European Stars and Stripes (Newspaper) - September 19, 1977, Darmstadt, Hesse                                Page 20 the stars and stripes monday september 19, 1977 new York times by Christopher s. Wren domed Entrance to Bukhara Bazaar a commercial Center with history reaching Back 2,500 years. By Christopher s. Wren new York times somewhere beyond the Dusty labyrinth of scorched alleys with heroic revolutionary names like kirov Cha payer or communist Street lies what remains of Bukhara s legendary Bazaar. So relentless is the summer Sun that pedestrians Jostle each other to embrace the Shady Side of the Low mud faced buildings. But in the open Market place Farmers busily shovel potatoes from a truck for eventual Sale at 25 cents a Pound. A Small Donkey lurches up dragging a cart overflowing with onions for 6 cents a Pound. Bukhara a City with roots that some soviet archaeologists place Back As far As 2,500 years flourished once As the commercial Center of Central Asia. It embraced As Many As 50 different markets and 40 caravans Aries where caravans from Persia Afghanistan and India were quartered and their goods stored. There crowds teemed around the innumerable stalls haggling Over weapons harnesses carpets ornate Gold and Silver Karakul fleece colourful Silks spices camels and frightened slaves. The Economy was self sustaining enough that a Century ago Buk Hara is reported to have had but one russian Resi Dent merchant. A classic Baedeker s guide written in 1914, called the very extensive and richly stored Bazaar the town s chief attraction and cautioned outsiders that purchases of any extent should not be made without the assistance of an intelligent  in the Wake of a communist revolution in 1920, the Trade was shifted into stores run by the state. Soviet rubles and Kopek replaced the ten Gas and pulls of the old Bukhara emirate As Legal tender. But the Bazaar in Bukhara As in other Cen trial asian towns survives because it still offers a prime selection of vegetables and fruits from private farm plots and because it demonstrates an abiding Knack for turning up wares that Are hard to find in More prosaic soviet retail out lets. The old rifles and saddles hand tooled and inlaid with Ivory have Given Way to a Trade in equally pre Cious automobile spare parts. On sunday when com Merce is busiest at the Bazaar shoppers who arise in time to beat the Sun and the crowds can find the occasional bargain whether an heirloom Bracelet or modish clothing from Eastern  the weekdays a Market thrives on fruit and vegetables. Vine ripened tomatoes scrubbed carrots Green peppers cucumbers and delicate new potatoes Are Laid out on the Concrete counters like precious stones on a jeweler s cloth. A variety of salad greens and garnishes coaxed from the desert soil defies identification. The Kremlin motive for tolerating private food producers in an otherwise government controlled Economy is not hard to figure out. Private plots account for less than 3 per cent of cultivated land in the soviet Union but produce fully a third or More of the nation s meat milk and vegetables. Such intensively Farmed plots Are important for republics like Uzbekistan where collective farms prefer to concentrate on profitable ass crops like Cotton. On a recent visit collective Farmers at the Bukhara Bazaar displayed their own tricks for making the food look More appetizing than what could be found inside the stifling state run shops. The vegetables were periodically sprinkled with droplets of water to 0 500 Omsk soviet Union new York times make them Glisten with deceptive freshness. Signs posted around the Market warned that the produce should be washed before eating to avoid typhus and dysentery. Even so buyers sampled before buying anything in Quantity. These Are Sweet. Try one pleaded one Sun blackened Farmer wearing the traditional uzbek thu Bereika or embroidered Black Skull Cap. He was Selling Ruchi Cherry like fruit that tastes like plums. Before setting up his stall he had to pay authorities a modest Market tax and present certificates showing that the fruit came from his own plot and was not diseased. The Farmer was asking the equivalent of 18 cents a Pound. A russian housewife her Cotton print dress dark with sweat sought to argue him Down to 15 cents then gave up and ordered a Pound s Worth anyway. Faster faster she nagged As the uzbek nimbly transformed an old newspaper into a Cone and measured out the fruit. Outside the Market life moved with the languid rhythm of a desert climate. In the Shade of the 150-foot minaret of the Kalyan mosque from which condemned criminals were once Flung to their deaths Small children played a jacks like game bouncing pebbles against the paved tones. Below the mosque s Blue tiled dome other private Enterprise thrived. One Artisan faced his homemade trunks with shiny coloured tin. Another repaired Slen Der Central asian Samovar. Old men in cloth tur bans sat along a Wall with their few wares before them locks chains Canvas harnesses and snuff bottles fashioned from dried polished gourds. A Young Man sidled up and tried to sell a Matchbox size copy of the Koran for 300 rubles about $400. The exotic goods of bygone centuries had Long gone but the lure of the shabby Bazaar endured. One entrepreneur peddled a battered brass Kettle for 40 rubles vowing with eyes rolled skyward that none was crafted better under the old Emir of Bukhara. A Deal was argued out at 30 rubles. It was Only Back at the hotel that the bargain Kettle looked Alto Gether undistinguished. Ever since our children went into their locked door syndrome our House has All the Charm of a mental institution. The entire House used to be open  could Graze anywhere and still be in Plain sight. Not anymore. The other night i knocked loudly on the bedroom door. Who is it asked a voice. It s  who mama Are you sure  do you want open the door. I want to talk to  by Erma Bombeck at wits end did he Send you to get his records Back no. Unlock this  door opened a crack and one Eye peeked out. Of it s  were expecting Donnie Osmond come to  the door slammed shut. Following a Telephone wire i traced the next child to a locked closet. I know you Are in there. The Telephone wire is warm. Come to  there was silence. Then a whispered voice said she s listening. I la Call you  next one was a Toughie. I found him behind a locked door in the garage playing his Drums. Do you hear me i shouted. It  who told you i was Here the  is that All you want at dinner i asked them Why do you feel you have to lock yourselves in your rooms surely we can respect one another s privacy without bolts and chains. Getting this group to the dinner table is like cracking the first National Bank of  look mom they explained patiently we Are going through a phase of our lives when we need privacy. We have to have time to find ourselves to find out who we Are what we Are and where we Are  you can understand  later that evening i locked myself inthe bathroom when a note Slid under the door. It read i need a Quarter. Where i your purse i wrote Back i am finding myself. If Idon t know who i am it s a Lead pipe cinch i Don t know where my purse  c Field enterprises inc