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| Retour des champs à Sentyab |
Thursday, August 16th, 2012. The fertile valley of Samarcande villoya (administrative region) left room for a landscape of flat sunburnt steppes. In a distance, appear mountains, gigantic strange black rocks raising outside their gangue of sand, as of a twinkling film. By squinting, helped by the fast vehicle movements, the shapes begin to slide on top of the other, giving a curious impression of Fata Morgana. In the North, it is the opposite. Far away, very real that one, a blue strip evokes the water in abundance. I would have liked we rush there to have a bath in the crystal clear coolness of this lake. I would have liked we rush there but we went towards the mountain. We came to arrive in a village where houses go down the valley dug by a river which goes to get lost in the desert. Streets with uncertain allowance are paved by flat stones, the same that we find in the walls of houses, where they are placed precisely, sealed with clay. Nargiza suggested that I go there. A quiet spot, she told me, green and refreshing, in the mountain, not far from the lake. The lake, it is Aydar Kul, and the mountain is Nuratau. Between the two is the Kyzylkum desert, the Red Sands, which continues towards the Aral Sea. The adventuress Ella Maillart followed this road in 1932 when she explored Central Asia. She crossed by horse the country of Kyrgyz, reached the Shan Mountains, then faced this desert with camels, to extreme temperatures, narrowly escaped looters and Soviet controls.
The gastinitsa is Spartan. Four-bed rooms, public toilets and showers. But Chodiboy, the manager, welcomes me with a generous smile and, a few minutes after my arrival, a meal is served in the shaded park situated in front of the hotel. Not on the tapshan, abandoned in favour of a simple mat on the ground.
More we go up in the mountain, more the houses becomes remote from each other. At this late hour in the afternoon, the heat has subsided and walking is a pleasure. I like this contact by foot with the ground. We hear the sound of the water flowing combined with the birdsong. The water sparkles, gleams, runs between the stones, sings. "Water is the mistress of liquid language, writes Bachelard in Water and the Dreams. The language of the waters is a direct poetic reality, and streams and rivers provide the sound for mute country landscapes. Murmuring waters teach birds and men to sing, speak, recount. 'A' is the vowel of water : aqua, apa, to wasser. Raw material. Initial letter. The repose of the soul in Tibetan mysticism." Have Humans not used the sound of the water to begin to express themselves ? I want to lie on the grass and to dip a straw into the limpid stream. Small bridges, waterfalls, flowers. A sky of deep, clear blue, the pure, dry and perfumed air has the transparency of the glass. Pipes installed in the small torrents catch the water to irrigate gardens below. The village is a green oasis in an mainly mineral empire. Sometimes, an inhabitant walks slowly, followed by a donkey loaded with some dry thornbushes. The greetings are discreet. On the way down, I meet a woman accompanied by young girl who hides something under a white tissue. I approach, expressing by gesture my curiosity for the flavor which it releases. The mother lifts the tissue and unveils nan's armful (nan : round bread in Uzbek). She breaks a piece of bread and give it to me. It is warm and delicious. At my delighted expression, the woman smiles and offers me the whole bread. Later, near a house higher in the mountain, another girl will offer me samsas. I will allways be moved, here, by the beauty and the kindness of the women.
I ask a woman occupied with cooking some bread.
- Pajalsta, gde iest tapshan zdies ?
What is supposed to mean "Please, is there a tapshan here ?" She does not understand.
- Chorpoya ?
Not better. I try again by pronouncing the word "tapshan" with varied intonations. I finally explain myself and she takes me at her house with earth walls covered with lime. I meet her husband whom she calls Bobo ("bobo" = grandfather or old person) and who gives me a long speech which remains impenetrable for me.
The gastinitsa is Spartan. Four-bed rooms, public toilets and showers. But Chodiboy, the manager, welcomes me with a generous smile and, a few minutes after my arrival, a meal is served in the shaded park situated in front of the hotel. Not on the tapshan, abandoned in favour of a simple mat on the ground.
