control. The working mosque stood beside the Strongman’s Gate next to the fish-selling area of the bazaar. A row of painted clocks announced the times for praying namaz – performed by pious Muslims five times a day, facing Mecca. Beside them was a government ‘wanted’ poster of wahabis or Islamic fundamentalists. I arrived there with Catriona, unsure whether or not infidels were welcome to explore. We were soon put at ease by the gold-toothed mullah who was delighted that foreigners wanted to know more about the origins of his mosque.

  A walnut trader from Khiva, the mullah explained, had once discovered a large bag of gold coins at the bottom of one of his sacks. Assuming the money was cursed, he took the coins to the Khan. The Khan’s advisors – also fearful of a curse – advised the Khan to order a new mosque built with the money in order to alleviate any bad luck. The walnut trader had the money returned and was granted a plot of land. The mosque took shape but the walls were only half-completed by the time the coins ran out. The resolute trader announced to the city that he would exchange a walnut for each brick provided for the mosque. And this, concluded the mullah, was how the mosque was completed.

  I wanted to ask the mullah about religious freedom, but my language was limited and he grew uncomfortable at the subject. We did find out that during the Soviet era, a complex system of informants had kept tabs on attendees. This system still flourished and anyone younger than an aksakal or white-beard was suspected of potential radical tendencies and risked interrogation or worse.

  Khiva�
�s Friday mosque – with similar status to a European cathedral – was built to accommodate the entire adult male population of Khiva. Its low wooden ceiling was supported by hundreds of carved wooden pillars, with a lamp-post in the middle of this pillar forest bathed in sunlight from the overhead window. The mosque was no longer a place of prayer and was frequented largely by tourists and illicit young couples who had discovered that the steep, dark minaret staircase made an ideal location for passionate embraces. Unless one wheezed loudly while climbing to the top, it was quite common to catch couples hastily separating and brushing down rumpled clothing.

  Gone were the days when the minaret had served for dispatching women suspected of improper behaviour. Adulterous women were trussed in sacks and thrown from the top. A captured Turkmen rebel had also been hurled to his death, but a combination of crosswinds and his billowing baggy trousers ensured that he survived the fall. This was obviously the hand of Allah and the people assumed he would be spared. Instead, the merciless Khan had the luckless rebel taken back up to finish the job.

  There were other draconian punishments illustrated in Khiva’s historic jail, now a macabre museum. Two forlorn-looking mannequins were incarcerated, surrounded by paintings depicting ways in which they might be sent to the next world. The Hungarian traveller Arminius Vambery witnessed Turkmen rebels having their eyes gouged out, the sword wiped clean on their beards as they groped around in blind agony. Adulterous women not hurled from a minaret were placed in a sack of wild cats which was then beaten until the women were scratched to death, or were stoned, as witnessed by Vambery:

  The man is hung and the woman is buried up to the breast in earth near the gallows, and there stoned to death. As in Khiva there are no stones, they use Kesek (hard balls of earth). At the third discharge, the poor victim is completely covered with dust, and the body, dripping with blood, is horribly disfigured, and the death which ensues alone puts an end to her torture. (Arminius Vambery, Travels in Central Asia, 1864)

  Captain Muraviev, who had been so touched by the plight of his enslaved compatriots, wrote about the form of execution in vogue at the time of his visit.

  Impalement is carried out in Khiva with still greater cruelty than attends it in Turkey. The stake is of wood and has a rather blunt point, and, in order that the victim may not die too soon, his hands and feet are firmly bound. As soon, however, as the stake has entered pretty deep into his body, they are released again, when the tortured wretch increases his sufferings by his violent struggles. (Nicolai Muraviev, Journey to Khiva through the Turkmen Country, 1822)

  * * *

  Khiva’s history, though grisly, seemed for the moment more interesting than its present. In search of excitement, I determined to explore the bazaar further. I learnt where the illicit money-changers loitered – their pockets bulging suspiciously – and where to buy gaudy wooden chests painted in bright magenta and turquoise with ‘May your wedding be blessed’ written on them. Not everything for sale was as it appeared. A stall sold rough wooden pipes that had nothing to do with smoking. They were inserted between a baby’s legs before it was swaddled and strapped into a cradle, funnelling pee into a clay jar below.

  Another stall sold packets of dark green mulch that looked like desiccated spinach. I assumed it was a spice of some kind but was told it was nuzz. Sprinkled onto the palm of the hand and tipped back into the cavity between teeth and bottom lip, this blend of tobacco and something stronger caused a mild high, slurring of the speech and suppression of appetite. Used by all taxi-drivers, it rendered them incomprehensible to my untrained ear. After fifteen minutes or so, nuzz lost its potency and was spat out. This proved dangerous when sitting in the back of a taxi, and on one occasion a large expectorated globule blew back, spattering my face.

