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| Vue de la vallée de Hazrat-Davoud. |
I expected to see an Oriental crafty, an rich, rotund and calm nabob. The man who receives me in the office of the tourist agency that he manages has on the contrary a great energy. Without been loudmouthed, Saad is not afraid to speak out on issues close to his heart. He is a strapping man, well-built, tall, with a slightly dark complexion, a long face with a strong and shiny nose which smells the hits. He is always on the alert and doesn't miss fast quips. It is obvious that he is a go-ahead type, a guy who undertakes every thing with ardour and conviction and who does not do things by halves. His Iraqi family emigrated into Austria, his father became a businessman, himself made studies in England and in Germany, linked up with his uncle who was managing a hotel in Samarcande, left him for mutual incompatibility, landed a job to Volkswagen Uzbekistan. But when we have the stuff of an entrepreneur, we want to be the boss. Saad understood that the country had high potential in tourism. At the end of the nineties, new hotels opened but tour operators remain rare and afraid. Saad joins with Maruf, a French-speaking guide, and lends him his own car to walk his first tourists. And that works. The tourists parade now in front of prestigious monuments and Saad agency implanted to Samarcande and in Tashkent cooperates with the main western tour operators.
We are going to have dinner to the restaurant Karim Bek, in the street Gagarine, where we find his loyal friend Maruf. The restaurant is immense and spacious. No tourists here. The tables distributed on two levels are quite occupied by Uzbeks and there are many ongoing discussions. We have for dinner shashlyks, tomato salad and onions. My book project on tapshans amuses Saad. I tell him that nobody takes my project seriously.
- Do not worry, Louis, he says. At the beginning, nobody took Jesus Christ seriously.
He does not stop telling roguish jokes in halftone. He is funny and sometimes caustic. When I point out to him that I saw only girls in his agency of Samarcande, he retorts by looking at Maruf of the corner of the eyes that the men of Central Asia are lazy, too dreamy. He does not make a mystery besides of his taste for the attractive girls. In the discussion, he does not hesitate to engage in the field of the politics and the morality. He criticizes the too slow development of Uzbekistan and traditions which make that the girls are not very different from their mother in their way of life. The marriages are always arranged, even if young people now have a word to say. But, changing continent, he also denounces the lack of political will which pulled the European crisis. Saad has an opinion on everything and shows a formidable talkative, jumping cheerfully from the seriousness to the frivolous, dealing in wit and laughter. Man in a hurry, he has too many activities at the same time, phone calls, new people to know and estimate. Sometimes, during a brief moment, we feel him elsewhere, eyes exploring a field of vision situated beyond his interlocutor, without moving or stopping smiling, before quickly regaining control over the situation. Then he speaks to me about his big project.
- The apples, my dear Louis! Tomorrow I take you to visit my small orchard. Hundred and sixty hectares !
The next day, his chauffeur picks me up at 7am sharp. I was surprised to see in the car Rahmatullo, Nargiza's dad. He explains me that he is the Saad's technical adviser for his project but he is also there to prepare the plov for the lunch. The chauffeur drives us at Saad's home which waits for us next to its own vehicle. We leave with him and Sanjar, a French-speaking guide. After one hour of road, we arrive to Hazrat-Davoud. Saad recommends me to visit with Sanjar the holy place. We shall join him later. The place is one of the main places of pilgrimage for the Uzbeks, as Doniyor (Saint Daniel), Chakhi-Zinda in Samarcande and the Pakhlavan Mahmoud mausoleum in Khiva. Davoud is David, the founder of Jerusalem. He is venerated by the three monotheist religions. The Muslims consider him as a prophet. He is also the protector of the smiths and the motorists. He protects from road accidents, what is useful in a country where we obtain the driving licence for just one hundred dollars.
At the foot of the mountain is the village which welcomes the pilgrims. It is possible to rent a tapshan for the day and prepare oneself his ritual meal afer having passed by the slaughterhouse to make the sheep's sacrifice. Protected from the sun by the vegetation, installed near small basins, tapshans waits for us and it is attractive to stretch out there. Peasant women go from place to place to propose products from the farm, some kohl and some medecines thought to cure any sorts of diseases because the prayers have their limits. Two women show me phials containing a creamy matter.
- It is some grass-snake fat, explains to me Sanjar. They catch the grass-snakes and put them in closed bottles. That smells very bad but it is good for muscle pains, rheumatisms, back pain, allergies and pimples.
I agree to buy a phial and I find myself immediately surrounded by other women who want too to sell me a whole lot of the other things. This black resin, for example, hard and breakable.