More we go up in the mountain, more the houses becomes remote from each other. At this late hour in the afternoon, the heat has subsided and walking is a pleasure. I like this contact by foot with the ground. We hear the sound of the water flowing combined with the birdsong. The water sparkles, gleams, runs between the stones, sings. "Water is the mistress of liquid language, writes Bachelard in Water and the Dreams. The language of the waters is a direct poetic reality, and streams and rivers provide the sound for mute country landscapes. Murmuring waters teach birds and men to sing, speak, recount. 'A' is the vowel of water : aqua, apa, to wasser. Raw material. Initial letter. The repose of the soul in Tibetan mysticism." Have Humans not used the sound of the water to begin to express themselves ? I want to lie on the grass and to dip a straw into the limpid stream. Small bridges, waterfalls, flowers. A sky of deep, clear blue, the pure, dry and perfumed air has the transparency of the glass. Pipes installed in the small torrents catch the water to irrigate gardens below. The village is a green oasis in an mainly mineral empire. Sometimes, an inhabitant walks slowly, followed by a donkey loaded with some dry thornbushes. The greetings are discreet. On the way down, I meet a woman accompanied by young girl who hides something under a white tissue. I approach, expressing by gesture my curiosity for the flavor which it releases. The mother lifts the tissue and unveils nan's armful (nan : round bread in Uzbek). She breaks a piece of bread and give it to me. It is warm and delicious. At my delighted expression, the woman smiles and offers me the whole bread. Later, near a house higher in the mountain, another girl will offer me samsas. I will allways be moved, here, by the beauty and the kindness of the women.
I ask a woman occupied with cooking some bread.
- Pajalsta, gde iest tapshan zdies ?
What is supposed to mean "Please, is there a tapshan here ?" She does not understand.
- Chorpoya ?
Not better. I try again by pronouncing the word "tapshan" with varied intonations. I finally explain myself and she takes me at her house with earth walls covered with lime. I meet her husband whom she calls Bobo ("bobo" = grandfather or old person) and who gives me a long speech which remains impenetrable for me.
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| Cuisson du pain |
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| Tapchane sur un aryk (petit canal). |
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| Enfants sur un tapchane devant leur maison. |
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| Tapchane abandonné dans un pré devant la gastinitsa de Sentyab. |
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| Derrière la maison de M. Bobo. |
I walk in the dry hills where the mountain fades and is replaced by the desert. Men collect saxaouls and load them on a truck. By going back up towards the village, I pass in front of a house harmoniously enhanced with a large garden where vegetables and flowers are grown. The gate is opened. A young woman is standing on a tapshan. Can I take a photo ? She signals me to wait, disappears in the house and returns accompanied with a man. He is the owner's brother and the uncle of the young woman. He invites me to take place on the tapshan where we share fruits, tomatoes and vodka. Three young men join us. My very low knowledge of Russian does not dissuade them to start a conversation. The night quickly falls and they eventually withdraw. My host invites me to sleep on the tapshan and brings me a blanket with which he covers me with a touching solicitude.
It is the night. I prefer this hard bed to that of the gastinitsa where I sank into a kind of spongy wadding. Comfortably ensconced, I listen to the grit of crickets. The sky is filled with stars. I feel good. I fall asleep in full delight thinking of the smile of my host's niece. Around the middle of the night, I hear murmur to my ear a feminine voice "Assalom aleykom". I am sure that I do not dream and I recognize the voice of the young woman.
Awake a little before six, I get up. My host, who had slept on an other tapshan not far from me, get up also to says farewell to me. Slightly embarrarsed hugs. I take the road for the gastinitsa while the village still sleeps. A white car appears and stops to my side. It is Chodiboy, the manager of the gastinitsa. In Uzbekistan it is required to be registered in his hotel and it is not allowed to spend the night with a private individual. Furthermore, in this village, the manager considers he is responsible for me. He was worried about an accident in the mountain where I also might have gotten lost. That is why, since yesterday evening, when I did not return, he is looking for me. I feel terribly shameful for having been unworthy of his warm welcome. Without, however, arriving to regret completely my cavalier attitude.
It is the night. I prefer this hard bed to that of the gastinitsa where I sank into a kind of spongy wadding. Comfortably ensconced, I listen to the grit of crickets. The sky is filled with stars. I feel good. I fall asleep in full delight thinking of the smile of my host's niece. Around the middle of the night, I hear murmur to my ear a feminine voice "Assalom aleykom". I am sure that I do not dream and I recognize the voice of the young woman.
Awake a little before six, I get up. My host, who had slept on an other tapshan not far from me, get up also to says farewell to me. Slightly embarrarsed hugs. I take the road for the gastinitsa while the village still sleeps. A white car appears and stops to my side. It is Chodiboy, the manager of the gastinitsa. In Uzbekistan it is required to be registered in his hotel and it is not allowed to spend the night with a private individual. Furthermore, in this village, the manager considers he is responsible for me. He was worried about an accident in the mountain where I also might have gotten lost. That is why, since yesterday evening, when I did not return, he is looking for me. I feel terribly shameful for having been unworthy of his warm welcome. Without, however, arriving to regret completely my cavalier attitude.
More photos Sentyab
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