Buchara, bathing in the past

 

As the train crosses the steppe, I stare out the window and can imagine the caravans that exchanged valuables and insights between East and West centuries ago. I am on my way to Buchara, an Uzbek city on the Silk Road. An oasis in the middle of the steppe. I am still impressed by the splendour and history of Samarakand, another city here in Uzbekistan. A gem, which Alexander the Great already spoke of with high praise.

It is foggy when I arrive in Buchara. The railway station, like the others I have already seen in this country, is a feat of bombastic Soviet architecture. It is still a long way to the city itself. Because when the Russians built the Trans-Caspian railway in 1888, there was so much protest from the local administration that the station was built 10km outside the city.

It is misty and grey. Buchara's sand-coloured buildings form some kind of uniform mass, accented by the blue tiles with which the entrance gates of the madrassas and mosques are lined. The historical buildings from the 15th and 16th centuries are less restored than those in Samarakand, but the city forms more of a unity. I stand under the domes of the market halls. I am looking with admiration at the masonry of the Ismail Samani mausoleum that is so artfully executed that it looks like the walls are braided. The 10th-century building survived the looting and destruction of successive rulers because history covered it with sand and thus disappeared from view.

All that walking makes me tired and I decide to visit the Kunjak Hammam, a 16th century bathhouse. This building too is below street level. I step through the low door and down a staircase into a kind of living room, with an impressive ceiling. To the right, a woman is sleeping on a stretcher. In front of me is a wall of wooden cabinets showing a number here and there. In the middle is a table, on a red carpet. Yes, I can go to the toilet first. I have to cross a dusty courtyard. Squat above two wooden boards. The plumbing here has not kept up with the times either.

Inside, I am handed a cloth and towel. The woman helping me speaks only Tajik. Well, not only, she also speaks Uzbek and Russian, like all the people here. But no English. I understand her gestures, though. Undress, tie the cloth and come with me.

We step down some more stairs and walk under successive domes to a room where it is hot and humid. The only light comes in through a small hole in the centre of the dome. A young girl lies on the warm floor. An older woman is washing herself. She occasionally asks the young girl for help. I am rinsed off with warm water, scrubbed and rinsed again. The water splashes around. Wonderful. I am taken to another room where I have to lie on a kind of brick raised platform. Massage. No, no Thai or Swedish techniques, but it's equally relaxing. Back to the bathing area. I am rinsed again. A scrub. Rinsed again. The floor is also rinsed and then I get to lie down on that blissfully warm floor too. The scoop with which the water was poured over me now serves as a headrest. I am now alone in the room. I close my eyes. I hear the radio playing in the distance, the music making its way through the ancient vaults. The tap drips. Every now and then a drop of condensation falls down from the ceiling. I think of all the women who have bathed here over the past centuries, giggling, exchanging stories.

After a last rinse, there is another cup of tea with some sweets. I feel refreshed.