- That's called mumiyo in Uzbek, tells Sanjar. That strengthens bones and that gives energy. It is very good especially for the men, do you understand.
The women fuss around us and chuckle to themselves. But we have 1300 steps to climb to arrive at the top of the mountain, where is the sanctuary. Sanjar does not feel it, he prefers to stay in the village, with the women. Obligated under the saadian prescription, I must make an effort. I won't regret it because the panorama is worth it. Nevertheless it is only steppe. But this unlimitedness has something fascinating.
We are going to have dinner to the restaurant Karim Bek, in the street Gagarine, where we find his loyal friend Maruf. The restaurant is immense and spacious. No tourists here. The tables distributed on two levels are quite occupied by Uzbeks and there are many ongoing discussions. We have for dinner shashlyks, tomato salad and onions. My book project on tapshans amuses Saad. I tell him that nobody takes my project seriously.
- Do not worry, Louis, he says. At the beginning, nobody took Jesus Christ seriously.
He does not stop telling roguish jokes in halftone. He is funny and sometimes caustic. When I point out to him that I saw only girls in his agency of Samarcande, he retorts by looking at Maruf of the corner of the eyes that the men of Central Asia are lazy, too dreamy. He does not make a mystery besides of his taste for the attractive girls. In the discussion, he does not hesitate to engage in the field of the politics and the morality. He criticizes the too slow development of Uzbekistan and traditions which make that the girls are not very different from their mother in their way of life. The marriages are always arranged, even if young people now have a word to say. But, changing continent, he also denounces the lack of political will which pulled the European crisis. Saad has an opinion on everything and shows a formidable talkative, jumping cheerfully from the seriousness to the frivolous, dealing in wit and laughter. Man in a hurry, he has too many activities at the same time, phone calls, new people to know and estimate. Sometimes, during a brief moment, we feel him elsewhere, eyes exploring a field of vision situated beyond his interlocutor, without moving or stopping smiling, before quickly regaining control over the situation. Then he speaks to me about his big project.
- The apples, my dear Louis! Tomorrow I take you to visit my small orchard. Hundred and sixty hectares !
The next day, his chauffeur picks me up at 7am sharp. I was surprised to see in the car Rahmatullo, Nargiza's dad. He explains me that he is the Saad's technical adviser for his project but he is also there to prepare the plov for the lunch. The chauffeur drives us at Saad's home which waits for us next to its own vehicle. We leave with him and Sanjar, a French-speaking guide. After one hour of road, we arrive to Hazrat-Davoud. Saad recommends me to visit with Sanjar the holy place. We shall join him later. The place is one of the main places of pilgrimage for the Uzbeks, as Doniyor (Saint Daniel), Chakhi-Zinda in Samarcande and the Pakhlavan Mahmoud mausoleum in Khiva. Davoud is David, the founder of Jerusalem. He is venerated by the three monotheist religions. The Muslims consider him as a prophet. He is also the protector of the smiths and the motorists. He protects from road accidents, what is useful in a country where we obtain the driving licence for just one hundred dollars.
At the foot of the mountain is the village which welcomes the pilgrims. It is possible to rent a tapshan for the day and prepare oneself his ritual meal afer having passed by the slaughterhouse to make the sheep's sacrifice. Protected from the sun by the vegetation, installed near small basins, tapshans waits for us and it is attractive to stretch out there. Peasant women go from place to place to propose products from the farm, some kohl and some medecines thought to cure any sorts of diseases because the prayers have their limits. Two women show me phials containing a creamy matter.
- It is some grass-snake fat, explains to me Sanjar. They catch the grass-snakes and put them in closed bottles. That smells very bad but it is good for muscle pains, rheumatisms, back pain, allergies and pimples.
I agree to buy a phial and I find myself immediately surrounded by other women who want too to sell me a whole lot of the other things. This black resin, for example, hard and breakable.
- That's called mumiyo in Uzbek, tells Sanjar. That strengthens bones and that gives energy. It is very good especially for the men, do you understand.
The women fuss around us and chuckle to themselves. But we have 1300 steps to climb to arrive at the top of the mountain, where is the sanctuary. Sanjar does not feel it, he prefers to stay in the village, with the women. Obligated under the saadian prescription, I must make an effort. I won't regret it because the panorama is worth it. Nevertheless it is only steppe. But this unlimitedness has something fascinating.
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| Famille sur une terrasse dans le village de Hazart-Davoud. |
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| Femmes sur un tapchane couvert. |
On the way back, considering that I fulfilled my spiritual mission, Saad will juge me worthly of visiting its exploitation. But only after having eaten for lunch, on the tapshan near rough kitchens, the plov prepared by Rahmatullo. The place is called Sazagan. It is quite flat, quite dry and not very impressive. Apple trees are sick and the installations look like ruined huts. Black pipes following the alignments of the plantation leave small canals.
