Photo: Yevgeniy Sorochin / Gazeta
The Incomers
Software developer Maria Shinkareva on relocating from Saint Petersburg, restoring a Soviet-era apartment, and learning Uzbek
Photo: Yevgeniy Sorochin / Gazeta
The Incomers
Software developer Maria Shinkareva on relocating from Saint Petersburg, restoring a Soviet-era apartment, and learning Uzbek
Maria Shinkareva is a development lead in IT, a traveler, and someone who loves restoring old apartments. Three years ago, she and her husband moved from Saint Petersburg to Tashkent. As part of the Incomers project, she talks about building a life in a new city, learning Uzbek, discovering local culture, and why she sees Tashkent as a city of many layers.
Maria Shinkareva is a development lead in IT, a traveler, and someone who loves restoring old apartments. Three years ago, she and her husband moved from Saint Petersburg to Tashkent. As part of the Incomers project, she talks about building a life in a new city, learning Uzbek, discovering local culture, and why she sees Tashkent as a city of many layers.
The Incomers is a joint project by Gazeta and New Uzbekistan University. It was born out of the curiosity that naturally arises when we encounter foreigners who have chosen Uzbekistan as their home. Through these conversations, we hope to understand why people come here and stay, what they love about the country, what they learn from Uzbekistanis, and what changes they hope to see.
On childhood, relocation, and multiculturalism
I was born and raised in Shymkent, a small city in southern Kazakhstan, 120 kilometers from Tashkent. These two have very similar climates.
My father was born in the Far East, but his family has roots in Central Asia, from Talas in Kyrgyzstan, going back to the time of Catherine the Great. My grandfather spoke five Central Asian languages.
My mother is from Shymkent. Her aunt lived in Tashkent and taught Russian language and literature, while her uncle held a doctorate and lectured in psychology at university. As a teenager, my mother would visit them often, so the city was already familiar to her by the time she enrolled at the Tashkent State University [now the National University of Uzbekistan named after Mirzo Ulugbek] to study mathematics. She later transferred to the Shymkent Technological Institute.
As a child, I visited Tashkent too, back when crossing the border was still relatively easy. We would go to see my aunt's family.
My father was born in the Far East, but his family has roots in Central Asia, from Talas in Kyrgyzstan, going back to the time of Catherine the Great. My grandfather spoke five Central Asian languages.
My mother is from Shymkent. Her aunt lived in Tashkent and taught Russian language and literature, while her uncle held a doctorate and lectured in psychology at university. As a teenager, my mother would visit them often, so the city was already familiar to her by the time she enrolled at the Tashkent State University [now the National University of Uzbekistan named after Mirzo Ulugbek] to study mathematics. She later transferred to the Shymkent Technological Institute.
As a child, I visited Tashkent too, back when crossing the border was still relatively easy. We would go to see my aunt's family.
I finished school in Kazakhstan, in a class of just eleven students — many of mixed heritage, which meant the number of nationalities actually outnumbered the students themselves. Germans, Tatars, Koreans, Uzbeks, Russians, Poles. Growing up, multiculturalism was the norm for me.
From science to IT
At 17, I moved from Shymkent to Saint Petersburg. I enrolled at the Baltic State Technical University “VOENMEKH” named after D.F. Ustinov, often called the “Saint Petersburg Bauman,” [a reference to the Bauman Moscow State Technical University]. I spent five years in the Department of Plasma Gas Dynamics at the aerospace faculty, studying hydroaerodynamics.
In simple terms, hydroaerodynamics is the science of how liquids and gases move. It has applications in aviation, space exploration, and construction. For example, to launch a rocket you need to calculate how airflow will move around its body. When designing a high-rise building, you need to understand how wind will act on its structure. Anything that moves through air or liquid requires these kinds of calculations.
During my studies, I worked with the Navier-Stokes equations, fluid flow, and turbulence.
In simple terms, hydroaerodynamics is the science of how liquids and gases move. It has applications in aviation, space exploration, and construction. For example, to launch a rocket you need to calculate how airflow will move around its body. When designing a high-rise building, you need to understand how wind will act on its structure. Anything that moves through air or liquid requires these kinds of calculations.
During my studies, I worked with the Navier-Stokes equations, fluid flow, and turbulence.
Фото из личного архива Марии Шинкарёвой.