  I made friends with Kamil, a carpet-seller who trawled the closer villages in neighbouring Turkmenistan for carpets, providing generous bribes to the border guards and selling the carpets to tourists for enormous profit. I was useful – able to translate English books on carpets into a pidgin Uzbek of sorts – and Kamil taught me more about Turkmen carpet designs. Although not part of the local mafia/government, he’d done well for himself, buying influential friends and a smattering of wives whom he’d installed in different houses around town. Polygamy was officially illegal but many richer men took mistresses and referred to them as second wives.

  My experience with Kamil helped me learn more about Turkmen carpets and begin to appreciate indicators that affected a carpet’s value, such as the knot count per square centimetre. I also realised that within a few years, there would be no more old carpets to sell off. I wondered what it would take to set up a workshop producing new carpets of a decent quality to sell to tourists. It wasn’t something I gave much thought to. After all, what did I know about carpets? A few years later, when asked by tourists visiting the workshop where I’d studied carpets and textiles, I’d look back and remember my very basic tutelage.

  My accommodation prospects brightened. I discovered a beautiful old courtyard house within the walled city just next to the Khan’s fortress and watchtower. It was empty but owned by the Ministry of Culture who used it sporadically as a guesthouse. I could rent the main living room for the princely sum of around $10 a month, sharing the bathroom and kitchen with an occasional guest from Tashkent. I was keen to move in as soon as possible, but the landlady insisted I gain approval first from the Ministry of Culture in Tashkent. I persuaded Lukas to visit them next time he was there, sure he would charm them with his fluent Uzbek.

  ‘Maybe it will be possible,’ had been the response. ‘But first you must get these other permissions.’ This sounded straightforward, but I failed to understand that I had been given an Uzbek ‘no’. Preferring not to say no directly, the hope was that I would be put off by the demand for permissions and look elsewhere. It was only later that I understood this, learning to spot the expression of vagueness immediately assumed by any official when asked questions to which the answer was negative, or the dreaded hozer in response to a ‘when’ question. We were taught in language class that hozer meant ‘now’, but swiftly learnt that its practical application could mean anything from five minutes to eternity.

  * * *

  Catriona and I continued to collate stories for the guidebook, and Isak – a German-speaking guide – proved particularly helpful. Standing before two life-size photographs of the last Khans of Khiva, he told us stories of their lives. The elder of the two was Mohammed Rakhim Khan, a poet known by his pen-name ‘Feruz Khan’, and ruler at the time the Russians successfully conquered Khiva in 1873. He had retained his position but was stripped of his armed forces, expected to pay a huge war indemnity to the Tsar. He was Khan when Burnaby made his ride to Khiva, hosting the Captain and astonished that such a great nation as Inglizstan might be ruled by some woman called Victoria.

  Feruz Khan had been a benevolent ruler and popular with his subjects. His trusted Vizier, Islom Hoja, was a progressive thinker committed to improving the lot of the common man. The Tsar invited his new vassal to St Petersburg and the Khan left his medieval Khanate, returning with tales of wonder at the modern world. His new, purely decorative telephone was given pride of place, and a pianoforte was installed in the palace with a courtier instructed to learn how to play it. The Vizier Islom Hoja was similarly inspired and returned with grand schemes to modernise Khiva. He set about building the city’s first hospital, its first secular school (which even admitted girls) and a post office – dreaming that one day Khiva might be connected to the world by telegraph.

  Islom Hoja was a respected Vizier and honoured by the Khan, who arranged a marriage between their children. However, his fortunes changed with the death of the Khan. The Khan’s first-born was a hopeless opium addict and passed over in favour of Isfandir, who wasn’t much better. The new Khan – preoccupied with his harem and dancing boys – left the running of the Khanate to the Vizier. This arrangem
ent worked nicely until Tsar Nicolai invited the Khan and his entourage to St Petersburg.

  At the first official reception the Khan, unaccustomed to meeting virtuous ladies uncovered, was introduced to the Tsarina. His frank sexual proposition was judiciously translated as: ‘The Khan, enamoured by your beauty, humbly requests a portrait of your likeness to show his harem the superior beauty of the European woman.’

  The Tsarina, delighted, provided the Khan with a portrait, and the smouldering Khan was promptly packed off to the nearest brothel. The Tsar, hearing of such lewd conduct, was furious and refused to appear in the official photographs marking the occasion. Meanwhile, Isfandir contracted syphilis, a disease then unknown in Khiva, and returned to the Khanate where his physicians assured him that cleansing would occur if he slept with 40 virgins. The Vizier – fearful that his own daughter might get infected – intervened, quarantining the Khan from any further sexual exploits until he was well again, making a powerful enemy in the process.

  Isfandir was determined to do away with his interfering father-in-law; but he needed allies, who were hard to come by due to the Vizier’s popularity. He consulted the mullahs, who were also keen to see an end to the Vizier and his modernising ways, which threatened their own power base. A plot was hatched and a messenger dispatched ordering the Vizier to come to the Khan’s palace immediately. The mullahs arranged for bandits to lie in wait for the Vizier, robbing and murdering him. The Khan immediately rounded up the bandits, executing them before they could protest that they were merely following orders, and conveniently tying up the loose ends.