BUKHARA, UZBEKISTAN It’s 102 degrees out — too hot to do anything, so I stay inside and muse on conditions in Uzbekistan, a poor country, where people profess to be very happy. One guide, in a rare moment of candidness, said, “They are always watching.” I thought, “Big brother.” The travel industry, like the tobacco, cotton, banking, oil, and transportation industries are firmly under the government's control. I snapped a picture of the Bukhara airport terminal and an officer came rushing over with his hands crossed and shaking his head, “No picture.” I showed him the picture and deleted it. Taking pictures of government buildings or transportation facilities is prohibited. It’s not even possible to park near one of those spanking new government buildings. I asked if I could at least see the grandfather’s (President Karimov’s) home. My guide said, “No. Security is too tight. It has to be that way, because the grandfather has a lot of enemies.” “Who are his enemies?” “The terrorists along the Afghan border and the opposition exiled somewhere in Europe.” But everyone I meet adores the grandfather. “We are a peaceful stable country because of him,” he says, which I've been hearing ad nausea. An eerie normality pervades the country like the calm before the storm: people going about their business, farm workers schlepping bundles of hay in donkey drawn carts, women in ankle length colorful synthetic dresses peddling fruits and vegetables, men lingering in cafes and parks, families casually strolling through the plaza at night, and folks everywhere saying hello. But something is lacking. Where’s the distant lightening and thunder, I wonder. Where are the street artists, the performers, the graffiti, the protest signs, the electioneering billboards, the newsstands, the McDonalds, and the currency exchange kiosks? Yes, why do people think it normal for the official currency rate to be 33% above the street rate?
