Uzbekistan travel diaries 2026: Tashkent, Samarkand, Bukhara and the far reach of Khiva – photos

Uzbekistan is often introduced through its monuments: turquoise domes, tiled portals, names heavy with empire. But arriving there, what registers first is not grandeur so much as scale and distance. Central Asia still sits slightly outside Europe’s mental map, close enough to feel familiar, far enough to resist shortcuts. Travelling through it demands time, patience and a willingness to let the country explain itself slowly, city by city.

My route into that explanation ran through the TITF Media Campus, a ten-day press tour organised by Aziz Mirdjalilov, Head of Marketing at the Tourism Committee. Journalists, photographers, filmmakers and digital creators from across the world moved together through Tashkent, Samarkand, Bukhara and Khiva, following a programme designed to compress centuries of history into a single, carefully paced itinerary. Within moments of stepping foot in Uzbekistan, it became clear why Alexander the Great is said to have remarked that everything he had heard about the country was true — except that it was more beautiful than he had imagined. To understand how that beauty is framed and explained, I began my journey in Tashkent.

Tashkent: a capital mid-metamorphosis

Getting to Tashkent from Budapest takes a small act of commitment. There is currently no direct flight, so I flew via Istanbul with Turkish Airlines. The Istanbul–Tashkent leg runs about four and a half hours, long enough to register that Central Asia is not quite “near Europe”, but close enough to feel connected rather than remote.

Uzbekistan runs on the som, and the exchange rate has an immediate effect. At the time of writing, €1 buys about 14,214 som. Change €100 and you are suddenly carrying a thick stack of notes that makes you feel momentarily rich, even if only on paper. One practical detail matters later: you can only convert som back if you keep the original exchange receipt.

By the time I reached the hotel, around 6 a.m., it was already time to slip into press-tour rhythm: a quick freshen-up, then down to breakfast before the programme began. Breakfast came with live music and, at that hour, I found myself wondering who looked more tired: me, after an all-nighter on the plane, or the poor musician playing the violin for a basically empty dining room. 

The first colleagues I spoke to were a Malaysian team of two who, on hearing I was from Hungary, immediately brought up Szoboszlai, the famous Hungarian Liverpool midfielder. It felt like a small but telling shift. For decades, Hungary abroad had meant Puskás, his name carrying the country on its own. Now, more and more often, it is Szoboszlai who does that work.

Learning the rhythm of Uzbekistan

We started the day on a bus through Tashkent, and our guide used the ride to sketch the country’s basics. Tashkent literally means “Stone City”, but the translation misleads. The capital is pleasantly green, with parks and tree-lined streets that soften the abundance of Soviet-style apartment blocks. It is also a city shaped by rupture. A devastating earthquake destroyed roughly 70% of the capital, and the reconstruction created a visible split between older neighbourhoods and the newer districts. 

While around 95% of the population is Muslim, daily life feels relaxed rather than strict. Women are expected to cover when entering mosques, but elsewhere the rules ease. We were even surprised to spot a few liquor shops around the city, a small reminder of Soviet-era habits that never fully disappeared.

Uzbekistan sells itself as a country of sun, with around 300 sunny days a year. The statistic supports both tourism and agriculture, but it hides the extremes. Summer temperatures can reach 50C; winter can fall to -10C. For visitors, the most comfortable months are spring and autumn, roughly April to May and September to October, when the heat eases.

Independence arrived in 1991, and with it a deliberate project of national identity-building: Uzbek as official language, and an alphabet shift from Cyrillic to Latin. Even so, around 70% of the population is still fluent in Russian.

Hazrati-Imam complex

Our first stop was the Hazrati-Imam complex in the Old City, Tashkent’s most prominent religious ensemble and, in practice, a carefully arranged space of pilgrimage, education and official representation. Parts of it are ancient, while other parts are distinctly modern.

