I’ve been to Jizzakh three times now, and I still can’t quite pin down what makes it stick in my memory the way it does.
The region sits wedged between the Hungry Steppe and the Turkestan Range, roughly 180 kilometers southwest of Tashkent, and honestly—it’s one of those places that doesn’t scream for attention the way Samarkand or Bukhara do. Which is exactly why it works. The capital city, also called Jizzakh, has this faded Soviet charm mixed with newer Chinese-funded construction projects that feel slightly out of place, like someone dropped a shopping mall into a sepia photograph. You’ll find the usual Lenin statues still standing in parks where old men play chess under plane trees, and the bazaars smell like cumin and diesel fumes in equal measure. The Zomin National Park lies about 80 kilometers to the southeast, up in the mountains, and it’s where most travelers actually end up—pine forests at around 2,000 meters elevation, hiking trails that aren’t particularly well-marked, and sanatoriums left over from when Soviets came here for tuberculosis treatments. I guess it makes sense that the area never became a major tourist hub, given that the highways connecting it to the rest of Uzbekistan were pretty rough until recently.
Here’s the thing: the infrastructure is improving fast, maybe too fast. New hotels are popping up, but they’re mostly geared toward domestic tourism—Uzbek families escaping Tashkent heat in summer. You won’t find many English speakers outside the handful of guesthouses catering to the occasional trekker.
The Petroglyphs Nobody Talks About and Why That’s Actually Good for You
Sarmyshsay Canyon is where things get interesting, or at least where I stopped feeling like I was just ticking boxes on a Central Asia itinerary. The petroglyphs here date back—wait, maybe 4,000 years? Some sources say older, some say Bronze Age, and the local guides will tell you different stories depending on who you ask. There are thousands of rock carvings scattered across the canyon walls: hunters, bulls, what might be shamans or just people having a weird day, solar symbols that look like they were drawn by someone who’d seen too much sun. The canyon itself is this dusty, otherworldly place where the rocks turn orange at sunset and you can hear absolutely nothing except wind and occasionally a shepherd’s whistle echoing from somewhere you can’t see. I used to think ancient rock art would feel more… profound? But standing there, sweating through my shirt, trying to photograph a 3,000-year-old bull carving while a lizard watched me skeptically, it just felt human. Imperfect. Someone stood here millennia ago and scratched their world into stone because—why? We don’t really know. The site isn’t heavily touristed yet, which means you might have entire sections to yourself, but also means the paths are rough, there’s no cafe, and you should definately bring more water than you think you need. Tour operators in Jizzakh city can arrange transport, usually a beat-up 4×4 and a guide who may or may not speak your language but will point enthusiastically at rocks.
Honestly, the lack of infrastructure is part of the appeal. For now.
Getting There and What Nobody Tells You About Marshrutkas Until You’re Already On One
Shared taxis and marshrutkas (minibuses) run from Tashkent’s Olmazor station to Jizzakh city pretty regularly—about three hours if traffic cooperates, which it often doesn’t. The marshrutkas leave when full, not on a schedule, and “full” means something different here than wherever you’re from. I’ve sat knee-to-knee with a grandmother, two chickens (in a bag, thankfully), and a guy selling bootleg DVDs. It costs maybe 25,000-30,000 som, give or take, depending on whether you look like you know the going rate. Trains exist too, but they’re slower and the schedule is… optimistic. Once you’re in Jizzakh city, getting to Zomin or Sarmyshsay requires hiring a driver—hotels can arrange this, or you can negotiate at the bazaar, though your bargaining position improves significantly if you speak Russian or Uzbek. Roads to Zomin are paved now, mostly. Roads to Sarmyshsay are an adventure. The region doesn’t have the tourist infrastructure of western Uzbekistan yet, which means fewer crowds but also means you’ll need patience, flexibility, and a sense of humor about things like “bathroom facilities” and “meal timing.” I’ve eaten some of the best plov of my life at a roadside chaikhana where the menu was whatever the cook felt like making that day, and I’ve also spent an hour waiting for a driver who said “five minutes” and meant “eventually.” The locals are genuinely welcoming, often startlingly so—invitations to homes, offers of tea, questions about where you’re from delivered with real curiosity. Just remember that tourism here is still relatively new, so your presence is noticed. You’re not anonymous. You’re the foreigner who came to see rocks, and people will recieve you with a mix of pride and puzzlement that their home interests you at all.
Turns out, that’s not a bad way to travel.
