We were outside the Jizzakh train station, patiently waiting on our Yandex Go taxi driver, when another taxi pulled up. The driver, a tall lean man in his early seventies, leaned out the window, “Where are you heading?”
We explained that we were waiting for another taxi and he nodded, agreeably. After another five minutes of waiting and not seeing the Yandex taxi get any closer to our location on the map, we canceled that ride.
“We are going to Nuratau Mountains!” Victor said.
The taxi driver scratched his head, “Do you know how to get there?”
We assured him that we did and loaded up our backpacks into the trunk. As we drove towards a gas station, he asked, “Do you have family in that area?”
“No.
“Have you been there before?”
“No.”
"Then why did you tell me you knew the way?" he asked. "I have to ask around so we don't get lost."
We tried to tell him that maps on our phone had directions, but he wouldn’t hear of it. At the gas station, he walked around from car to car chatting up other drivers for full fifteen minutes. Once he got back, he proudly announced, “We will drive through Samarkand!”
I looked at the map. Driving through Samarkand would turn our two-hour drive into four. I rushed to assure him that no, we won’t drive through Samarkand, we can take R-36 road directly to the mountains. He wrinkled his nose in thought.
“Ok.” he finally said, “We drive through Paris!”
I leaned back in my seat. Maybe I am the one losing my mind, I thought.
Before we left Rishton, Khushnud told me that the city of Jizzakh is famous for their incredibly large samsas. “I couldn’t finish it all!” he marveled.
“Can we stop by and get a samsa on the way out of town?” I asked the driver and he readily agreed. A few minutes later, he pulled over beneath a giant billboard showing a smiling man proudly holding an enormous samsa. Directly underneath the billboard stood the very same man, pulling giant samsas from an outdoor tandoor oven.
I offered to buy our driver one, but he politely declined. I ordered the "small" size, which was still bigger than any samsa I had ever seen. I barely managed to finish it. Victor, who doesn't eat meat, stuck with the cheese pastry we had packed.
We drove out of town. R-36 was a wide, well-paved road and the scenery was mostly small dusty towns and dry steppe plains. I dosed off, only to be woken up by the driver asking how much longer. I told him we were still an hour away.
“But Paris is coming up in 25 minutes,” he mumbled.
The town, as it turned out, was actually called Farish and once we got there, the driver started acting antsy and kept asking if “we were there already.”
“We are going further on, into Nuratau Mountains.” I patiently repeated, “Keep driving.”
The questions never stopped. Why were we going there? Did we know anyone? How had we even heard about these mountains?
Victor tried to explain about his research, but this man who didn’t believe in internet maps also didn’t believe in internet search engines.
“I am seventy years old and I’ve lived in Jizzakh my whole life,” he announced. “I’ve never been to these mountains. Do people even live there?”
At this point we were no longer sure.
We kept driving. Dry steppe has been replaced by green foothills and now a mountain range was visible to the left side of the road. Every time we came across a road heading into the mountains, the driver slowed down and asked, “Here?”
I had to do a kilometer-by-kilometer countdown for him until we finally reached the correct turnoff. We turned and started heading into the mountains. Thankfully, the mountain road wasn’t too steep and was well maintained.
The driver, in the meantime, kept whining, “What is this place? Where did you bring me? How am I supposed to get back to Jizzakh by myself?”
I assured him that it was just this mountain road back to R-36, then back to Farish, and then to Jizzakh.
As we ascended higher and higher, he started to become a bit more enthusiastic.
“Look how beautiful! That’s incredible! Oh, wow, there is a house down there! I can’t believe it – people actually live here!”
Finally, we saw the sign for our guesthouse. I told Victor to wait in the car while I found the owner and made sure our reservations were in order, before letting the taxi driver go.
I took a small footpath down the mountains, towards cute little cottages surrounded by fruit trees, a babbling brook, and tiny wooden bridge. The whole place looked straight out of a fairy tale.
