It is 1 in the afternoon in Hayat, a hamlet of barely 20 homes tucked in the folds of the Nuratau Mountains in Central Uzbekistan. Lunch at the family-run Hayat Guesthouse is laid out in the open air, beside a murmuring stream and under the shade of tall, generous trees. It is a little outdoor feast of steaming shurpa, hand-pulled noodles tangled with vegetables, the ever-present Uzbek bread, smoky grilled shashlik, and the freshest salads of tomato, cucumber, and onion brightened with dill and parsley. Beside it all sits a pot of fragrant choy—tea that seems to define every meal in this country.
Later in the day, cushions and mattresses appear beneath a sprawling banyan tree. Here, in the cool quiet, the hours drift slowly by. The birdsong is unhurried, the stillness rare. By evening, the same lawn turns into a charming tea setting with candies and cookies gleaming on trays, and conversations meandering as lazily as the breeze.
The Nuratau Mountains, stark and bare from a distance, conceal an unexpected paradise. From almost every vantage point, the view stretches across rolling slopes and craggy hills where goats and sheep clamber like quiet sentinels. In the valley below, homes sit shaded by fruit trees that lean into their courtyards, and nearly every family has a garden brimming with herbs and vegetables, an open-air dining space waiting for company.
Among Uzbeks, food is never just food—it is affection served in abundance. “Our day begins and ends with choy,” locals like to say, and every cup seems to confirm it. Yet what they truly excel at is picnicking. Theirs is an art of generosity: food appears at any moment, enough for everyone and always shared. Travelling through the desert hungry, a passerby might suddenly fill your car with heaps of grapes, or women resting by the roadside might offer you ayrom, their local buttermilk, with easy kindness. At every table, bread is broken first for the guest, offered hastily but with a warmth that needs no words.
Everywhere, people lounge on the ground, tucking into lavish spreads. The Europeans may pride themselves on their tartan rugs and wicker baskets, but “you haven’t really seen a picnic until you’ve seen an Uzbek one.” Their picnics revolve around the tapchan—a raised wooden divan with a low table at the centre, dressed with Persian rugs, floral quilts, cushions, and bolsters. Meals here unfold like ceremonies. Plates fill with somsa, towers of fruit, jam, cakes, nuts, sweets, even sheesha pipes making their rounds. Strangers are waved over and served without hesitation. To a visitor, the kindness feels boundless.
In the Jizzakh region, the desert gives way to the pine-green forests of Zaamin. The picnic spirit thrives here too, with tapchans scattered beneath trees and along glistening streams. Driving through, one might see a modest sign that simply says “Picnic Zone.” Beneath it, eight or ten tapchans are perfectly arranged along the water, each laid with bread, jam, and tea. Sunlight flickers on the surface, laughter floats in the air, and the quiet is so deep it almost hums. For people from Tashkent or Samarkand, Zaamin is the summer refuge—a place to slow down, sip tea, and “simply exist among the green trees.”
This culture of outdoor eating runs deep in the land’s memory. The highlands and valleys of Central Asia were once home to shepherds and semi-nomadic herders. Situated at the crossroads of the Silk Road, Uzbekistan has for centuries welcomed travellers and traders braving harsh terrain. Hospitality became instinct; orchards, gardens, and rivers turned into natural dining rooms where simple meals of milk, herbs, bread, and vegetables were shared beneath the open sky. The modern picnic carries the rhythm of that past.
Over time, as tapchans appeared in courtyards and gardens, they came to mirror the nuances of Uzbek life. The style and placement of a tapchan could hint at a family’s social standing; in some villages, men and women even had their own. Summer is when these wooden platforms truly find their purpose, before being tucked away under canopies once the season ends.
Today, the tapchan has become both a symbol of tradition and a quiet tourism magnet. Travellers and locals alike sprawl on Persian rugs under endless blue skies, picnicking beside rivers or in wildflower-dotted meadows. As one traveller puts it, “With the first sip of tea, the world seems to slow its pace.”
In Uzbekistan, the picnic is not just a meal—it is a state of being. It is the art of taking your time, of letting the day unfold gently, and of finding joy in the simple act of eating under the open sky.