Trading aces
where students are often taught nothing more than to learn the Koran off by heart, these were great centres of learning in philosophy, astronomy, mathematics and theology.
When the Soviets closed them in 1918, they fell into disrepair until pressure from archaeologists and historians led to them being painstakingly restored, so that now the intricate blue tiles of their soaring Persian arches once more worship the matching sky above, and receive its blessing in return.
Such decoration could seem as ostentatious as a presidential suite, but the effect it creates is actually one of infinite serenity, even though the fact that it was all built on sand means some of the minarets are now looking slightly wonky. Still, never did Pisa any harm.
Across the city is the equally magnificent 6th-15th century Guri Amir mausoleum – the last resting place of the great and the good, including local hero Timur, whose empire stretched from India to Istanbul and much of North Africa. He died of flu in 1405 at the age of 69 on his way to China, and lies here in a simple ebony tomb.
At his head is his teacher, Sayyid Baraka, on either side are two of his sons, and in a lofty alcove a length of horse hair hangs from a branch, which was his traditional warning at the borders of his empire to potential trespassers.
One of his wives allegedly lies in another room in the sprawling complex, but where his other 42 wives and concubines are, you’d need to ask him.
Off to one side is a cold drinks vending machine, in case any of them gets thirsty in the afterlife, and outside, a sign tells you not to worship those inside, simply to respect and remember them.
At the Siab bazaar a few blocks away, the food market is even bigger than La Boqueria in Barcelona, surrounded by traders who have everything at half price just for you today. Funny, that.
Dinner in the Platan restaurant in the city was a treat of quail then tender fillet, while above our heads was a fresco of slightly drooping minarets which was either a sad comment on the local libido or a homage to those in Registan Square.
This time the music was provided by a saxophonist playing those old Uzbek classics, In The Summertime and Yesterday (when Genghis seemed so far away).
And so to The Eternal City back in the complex, an imagined recreation of ancient Samarkand.
It could have been disastrously Disneyfied, but it was actually very well done. In the various squares, locals and tourists tucked into pastries or plov, the local meat stew, washed down by tea or wine, since Uzbekistan is Muslim Lite. We rarely saw women even bothering with headscarves, and the people were invariably friendly and welcoming.
In the little shops, artisans toiled away on glorious silk carpets and clothes, brassware, gold, pottery, knives and paper made from strips of mulberry wood soaked then pulped, pressed and dried.
On the way to the airport the next morning, the driver stopped to let an old woman on a heavily laden donkey cart cross the road.
It seemed an appropriate symbol for a country which has a great future behind it, and a great past in front of it.