I was climbing a mountain, composing a love letter in my head.
Dear Uzbekistan. I've been here for three weeks, but it feels like a lifetime. I've seen your cities and villages, your modern high-rises and ancient fortresses, your valleys, deserts, and mountains. I've eaten your food and talked to your people, explored your archaeological sites, learned your history in museums, danced at your weddings, shaped your clay, and eaten fruit from your trees.
The trail gradually disappeared, but it didn't matter. The Nuratau Mountains aren't so steep that an intermediate hiker can't simply pick a route and keep climbing. I scrambled over jagged rocks, using both hands and feet. The mountainside was blanketed with lemon sagewort, its citrusy, minty fragrance hanging heavily in the air. I stopped to catch my breath and looked back.
The view was spectacular. Green valleys were winding between rugged mountain ridges beneath a clear blue sky, looking almost too perfect to be real.
Dear Uzbekistan. Before this trip, I didn’t know anyone who had visited you. I had no idea what to expect. I certainly didn't expect to fall in love. You have everything I look for in a destination: breathtaking architecture, fascinating history, rich culture, incredible nature, delicious food, and, above all, wonderful people. The fact that you're affordable is just a bonus.
I climbed to the top, then followed the narrow ridge line, breathing the cool mountain air deep into my lungs. Ahead of me, Victor carefully picked his way between massive boulders. Far below, I could make out the fence surrounding the Nuratau Nature Reserve, home to the endangered Kyzylkum argali sheep. Only a few hours earlier, we had stood outside that fence, watching a small herd of rams with enormous spiraling horns leap effortlessly from rock to rock.
We were so high now that our guesthouse was barely visible in the valley below. Last night, our host told us that he saw us climbing mountains from the guesthouse. Today, I wasn't so sure he would be able to spot us.
Dear Uzbekistan. I will always remember you. The dark red and white mulberries hanging heavy on your trees, the smell of steaming non being pulled from a tandoor oven, the way the sun sparkled on the blue mosaics of Registan Square, and the sound of children’s laughter in Bukhara’s alleys. You made me feel at home and as an honored guest at the same time.
A clap of far-away thunder broke the silence. Startled, I raised my head. The sky was no longer clear – heavy, dark thunderclouds were crawling towards us from behind the range of mountain tops.
There was no rain in the forecast for today. And yet, that didn’t change the fact that rain was coming. And coming fast.
If we followed the same path back to the village that took us here, it would take us over two hours to get back. We would certainly be caught in a thunderstorm, exposed on a mountainside, nowhere to hide from rain and lightning, our descent becoming perilous on slippery rocks and mud.
We had to continue with the loop we were on, around the Nature Reserve, if we hoped to get down the mountains before the rain.
“We have to get down fast,” Victor said. “Be quick, but careful!”
We quickened our step. The air was starting to smell of rain.
We didn’t know what lay ahead. We presumed we could climb up to the mountain ridge, do a loop around the Nature Reserve, and descend on the other side. We figured we could always turn around and walk back the way we came from, if that didn’t work out. Now, we no longer had that option.
Dear Uzbekistan. Just when I think I have you figured out, you throw me a curveball. Why hurt the one who loves you? Meanwhile, not everyone is as impressed with you as I am. While exploring a royal fortress in Bukhara Old Town, among some of the most beautiful courtyards, a Russian man approached us and said, “It’s all the same, isn’t it? Everywhere you go in this country, it’s all the same.” I stared at him, my mouth agape. Victor’s mom recovered first. “And where are you from?” she asked. “Tyumen,” he said proudly.
I used to have relatives in Tyumen. “Used to” because they left that ugly, boring Siberian city as soon as they had a chance. I wanted to say that to this boorish man, but he meandered away.
Now, if that man was caught in a thunderstorm in these mountains, that would make sense.
The sky was now completely covered by dark thunderclouds. There was more crackling of thunder, just beyond the closest mountain peak. I was jumping from rock to rock far more recklessly than I wanted.
“We just have to get down to the fence!” Victor yelled out. “We will be safe there!”
The fence meant that our descent was over and we just had to follow it to the path out of the Reserve that led to the village. We would be safe from having to brave slippery rocks, and as long as we weren’t directly struck by lightning, we would be fine.
The fence was still a long way off.
Dear Uzbekistan. A few weeks before coming here, I found out that my great-grandmother on my mother’s side is buried here. All my mother’s parents and grandparents were evacuated to Tashkent during WWII. She was only in her mid-60s when she fell ill and died. Her son, my grandfather, buried her in an unmarked grave somewhere in your vast lands. I talked to family members and searched online databases, but wasn’t able to find out where.
There was no path down to the fence off this mountain. So we made our own path, climbing over rocks, scrambling down on our backsides, tearing through bushes. My legs ached, but I could not slow down.
Dear Uzbekistan. It would be quite ironic if my family now had to search for my body.
Climbing over a large boulder, I looked down and realized that I was just a few feet from completing my descent. Victor was already by the fence, waiting for me.
The first raindrops hit my head just as I reached the fence. I looked up and started laughing.
Dear Uzbekistan. Thank you for loving me back.
