The first thing that hits you isn’t the sight—it’s the smell.
Cumin and coriander and something else I can never quite place, maybe dried apricots or rosewater, all mixing together in the air above Chorsu Bazaar like some kind of olfactory assault that somehow feels welcoming. I’ve been to maybe a dozen markets across Central Asia, and this one in Tashkent still manages to disorient me every single time, which I guess is part of the appeal. The main building—this enormous turquoise dome that looks like someone flipped a giant’s rice bowl upside down—has been standing since roughly 1980, give or take, though the market itself is old, really old, dating back to medieval trade routes when Silk Road merchants would stop here to rest and haggle and probably complain about the heat just like modern tourists do now. You walk through those arched entrances and suddenly you’re in a different century, or maybe all centuries at once, which sounds pretentious but honestly that’s what it feels like.
The spice section sprawls across the eastern wing, and here’s the thing—you can’t just look. Vendors will scoop handfuls of saffron threads or bright yellow turmeric into your palm, encouraging you to smell, to feel the texture, to understand that these aren’t just ingredients but living connections to Uzbek cooking traditions. I used to think saffron was saffron, but the varieties here range from deep crimson Persian threads to lighter local strands, and the price differences are, well, significant.
The Labyrinth of Handmade Crafts Where Time Moves Differently Than Outside
Past the dried fruits—mountains of apricots, figs, mulberries that vendors insist you taste before buying—the craft section unfolds like a maze designed by someone who definitely didn’t believe in straight lines.
Suzani embroidery dominates here, those intricate silk-on-cotton tapestries that Uzbek women have been stitching for generations, each one taking weeks or months depending on the pattern’s complexity. I’ve seen suzanis in museum collections, but somehow the ones hanging in Chorsu feel more alive, more honest, even with their occasional imperfect stitches that remind you actual human hands made these things. The ceramics come mostly from Rishtan and Gijduvan, two pottery centers about 200 kilometers away where artisans still use natural pigments—copper for green, cobalt for blue—and you can spot the real handmade pieces by looking for slight irregularities in the glaze. Anyway, the vendors know tourists often can’t tell the difference between genuine handwork and factory copies, so you’ve got to ask questions, push back a little, maybe even walk away once or twice before settling on a price that feels fair.
The knife sellers occupy their own corner, displaying pichoks—traditional Uzbek knives with curved blades and handles made from bone or horn—that look decorative but are actually functional if you know how to use them.
Wait—maybe I should mention the carpet dealers too, because they’ll absolutely pull you into their stalls with offers of tea and conversation that somehow always leads to unrolling massive wool carpets across the floor while explaining the symbolism in each geometric pattern. The tulip motif means spring and renewal, or so I’m told, though I’ve heard slightly different interpretations from different sellers which makes me think the meanings might be a bit more fluid than anyone admits. Haggling is expected, almost mandatory really, and if you pay the first asking price you’ll see this flash of disappointment in the vendor’s eyes like you’ve robbed them of the joy of negotiation. I guess it makes sense—the back-and-forth is part of the experience, part of what separates Chorsu from sterile shopping malls where prices are fixed and interactions are transactional.
Souvenirs That Actually Mean Something Beyond Airport Gift Shop Kitsch
The souvenir section blends into everything else, which is sort of the point.
You’ll find miniature ceramic plates painted with pomegranate designs, wooden jewelry boxes inlaid with camel bone, silk scarves in colors that somehow look different in Tashkent’s harsh sunlight than they will when you get them home. The skull caps—those embroidered doppi hats that Uzbek men wear—come in dozens of styles, each region having its own patterns and color schemes that locals can apparently identify at a glance though I definately can’t. There are also the slightly tacky items, the mass-produced magnets and keychains that every tourist market seems legally required to stock, but even these feel less offensive here, like they’re acknowledged necessities rather than the main attraction. Some vendors sell Soviet-era memorabilia—pins, medals, propaganda posters—that may or may not be authentic, and honestly I’ve stopped trying to verify because the stories sellers tell about where they found these items are often more interesting than the objects themselves.
The food stalls in the outer ring sell fresh bread—those round non loaves that come out of clay ovens still steaming—and sometimes I think the real souvenir isn’t anything you can pack in a suitcase but the memory of eating warm bread with your hands while watching the organized chaos of commerce flow around you. Turns out that’s probably too sentimental for a shopping guide, but there it is anyway.