I graduated with honors. At the graduation ceremony, I fired a cannon at the Peter and Paul Fortress, a privilege reserved for the faculty's top graduate. The natural next step was postgraduate study, but I knew I was not patient enough for academic research. And, more importantly, I had no desire to pursue it.
A scientist is someone who can work for a very long time without seeing results. Thomas Edison tried thousands of approaches before inventing the light bulb. It requires a completely different mindset. After graduation, my options were either to join a scientific research institute and gain clearance for classified projects, or to go independent. As it turned out, research institutes only hired Russian citizens, and I only had a residence permit at the time. While my citizenship was being processed, I started working in commercial IT — not the most prestigious field back then. And that was how it pulled me in.
A scientist is someone who can work for a very long time without seeing results. Thomas Edison tried thousands of approaches before inventing the light bulb. It requires a completely different mindset. After graduation, my options were either to join a scientific research institute and gain clearance for classified projects, or to go independent. As it turned out, research institutes only hired Russian citizens, and I only had a residence permit at the time. While my citizenship was being processed, I started working in commercial IT — not the most prestigious field back then. And that was how it pulled me in.
“Language always opens doors”
My husband Alexander has spent his entire career in game development. In 2022, a company called East Games invited him to Uzbekistan for an internship. They were expanding their office. Soon he was offered the chance to lead the development team and build it from scratch. That is every manager's dream. He asked: “Shall we live there for a couple of years?” I said: “Sure, no problem.”
Back in Russia, I worked across a range of IT companies, including Yandex.Money Walley, VKontakte, Mail.ru, Arrival, and the esports organization Virtus.pro. I held various positions, from individual contributor roles to management. Several of these companies were international, which meant work trips to Serbia, Kazakhstan, and Israel.
After moving to Uzbekistan, I joined Playrix, one of the world's largest mobile game developers. I led the release team for an app with 600 million installs. It was relentless. I burned out badly and left the company with enormous relief. I decided to take some time off to walk around, clear my head.
After moving to Uzbekistan, I joined Playrix, one of the world's largest mobile game developers. I led the release team for an app with 600 million installs. It was relentless. I burned out badly and left the company with enormous relief. I decided to take some time off to walk around, clear my head.
Browsing a local community group, I came across a developer vacancy at Road24. Uzbek language skills were listed as a requirement, and at first my application was not even considered. But they invited me to an interview anyway.
“We need the knowledge of Uzbek,” they said firmly.
“O'zbek tilini ozgina bilaman, o'rganayapman [I know a little Uzbek, I'm learning],” I replied.
“O! Gap yo'q! [Oh! No problem!],” they said, visibly surprised.
Language always opens doors.
Road24 is a driver-focused app in Uzbekistan. While most people know it for traffic fines, it has grown into a full ecosystem for drivers: 7 million installs, 3 million active users every month, almost entirely without marketing spend.
I joined a year and a half ago and was entrusted with the entire development function. We launched an auto-signal feature that lets you contact a car owner by plate number without revealing your own phone. We integrated parking services, added insurance purchasing, and developed a unified protocol for OSAGO, compulsory third-party liability insurance, covering all insurance companies. We launched Yordam, a roadside assistance service offering tow trucks and tire fitting at fixed prices. And we built a car marketplace. One large holding company spent a year and a half developing a similar app with a team of 60. Our team of three did it in three weeks.
“We need the knowledge of Uzbek,” they said firmly.
“O'zbek tilini ozgina bilaman, o'rganayapman [I know a little Uzbek, I'm learning],” I replied.
“O! Gap yo'q! [Oh! No problem!],” they said, visibly surprised.
Language always opens doors.
Road24 is a driver-focused app in Uzbekistan. While most people know it for traffic fines, it has grown into a full ecosystem for drivers: 7 million installs, 3 million active users every month, almost entirely without marketing spend.
I joined a year and a half ago and was entrusted with the entire development function. We launched an auto-signal feature that lets you contact a car owner by plate number without revealing your own phone. We integrated parking services, added insurance purchasing, and developed a unified protocol for OSAGO, compulsory third-party liability insurance, covering all insurance companies. We launched Yordam, a roadside assistance service offering tow trucks and tire fitting at fixed prices. And we built a car marketplace. One large holding company spent a year and a half developing a similar app with a team of 60. Our team of three did it in three weeks.
Коллектив Road24. Фото из личного архива Марии Шинкарёвой.
The company has around 20 people in total, most of them are Uzbekistanis. That is a deliberate choice. We are building for people who live here, so it matters that the team actually uses the product. When you build something you use every day, you almost always make it better.
