In the book I’m reading at the moment, there is a story about Bukhara:  It is about a poor man who took an apple that was bobbing along in one of the city’s fresh water channels.  He took the apple, ate it, felt a pang of conscience and went to find the owner of the orchard.  After traveling by horse for several weeks he finds the owner and begs his forgiveness. The owner (a Persian king), impressed by the man’s honesty says he will only forgive the man if he marries his beautiful daughter. The man, (who’s a bit of a hermit at heart) begrudgingly obliges, marries the daughter, but on the night of the wedding dies of a heart attack after the consummation of the marriage - apparently overwhelmed by the whole experience.  The princess begets a child who is heir to the Persian kings thrown and ultimately becomes the ruler of a Kingdom Stretching from Shiraz in the south to the edge of the Mongol Khanate lands. He was a good king, he didn’t forget his impoverished roots and known for his honesty and justice and kindness towards the poor.  The story was told by Ibn Battutah in his travels around the region in 1325.  Nearly 700 years later the fresh water canals are still in Bukhara.  They weave through the old town feeding the trees and filling large pools which tourist wander past.

 

We are staying just down from the main pool - Lyabi Hauz.  An ex-history teacher “Uncle Kolya” is our host.  It’s a pleasant stroll through the hot streets from his place to the major mosques. The city has a really nice atmosphere, but there are more tourists than we’ve seen since Turkey.   The mosques are stunning and the blue tiles almost as bright as when they were set in position around the time of Ibn Battutah, so I don’t blame all the tourist for being there.  

 

We bask in the air conditioning a Kolya’s place, I get sick, Jamie gets invited to a wedding where they play a big horn, we eat plov and watermelons, I recover and we move on to Samarkand.