The older spiritual core of the complex is associated with the tomb of Kaffal Shashi, a revered local imam and preacher. Around that grave, over centuries, buildings accumulated: mausoleums, mosques, madrasas.

A madrasa is a religious school, traditionally devoted to the study of the Qur’an, Islamic law and theology. Education there was often slow and intensive. Classes were often very small, sometimes limited to just two boys, and studies might continue for 15 or 20 years, or even for a lifetime.

The Moʻyi Muborak madrasa is particularly famous for holding relics attributed to early Islam, including a 7th century Qur’an and what is claimed to be a hair of the Prophet Muhammad.

Inside a silk-garments souvenir shop on the grounds, we were given a brief demonstration of silk products and traditional women’s clothing. We were told that, in the past, social information could be read from dress alone: age, status, number of children, marital situation. We also learned three simple ways to tell whether a product is made of real silk: how it falls when dropped, whether it slides smoothly through a ring, and how a small corner burns. The burning test was for demonstration only, and not suggested for anyone keen to keep their newly bought silk scarf intact.

Visiting an authentic bazaar

From there we went to a nearby bazaar, the kind of market that still works as an everyday place rather than a tourist attraction. It sells everything from fruit and dried fruit to clothes and meat, but the highlight was the freshly squeezed pomegranate juice, available at almost every corner. Tea stalls offered hundreds of blends chosen by smell; my favourite was a black tea blend with lavender.

What stood out was the absence of aggressive selling. Compared with markets in places where pressure is part of the method — Egypt, Turkey — vendors here tended to respect personal space. You could browse, taste, decline, and move on without turning the interaction into a negotiation over politeness.

Suzuk-Ota complex

Later we visited the Suzuk-Ota complex, associated with Hazrat Sheikh Mustafakul Khodja (Suzuk-Ota), a figure folded into both history and local legend. The site’s story, as told to visitors, contains familiar Central Asian themes: the saintly teacher, the miraculous act, the transformation of terrain through labour and learning. It also carries the Soviet-era scar common to religious buildings across the region: closure, repurposing, industrial use, then reopening and restoration after the late 1980s. 

Inside Tashkent’s underground public gallery

We ended the day underground, in Tashkent’s metro, which reveals itself as much through design as through function. Some stations are grand in a distinctly Soviet way, with marble, chandeliers and geometric designs, their themes shifting between Uzbek history and Soviet modernity. One of the most striking is Kosmonautlar station, decorated with ceramic medallions of Soviet cosmonauts, including Yuri Gagarin and Valentina Tereshkova. Other stations lean toward poets and astronomers. The metro itself was built as part of the post-earthquake reconstruction and engineered to withstand major seismic events.

No trip to Uzbekistan is complete without plov

We finished the day with a plate of Tashkent plov at one of the city’s most famous plov centres. The dish is heavy and filling: rice cooked with meat, carrots, onions and garlic, often with chickpeas and raisins, and is served in generous portions. We were told, with the usual pride attached to national dishes, that every Uzbek city makes plov differently and considers its own version the right one. The next day, we were heading to Samarkand to see how theirs compared.

Samarkand — madrases, necropolis and bursting a centuries-old myth

Alexander the Great’s oft-quoted remark about Samarkand — then known as Maracanda — has long shaped its reputation: everything he heard was true, except that the city was even more beautiful than expected. After conquering it in 329 BC, Samarkand remained a point of reference rather than a footnote. Later writers gave it grand titles such as “the Pearl of the Eastern Muslim World”, while today it is more often described in terms of colour — turquoise domes, minarets and breathtaking mosaics. Needless to say, for architect lovers, Samarkand is a must-visit destination.

We left early from Tashkent North Railway Station on the Afrosiyob high-speed train (766F), and in under two and a half hours we were stepping into Samarkand’s wide, open light.