Most of the team speaks three languages; some speak only Uzbek. The dynamic works. There are people from traditional backgrounds alongside those with entirely secular outlooks. Somehow we figure it out. We share the same world and we make it work.
Most of the team speaks three languages; some speak only Uzbek. The dynamic works. There are people from traditional backgrounds alongside those with entirely secular outlooks. Somehow we figure it out. We share the same world and we make it work.
That said, the CEO and I took time to find our rhythm. We are both direct, both willing to emotionally argue for our positions. The main disagreement was around schedules. He believed in discipline and showing up at nine. I believe in accountability for output, not hours in a seat. I have no interest in “monitor guards.”
Eventually we worked it out — and made it official. People had already been coming in a little later, but now it is formalized. At 10 a.m. we run a standup: everyone joins, syncs on tasks and blockers, then works however suits them best. I give the team as much freedom as I can. In return, I expect results.
Eventually we worked it out — and made it official. People had already been coming in a little later, but now it is formalized. At 10 a.m. we run a standup: everyone joins, syncs on tasks and blockers, then works however suits them best. I give the team as much freedom as I can. In return, I expect results.
“Competition is always a good thing”
Over the past year, a lot of people I know have been reaching out with questions about Uzbekistan. How payment systems work? What the tax situation looks like? How to enter the market? New legislation keeps emerging, including frameworks around English law. It is attracting foreign companies.
I have spent time in the UAE and Saudi Arabia, and while they are popular right now and salaries are high, I find them genuinely dull to live in. I would only move there for a truly exceptional job offer, the kind that comes once in a career. Tashkent is the opposite. Every weekend, my friends and I are coordinating: where are we going, who has plans? The issue is never having nothing to do. It is having too many options.
Competition makes things better. Look at what happened with Russian banking apps. The banks pushed each other to build better products. As the result they got what was one of the most sophisticated financial app ecosystems in the world. When companies compete instead of blocking each other, everyone wins.
Competition makes things better. Look at what happened with Russian banking apps. The banks pushed each other to build better products. As the result they got what was one of the most sophisticated financial app ecosystems in the world. When companies compete instead of blocking each other, everyone wins.
"Renovations are my vent”
Once it became clear we were staying in Tashkent, we started thinking seriously about buying a place. Our IT visas allow non-residents to purchase property without a minimum price threshold. We looked at an apartment near the Northern Station, then walked into a 1939 Stalin-era building on Nukus Street — and something just hit us! Hard to explain, but we both knew immediately. Three days later, we had signed. We moved in six months after that, in August 2024.
Renovations have always been my vent. I have been doing them my whole life: my own apartment in Saint Petersburg, my mother-in-law's place, my parents' home in Shymkent. I love bringing old buildings back. I can lose hours watching DIY and upcycling videos online.
Finding an apartment with a finished renovation you would not want to redo is nearly impossible. Everyone has their own taste. And I have a very specific picture of how things should look: countertops completely clear, no hanging utensil racks, a proper storage room, a separate walk-in wardrobe. Starting from scratch is simply easier. And significantly cheaper.
Finding an apartment with a finished renovation you would not want to redo is nearly impossible. Everyone has their own taste. And I have a very specific picture of how things should look: countertops completely clear, no hanging utensil racks, a proper storage room, a separate walk-in wardrobe. Starting from scratch is simply easier. And significantly cheaper.
The doors turned out to be the hardest part. We wanted to restore the originals, but the workers we hired were unreliable. They were enthusiastic at first, but then started skipping days, juggling multiple sites, losing track of time. I eventually asked my mother if I could borrow my father for a week. He is a builder, and nobody gets away with cutting corners around him. In that one week, they painted every room, installed two walk-in wardrobes, hung all the doors, and grouted all the tiles. We finally moved in.
“
Some time later, through what Uzbeks call tanish-bilish [connections through mutual acquaintances] we met Bakhtiyor-aka, a craftsman widely known in a small circle of people who know.
He got it immediately when I said I did not want to throw away the original door. He sourced larch floorboards, joined them together, and produced a countertop that cost a quarter of what a solid piece would have. He restored a mirror for us. He is currently building a sideboard from pieces found at the Yangiabad market. Now we share him with friends on a rotating basis. We message each other: “Are you done with Bakhtiyor-aka? Can I have him back?”
