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I myself first saw Samarkand from a rise across a wilderness of crumbling ruins and great graveyards which lie between it and the airport. Suddenly we caught a glimpse of painted towers and the great blue domes of mosques and tombs shouldering the full weight of the sky among bright green trees and gardens. Beyond the gardens and the glittering domes still were those watchful mountains and their evocative snow. I found myself thinking of the thrill I had on catching my first sight of Damascus after crossing the desert from Syria. The light, file orchards and many of the trees were the same but deeper still was the sense of coming into contact with one of the most astonishing cultures in history, the world of the one and only Allah and his prophet Muhammad. It was a world that completely overawed me.Yet the memory of Samarkand which stays with me most clearly is quite a humble one. Coming back to the city from the country on my last evening we passed some unusual elm trees and I stopped to have a look at them. They were, my guide told me, perhaps a thousand years old, older certainly than Genghis Khan. A flock of fat-tailed sheep (the same kind of sheep that my own ancestors saw a Hottentot keeping when they landed at the Cape of’ Good Hope 321 years ago), tended by some Tadshik children, moved slowly home in the distance. Then from the city came quite clearly the call to prayer from mosque and minaret. I had not expected any calls at all and it made no difference that some of the calls came over loud-speakers. Then beyond the trees an old man appeared on a donkey, dismounted, spread a prayer mat on the ground, and kneeling towards Mecca, he began to pray.From Samarkand I journeyed on to Bokhara which was once the holiest city in Central Asia. At one time it possessed over a hundred religious colleges and close to four hundred mosques. It drew adventurers of all races towards it as it did Marco Polo. Not many of them reached their destination. These days at what used to be one of the richest market places in the world, one buys ice-cream instead of slaves; watches and mass-produced trinkets and fizzy drinks instead of gold, silks and turquoise jewellery. Few of the four hundred mosques remain and most have vanished without even leaving a trace. Samarkand lies （）
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I myself first saw Samarkand from a rise across a wilderness of crumbling ruins and great graveyards which lie between it and the airport. Suddenly we caught a glimpse of painted towers and the great blue domes of mosques and tombs shouldering the full weight of the sky among bright green trees and gardens. Beyond the gardens and the glittering domes still were those watchful mountains and their evocative snow. I found myself thinking of the thrill I had on catching my first sight of Damascus after crossing the desert from Syria. The light, file orchards and many of the trees were the same but deeper still was the sense of coming into contact with one of the most astonishing cultures in history, the world of the one and only Allah and his prophet Muhammad. It was a world that completely overawed me.Yet the memory of Samarkand which stays with me most clearly is quite a humble one. Coming back to the city from the country on my last evening we passed some unusual elm trees and I stopped to have a look at them. They were, my guide told me, perhaps a thousand years old, older certainly than Genghis Khan. A flock of fat-tailed sheep (the same kind of sheep that my own ancestors saw a Hottentot keeping when they landed at the Cape of’ Good Hope 321 years ago), tended by some Tadshik children, moved slowly home in the distance. Then from the city came quite clearly the call to prayer from mosque and minaret. I had not expected any calls at all and it made no difference that some of the calls came over loud-speakers. Then beyond the trees an old man appeared on a donkey, dismounted, spread a prayer mat on the ground, and kneeling towards Mecca, he began to pray.From Samarkand I journeyed on to Bokhara which was once the holiest city in Central Asia. At one time it possessed over a hundred religious colleges and close to four hundred mosques. It drew adventurers of all races towards it as it did Marco Polo. Not many of them reached their destination. These days at what used to be one of the richest market places in the world, one buys ice-cream instead of slaves; watches and mass-produced trinkets and fizzy drinks instead of gold, silks and turquoise jewellery. Few of the four hundred mosques remain and most have vanished without even leaving a trace. The author said that he was overawed by（）
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