I saw a group of people eating lunch in a gazebo and asked them if they knew where the owner was. They pointed me back up the mountain, the owner’s house was on the same road where I left the taxi.
I turned around to head back up the footpath, only to meet the taxi driver, sprinting towards me. He was holding his phone in front of him, recording a video and loudly narrating, “Look at this gorgeous place I found! It’s a gem! People live here!”
I don’t know what I was more surprised about – the fact he knew how to record a video or that he sounded exactly like Tik-Tok travel influencers.
He followed me back up the mountain and by the entrance sign we were met by our host, who warmly welcomed us and reached out to shake our hands.
The taxi driver stepped in front of me and shook his hand, excitedly introducing himself. This is when I realized that the host thinks that I and the taxi driver are his guests. I looked over to the taxi to see Victor just standing there. I waved for him to come over, but he didn’t move.
Meanwhile, the driver and our host carried on a lively conversation in Uzbek.
I interrupted, "Hi, I'm Julia. And that's Victor." I pointed toward the taxi.
The host looked puzzled. “Is there three of you? I thought the reservation was for two?”
"This," I said, trying not to laugh, "is our taxi driver."
The driver simply smiled, completely oblivious.
“Let’s get your bags and get you checked in!” the host said and we headed to the taxi.
“Why are you just standing here?” I asked Victor.
"The driver told me to guard his car," Victor replied. "Then he ran off."
We both burst into laughter.
We paid the driver, said our goodbyes, and headed down to our cottage with our backpacks. After checking us in, he led us to a gazebo beside the stream, where his wife had already prepared lunch. Fresh bread, cheeses, cold cuts, and a little teapot were waiting on the table. It couldn't have been more picturesque.
I stopped to take a picture when our taxi driver came sprinting down the foot path. He was, once again, holding his phone and yelling, “This is a wonderful place for tourists! Look, here are the tourists I brought here!” and waved to us. Confused, we waved back, as he ran past us.
We sat down at the table and as we were pouring tea for ourselves from the tea pot, he came running back and plopped at our table, on the bench next to Victor.
“Remember, you offered to buy me a samsa in Jizzakh? And I refused?” he asked, a little out of breath.
I nodded.
“Well, you can buy me lunch here instead!” he exclaimed happily.
At this point, there was nothing left to do but to lean into craziness.
“Absolutely!” I said, “It’s a long drive back and we would love it if you joined us for lunch.”
“But you are paying, right?” the driver clarified, pouring himself tea.
Victor assured him that we would, as I was too busy chortling into my cup.
The host came back with a tray of hot food and sat down to chat with all of us. The taxi driver immediately started telling him that he was going to start bringing tourists from Jizzakh here - “Now that I know this beautiful place exists!” It sounded like he was building plans for a full-blown tour company.
I asked about the cherry trees growing by the brook and the host told me I was welcome to go try them, “They will be fully ripe next week, but are already sweet enough.”
As I got up from the table to walk over to the trees, the taxi driver shoved an empty plate into my hand and said, “Get enough for everyone!”
I was now picking cherries for the taxi driver while he was building plans for his new travel empire, as the host agreeably nodded along. I couldn’t help but marvel at the absurdity of the whole situation. At that point, I half expected the taxi driver to check into the cottage next door and spend the next two days hiking with us.
I will draw the line at him sharing our room, I laughed to myself.
We ate lunch, chatted, and relaxed. Suddenly, the taxi driver jumped up.
“Thank you!” he called out, grabbing an extra piece of bread for the road, “Must go!” and literally ran up the footpath towards his car.
We all just sat there, watching a seventy-year-old man briskly sprint uphill.
“I think he just realized that I was no longer guarding his car...” Victor mused.
“We don’t even lock houses around here,” the host said, “What could possibly happen to his car? Strange guy...”
“Did you see how much he loved it here?” I asked.
The host smiled, “Everyone does!”
