A heaven without internet
About an hour outside Tashkent, there’s a place where the Wi-Fi doesn’t reach. And nobody seems to miss it.
Photos by: Serova Kamila
Achiqk’ol - “clear lake” - rests quietly in the foothills east of Tashkent, near the Parkent District, where the city’s constant hum gives way to birdsong and the soft rustle of wind through open grasslands. Close enough for an easy escape yet far removed in atmosphere, it feels worlds apart, an understated retreat just beyond the edge of the capital, where the landscape unfolds with a quiet, almost otherworldly elegance.
The lake itself is modest, not the kind of place you’d expect to see on a postcard, but the kind that people find themselves returning to again and again. Its water, fed by mountain springs, stays cold even in the middle of summer, while the surrounding grass grows freely and unevenly, as if it was never told how to behave. Families come and settle in for the day, spreading out blankets, lighting small grills to cook shashlik, and letting the smoke drift lazily into the open air as conversations stretch without urgency.
“What draws people here isn’t spectacle. It’s the absence of it,” ”
The hills roll out in every direction, improbably smooth and vividly green in the spring, beneath a sky so intensely blue it almost looks artificial, like something pulled from an old desktop wallpaper. And yet, standing there, you realize there’s nothing artificial about it at all.
For those who want a bit of movement, there are horses. Locals keep them nearby, and for a small fee they’ll let you ride out into the hills, where the trails wind naturally along the ridgelines. The horses already know the way, so there’s no need to think too much about direction; you can simply follow their lead, take in the view, and let your attention drift between the rhythm of the ride and the openness of the landscape.
Staying overnight changes the experience entirely. Rather than looking for a guesthouse, most people bring tents and set them up wherever feels right – close to the lake, higher up on the hills, or beneath the tall poplars scattered across the area. There’s no strict structure to it, no one organizing or overseeing where people go. You choose a spot, settle in, and before long you find yourself sitting by someone else’s fire, sharing a meal with people who were strangers only hours earlier but won’t feel that way by morning.
Photo by: Parmankulov Aider
Eventually, you pack up, fold the tent, and leave no trace behind except faint footprints in the grass. The hills stay where they are, the lake keeps its stillness, and the wind goes on uninterrupted. Nothing here asks you to return – but somehow, you know you will.
