The formidable nut-selling matron

This week: and her boyfriend fall out over haggling techniques in the historic

Uzbek city of Samarkand

‘Ican see that it’s nice. It’s just not my style.” My boyfriend looks sceptical. “This is widely acknowledged to be one of the most beautiful monuments to love in the world, not to mention Samarkand’s finest examples of Timurid tiling,” he says. “‘Nice’ doesn’t quite cover it.”

I look again at the 16th-century Bibi-Khanym Mosque, towering above us. Intricate blue and green geometric patterns chase each other across the facade, interspersed with rows of elegant Arabic script and framed by two impeccably portioned minarets. We stand in the shade of an ancient mulberry tree, and it is early enough that the only sound is the splatter of ripe fruit hitting pavements so clean that later children will eat the berries straight off the ground.

My boyfriend is still talking about how much Emperor Timur must have loved his wife to have built her the mosque. A flash of insight hits him and he pauses.

“I see what’s happening. You’re still thinking about the taxi.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. Tell me why you’re angry.” The floodgates open.

“It just seems very unfair. Timur spent goodness-knows-what on this, and you can’t even spend an extra dollar to avoid a 20-minute bargaining process with the only taxi for miles.” “He was ripping us off.”

Still arguing, we drift towards the bazaar. Already it hums with the noise of jokes shared and bargains struck. An older lady at the first stall wears a voluminous zigzag-patterned smock, a red scarf covering most of her suspiciously black hair, and an expression that hints at a lifetime spent issuing orders to husband, children and grandchildren. My boyfriend pauses next to her pyramid of pistachios, and I meander on.

Tottering piles of dried fruit and

nuts line both sides of the aisle. Most abundant are the apricots or “golden peaches” for which Samarkand has been famous since the days of the Silk Road. Round and plump, they bear only a fleeting resemblance to the fossilised relics found in western supermarkets. The best are stuffed with a plum and a crisp walnut.

No one buys without sampling, and each seller hands me an almond, hazelnut or toothsome white roll that turns out to be dried melon. My favourite is a macadamia that, when prised from its perfectly round shell, tastes like the best milk chocolate.

Turning a corner I see my boyfriend stuffing pistachios into his rucksack. “How much?”

I don’t catch his mumbled response, and ask again.

“Seven dollars.”

This is twice as much as they are worth.

I resist – just – the temptation to comment that his “principles” seem to crumble quickly when faced with formidable nut-selling matrons. The Bibi-Khanym mosque, looming over the bazaar, appears suddenly in a different light. It is a monument, not to love, but to the incredible power of Uzbek women through the ages to get exactly what they want. This country clearly has much left to teach me.

Katie Parry

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