Uzbekistan: Behind the silk curtain

She was so beautiful even the birds fell in love with her.” Akbar paused, his softly spoken words hanging in the early evening air. He reached for the chipped teapot and poured another cup. “They wrapped her in the finest silk to protect such timeless beauty, but when it was unravelled she had vanished into thin air.

“They say her spirit lives on in the suzani [traditional embroidered textiles],” he continued. “You must look deep into the patterns to see her face.” We sat discussing old Uzbek legends in Akbar’s quiet courtyard, where lanterns twinkled under the pomegranate tree and the murmur of Tashkent could be heard beyond the high stone walls.

Like Akbar, I, too, was fascinated by the tales of the Silk Road: the good, the bad and the gruesome. The original overland odyssey, it has long lured travellers. For centuries, caravans of 1,000 camels crossed Central Asia trading everything from gold to gunpowder. Now it was my turn to follow in their hoof-steps.

Concentrating on landlocked Uzbekistan, I’d anticipated the history and stop-in-your-tracks architecture but what I hadn’t expected from this land of bloodthirsty warlords and evil emirs was such a soppy side. Love is all around in Uzbekistan. It’s everywhere you go.

Every town, village and city seemed full of young brides wearing sombre expressions and poufy dresses. They paraded around with their new hubbies and an army of friends, stopping for photos in front of even the most unlikely backdrops. For instance, the imposing Courage Monument in capital Tashkent – a memorial to the 1966 earthquake, a night likened to being ‘on the back of a berserk camel’ – doesn’t exactly scream romance. But there were the couples, doe-eyed and striking a pose.

Another love story was being played out in the quiet village of Botali, deep in the Uzbek countryside. In the back garden of an old farmhouse, Shohruh was busy shifting bales of straw. His new wife, Gulnora, stood on the doorstep, waving to us with one hand and rubbing her baby bump with the other. We were immediately welcomed inside, such is the way of Uzbek hospitality.

In the middle of the cramped and musky living room was a chest filled with the 12 outfits Gulnora wore during their three-day wedding. Sequinned veils, ornate hats and colourful coats were passed around with an open invitation to try them on. I politely declined.

Shohruh stood in the doorway laughing and the couple gazed into each other’s eyes. It was a touching encounter with two childhood sweethearts. Or maybe not. It turned out that this was a union of chance; the result of one misdialled digit. Gulnora had answered the phone one day, to Shohruh’s wrong number. She was about to hang up but Shohruh, liking her voice, kept her talking. They met 27 days later. The rest is history.