Our guide explained that Samarkand means “rich city” — a name reflected both in the scale of its monuments and in the density of its population and customs. As old as Rome, it is a UNESCO World Heritage site with a protected skyline, where buildings are limited to twelve floors. The city is home to people from more than a hundred nationalities, and while most residents are Muslim, daily life does not follow a single model. Traditions such as newlyweds walking through fire continue, and human and animal figures appear in art and even in cemeteries. Samarkand also boasts a wine factory, two beer breweries and a large number of protected historic buildings. All of this sits in a seismic zone, where earthquakes are a regular part of life.

Registan Square — the symbolic heart of Timurid Samarkand

Samarkand is famous for its madrasas, and nowhere makes that clearer than the Registan, the city’s most photographed square. Registan means “sandy place” or desert in Persian, and it all makes perfect sense, once you notice how the buildings appear to be sinking — not collapsing exactly, but settling, as if time itself is pulling them gently back into the earth.

Registan was once ceremonial, educational and commercial — the city’s public brain and theatre. In the background of all this stands Amir Temur (1336–1405) who rose from a local Turkic-Mongol noble into one of the 14th century’s most feared and celebrated rulers. His empire stretched from India to Anatolia, yet he chose to make Samarkand the centre of gravity. He gathered architects, artisans, scholars and astronomers from across his conquests and turned the city into an imperial showcase of power and intellect. In today’s Uzbekistan, Temur is remembered less as an invader than as a state-builder, a patron of culture and a symbol of historical continuity.

The Ulugh Beg Madrasa (15th century) is the oldest building on the square. Later, the ensemble was completed by the Sher-Dor and Tilya-Kori madrasas in the 17th century.

Shah-i-Zinda Necropolis — a street of eternity

Next came Shah-i-Zinda, the Living King, one of the most sacred and visually striking complexes in Central Asia. It grew around the tomb of Kusam ibn Abbas, cousin of the Prophet Muhammad, said to have come to Samarkand in the 7th century to spread Islam. Legend tells that when he was attacked, Hazrat Khizr led him into a well where he drank holy water and slipped into eternal life, leaving behind a symbolic grave. The facts are simpler — Kusam ibn Abbas did die — but faith kept the story alive, and generations built in its shadow.

Over centuries, the dead gathered here: Timurid rulers, noblewomen, scholars, and courtiers, drawn by the promise of closeness to the Living King. Even today, ritual shapes the visit. Forty steps lead upward, climbed by some with whispered prayers, others counting up and down while making a wish, hoping the numbers match — and that the wish comes true, as if eternity itself might be persuaded to listen.

Bibi-Khanym Mosque

Few sites in Samarkand inspire as much legend as the Bibi-Khanym Mosque. Tradition holds that Amir Temur built it using wealth taken from his Indian campaign, with ninety-five elephants said to have hauled its materials. The scale was meant to astonish, but the ambition proved costly: the mosque was reportedly rushed, began to fail early, and left Temur dissatisfied, particularly with its main entrance, which he ordered rebuilt in haste.

Local lore adds a darker layer. In one version, Bibi-Khanym, often described as Temur’s wife, commissioned the mosque as a surprise during his absence. The architect fell in love with her and demanded a kiss before finishing the work; the mark was noticed on Temur’s return, the architect was executed, and women were ordered to veil themselves. Historically, earthquakes and repeated damage hastened the mosque’s decline, leaving what survives today as a heavily restored monument — admired, debated, and inseparable from the myths that surround it.

Hazrat Khizr Mosque

The Hazrat Khizr Mosque sits south of the Afrasiab settlement, opposite the Siab Bazaar and Bibi-Khanym. It is considered one of the oldest Muslim religious buildings in Samarkand — traditionally traced to the 8th century. From here the city opens up: Registan in the distance, Shah-i-Zinda nearby, Bibi-Khanym’s mass below, and to the north the ancient layers of Afrasiab.

Hazrat Khizr himself occupies a strange place between theology and folklore. He is revered as a saint, patron of travellers, linked to water, wealth and blessing. Popular belief makes him immortal, capable of appearing in any guise; the idea has even been used to explain the deep reflex of oriental hospitality, because Khizr might arrive at any moment as a stranger who needs to be fed.