- Twelve thousand apple trees were planted here in March, tells me Saad. These pipes infuse drop by drop directly at the foot of the young apple trees a mixture of water and fertilizer. Be carefull about where you put the feet ! You have just crushed three melons !
I had not been careful in the plants which grow between the apple trees that I had confused with the weed. Saad pulls me towards a big consolidated pit in which some brand new devices are buzzing. Pipes go out from there to go towards the main canal.
- Irrigation ! He says. Made-in-China pumping plant and preparation of the fertilizing liquid. He goes down in the pit, looks at machines, sounds them with the hand, verifies the big meters, bangs on the wall of the tanks and returns, satisfies. We go then in a large but hardly visible underground passage wich looks like an antiaircraft bunker. It was a stable in the kolkhoz time. Good place for the preservation of apples.
- Why to have chosen apples and not orange or plum ?
- The apple is the fruit of love (glance). But especially, it is the fruit of Central Asia since more of three thousand years. It arrived at your home by the Silk route. In Uzbekistan, realize, we import apples in winters while there is here millions of apple trees ! There is an extraordinary market for whom knows how to preserve them.
He goes with long strides along the canals to verify the state of pipes together with a worker to whom he gives brief instructions. He is sometimes interrupted by the telephone which never leaves his hand. Discussion, decision, action. He takes again his resolute walking.
- Twelve thousand apple trees were planted here in March, tells me Saad. These pipes infuse drop by drop directly at the foot of the young apple trees a mixture of water and fertilizer. Be carefull about where you put the feet ! You have just crushed three melons !
I had not been careful in the plants which grow between the apple trees that I had confused with the weed. Saad pulls me towards a big consolidated pit in which some brand new devices are buzzing. Pipes go out from there to go towards the main canal.
- Irrigation ! He says. Made-in-China pumping plant and preparation of the fertilizing liquid. He goes down in the pit, looks at machines, sounds them with the hand, verifies the big meters, bangs on the wall of the tanks and returns, satisfies. We go then in a large but hardly visible underground passage wich looks like an antiaircraft bunker. It was a stable in the kolkhoz time. Good place for the preservation of apples.
- Why to have chosen apples and not orange or plum ?
- The apple is the fruit of love (glance). But especially, it is the fruit of Central Asia since more of three thousand years. It arrived at your home by the Silk route. In Uzbekistan, realize, we import apples in winters while there is here millions of apple trees ! There is an extraordinary market for whom knows how to preserve them.
He goes with long strides along the canals to verify the state of pipes together with a worker to whom he gives brief instructions. He is sometimes interrupted by the telephone which never leaves his hand. Discussion, decision, action. He takes again his resolute walking.
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| Saad en son domaine de Sazagan. |
I see him again a few days later in Tashkent where he invites me to dinner at his home. The house is rich, built in a secure lot. The neighbor is a regular visitor to the Presidency. I glimpse by the gate a high-end tapchane.
- You are crazy, Louis ! You can't enter that house ! exclaims Saad seeing me approaching the gate. Come on, my son is going to show you our house.
The house is less impressive than the one of his neighbor but it is so heavy. Three levels, big bedrooms for everyone, sauna, whirlpool, gym, swimming pool, well-equipped kitchen, computing corner, home cinema. It is Saad the Magnificent, with the luxury sedan, the attractive woman and the talented children. In Samarcande, he is the relaxed farmer, with his clunker and his apple trees. But because he has studied in England, he gets ready to become the gentleman-farmer of Central Asia. We have dinner together with his young wife Tajik, his three sons and his aunt. Considering that a Frenchman could not feel good at table without a bottle of wine, he found Uzbek wine he will himself hardly taste. This evening, the discussion will concern the women and the polygamy.
- The Westerners are hypocrites, he argues. They have hidden mistresses of whom they get rid whenever they want to. The polygamy allows to provide a social status for the second women.
- It is authorized here ?
- Just tolerated.
Saad often jokes with his aunt with whom he shares the same humor and the same talent for repartee. They speak together in a literary Arabic with smoother tones. The man has his blazing sides and his cloudy sides. He can give evidence of an excessive authority with his employees, be sometimes hurtful, I know it, and other times to be accommodating and generous. It is his paternalistic side. Two types of character but also two lifestyles. This of Samarcande, the simple and cheerful man who plants apple trees. This of Tashkent, head of the family and khan in his kingdom.
More photos Hazrat-Davoud
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