We had a great time in Samarkand. Otabek and his family were incredible hosts. They showed us all the sights of the city, including things I had never even head of.

Several of the obscure sights were pretty entertaining. One was a mosque built two years ago in honour of Imam Al-Bukhari. It had contributions from each of the districts of Uzbekistan, and Otabek and his wife seemed to think it was the equal of the ancient monuments. Rest assured - it wasn't. To me it seemed like a fairly cynical manipulation by Karimov - an attempt to show support for mainstream Islam and the craftsmen of Uzbekistan. However, as manipulations go, it seemed to be working. Gulnara told me it made her proud to be Uzbek to see such things.

We also saw the tomb of the prophet Daniel. Or maybe it was the tomb of his leg. Reports were conflicting. It was about 15 feet long - apparently it just keeps growing so they have to extend the coffin to accommodate it. Despite my mother's repeated questioning, no one appeared to know at what rate it was growing. It was set by a cave that people claim is the biblical lion's den, just above a spring fed stream. It was a lovely little area, and I'm glad we saw it.

We also saw the Ulughbek observatory, or what remains of it. All you can really see is the circular track the telescope used to use. The site also has a small museum of Ulughbek and various somewhat related things, such as still photos from movies set in Bukhara. I could have been in and out in 5 minutes. Mom's attention to detail and Gulnara's careful translation had us there for nearly an hour.

One night, at a Uighur restaurant with Mike and Ian and Carmen, I looked over and saw that my mother was carefully examining her fork. When she saw us looking at her, she explained that it was a lovely fork, and she was trying to find out where it was made. That pretty much sums up travelling with my mother. It's a great virtue, because it means you can show her anything, from the vegetable bazaar to the subway to a CD kiosk, and she'll find it fascinating and learn something about the local culture. I have inherited the ability myself, and I value it. Every so often, though, it makes me want to strangle her.

After the tomb, the observatory, and the new mosque, we went back to Otabek's parents' house for dinner. Since the family was from Khorezm (see map of Uzbekistan here) they didn't make us eat too much, and the food was unusually good for Uzbekistan. After dinner, we presented the gifts we'd brought (a box of Belgian chocolates, a glitter candle, and a nifty little incense burner) and we were chatting when Gulnara turned to me. "Violet, I have a question."

"Yes, what is it"

"Can I ask to use their phone for one minute to call Tashkent? Is that polite? I want to call Mike. He looked so worried when we left."

"I don't know. I'll ask my mom."

Mom said it was okay, and Gulnara asked to use the phone. They were happy to oblige, and brought her a cordless phone. She had to make the call in front of everyone. This is what I could hear:

(In English) "Hello? Michael-aka? I am calling you from Samarkand. I am worried. Not bored. Worried. Worried!"

I whisper at her. "Speak Uzbek!"

She continues, in Uzbek "I want to ask you one question. When I left, you looked very worried. Why?"

"I agree. I agree. I agree!"

A little after that she got off the phone, and told me she had agreed to marry him. She was grinning from ear to ear. I found myself thinking she has awfully nice teeth for an Uzbek girl.

Mom and I continued to chat for a while, with Gulnara and I translating for Mom. In about half an hour, we were sleepy, and the three of us trooped upstairs to the guest quarters and sleep. Well, Mom and I slept. I'm pretty sure Gulnara was up all night, praying, watching TV, and thinking about the consequences of what she had just agreed to. She spent the rest of our trip worrying about her parents, and whether she and Mike would be happy.

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USAID is one of many donors for the project I work for. The views expressed herein are the author’s own views and do not necessarily reflect those of the author’s employer or especially those of the United States Agency for International Development or the United States Government. And I mean it. I probably give the US government heart attacks.