Temur’s grave — uncovering the powerful ruler’s secret

Temur’s presence in Samarkand is not only architectural; it is also physical. He died at the age of 69, reportedly from meningitis. As a Muslim ruler, his face was not depicted during his lifetime, and his image was shaped largely by reputation rather than portraits.

During the Soviet era though, his grave was opened and scientists reconstructed his appearance based on his remains. They discovered that his right leg was three centimetres shorter than his left. Today, there are three sculptures of Amir Temur in Uzbekistan, showing how his image has been shaped into a central figure of national history and identity.

Second day — modern Samarkand, trained for the future

If the first day belonged to dynasties and domes, the second was about how Samarkand now tries to organise its future.

Samarkand is unmistakably a university city. The number of universities is over fourteen, and our guide pointed out how education for women expanded once the Russians arrived, changing the shape of the city’s public life. During our stay, we had the chance to visit the Silk Road International University of Tourism and Cultural Heritage, a modern institution established in 2018 and built around a clear national strategy: to turn heritage into expertise, and expertise into economic development.

Students were surprisingly open and friendly, spoke good English, and were eager to answer our questions without the guardedness that sometimes comes with formal “showcase” visits.

What impressed me most was how practical the training was made to feel. We walked through facilities designed to imitate real environments — the inside of an airplane, the interior of a train — and at the hospitality faculty there were full maquette restaurants built around different cuisines, so students could rehearse the skills of the field they’d chosen in spaces that resembled the real world rather than a classroom.

Uzbekistan’s living traditions: carpet weaving in a country that can’t afford it

Afterwards, we visited a family-owned carpet factory, where the focus shifted to traditional craftsmanship. They explained how to distinguish genuine handmade carpets from the many imitations on the market, often made from bamboo or polyester. In a genuine handmade carpet, the knots should be visible — proof of labour, not machinery — and traditionally it is women who make these carpets.

The carpets came with hefty price tags: a mid-size piece cost around $12,900, while a large one could set you back $60,000. This raises the question of how many locals can realistically afford them in a country where the average monthly salary is said to be about $300–350. One mid-size carpet can take roughly one year and two months to complete. All colours are natural: yellow comes from asparagus flowers, blue from indigo sourced in India, and red from pomegranate. The depth of colour depends on how long the materials are boiled, with longer boiling producing darker shades.

Spectacular Registan Square light show 

Later, as evening settled, we went back to Registan for the nightly sound-and-light show: music, projections, and bright, theatrical colour washing over the madrasas for roughly eighteen to twenty minutes, usually starting around 8 or 9pm depending on the season and local schedule. You can watch from inside with a ticket, or stand outside the square and see it for free — and whichever you choose, the effect is the same: history remixed into spectacle, the old stones made to move again.

Samarkand doesn’t merely preserve the past; it performs it — and then, quietly, trains a new generation to sell it back to the world.

Bukhara – a spiritual stronghold shaped by survival

According to a traditional saying, “if Samarkand is the beauty of the earth, Bukhara is the beauty of the spirit.” While another goes further: “In all other parts of the globe light descends upon the earth; from holy Bukhara it ascends.” These are not casual boasts, and Bukhara makes little effort to soften them. Where Samarkand impresses through scale and surface, Bukhara feels more compressed, shaped by belief, power, labour and survival — and whatever “light” it claims is earned rather than decorative.

A 70s-themed rail ride with modern touches

We arrived in Bukhara from Samarkand by train in the late evening, a journey that took around two and a half hours. There are five daily services, and the rolling stock is modern enough to offer Wi-Fi and even a small ritual of hospitality: a free pastry and a hot drink, handed out like an in-flight snack. It’s a modest touch, but a telling one, reflecting a country that places quiet pride in welcoming its guests.