A community of 500 people has built up around the renovation project in a Telegram group. We share tips and recommendations where to find things, what to avoid. Everything exists in Tashkent; you just have to know where to look. After a renovation, you often end up with leftover paint, tiles, or fittings that someone else could use. In Russia, this kind of exchange is common on Avito. Here, that culture does not really exist yet.
Walks and favourite routes
Tashkent is a city of layers. There is Eski Shahar, the Old City with its traditional mahallas [residential neighborhood communities]. There is the sleek, modern Tashkent City district. There is the quieter, more lived-in Nukus Street, the Gospitalny bazaar, the Ankhor canal. The city is a melting pot where everything comes together. I love being part of that mix.
I do not quite feel like I belong here yet, but I no longer feel like a tourist either. Four years in, I have become a little bit “Tashkenti”. What makes this city unique is that it was once threaded with canals and aryks [irrigation channels]. Even now, on the hottest days, the air along the Ankhor drops noticeably, and I wish there were more places like it, with water and trees.
I do not quite feel like I belong here yet, but I no longer feel like a tourist either. Four years in, I have become a little bit “Tashkenti”. What makes this city unique is that it was once threaded with canals and aryks [irrigation channels]. Even now, on the hottest days, the air along the Ankhor drops noticeably, and I wish there were more places like it, with water and trees.
When friends come to visit, I take them on my favourite route. We start at Ming Urik, then walk to the building at 45 Amir Temur Avenue, an architectural landmark from 1927 that local residents saved from demolition. From there, along Taras Shevchenko Street to the Zhemchug building, then along the Ankhor canal past the old nomenklatura apartment blocks to Navrus Park. And always: Khast Imam, the Kalkauz mahalla with its canals, and the Chorsu bazaar. The route can clock up around 30,000 steps, and my guests often finish it completely wiped out.
“
I often watch low-rise historic buildings being demolished to make way for high-rises. It happens across different parts of the city. And yet these are exactly the kinds of buildings that draw tourists — the way they do in Darkhan, for example. They should be preserved and restored, not torn down.
Photo: Yevgeniy Sorochin / Gazeta
Tashkent is walkable city if you have something to compare it to. In Saudi Arabia, the nearest pedestrian crossing can be five kilometres away. Kuala Lumpur and the UAE are not designed for walking, and the heat makes it worse. Here, I can reach all my favourite spots on foot without any effort. Shota Rustaveli Street has been properly done up. You walk along it and it is all green.
People say the city is tilting toward cars: too few traffic lights, too many uncontrolled crossings. That is true. Could it be better? Yes. Should it be? Absolutely. Pedestrians vastly outnumber drivers in this city, and it ought to reflect that. Driving should be costly and inconvenient; public transport should be genuinely good; and walking should be accessible to everyone. I take the metro myself sometimes. It gets me from A to B, and that is enough.
People say the city is tilting toward cars: too few traffic lights, too many uncontrolled crossings. That is true. Could it be better? Yes. Should it be? Absolutely. Pedestrians vastly outnumber drivers in this city, and it ought to reflect that. Driving should be costly and inconvenient; public transport should be genuinely good; and walking should be accessible to everyone. I take the metro myself sometimes. It gets me from A to B, and that is enough.
“In Tashkent, the distance between people is short”
I tried Uzbek language classes, but I found they focused too much on grammar and vocabulary that rarely comes up in real life conversations. So I did my own research instead. I asked several non-Uzbek people who spoke the language fluently how they had learned it. Three patterns kept coming up: military service, studying in a Uzbek-language college group, or simply growing up in a mahalla. Of those, the one that suited me most was just talking to people.
I posted on Threads saying I was looking for an Uzbek-speaking friend to walk around the city and practise the language with. I got around a thousand replies! One of them was Umida: vivid red hair, highly educated, works at an embassy, deeply versed in Uzbek literature and culture, and currently appearing on an Uzbek-language reality show. After our first meeting, I had nearly a full reading list.
“
Something I have noticed about Tashkent is how little distance there is between people. In Saint Petersburg, people are more like coconuts: hard on the outside, soft once you get through. Here, there is no shell to crack. You run into someone a couple of times and you can already invite them for a walk or to come over. I love that.
Photo: Mariya Shinkareva / Threads.
Speaking the language changes things. Not that people become more hospitable, but there is a warmth that comes through. At the market, when I speak Uzbek, people treat me differently. More respect, more willingness to help.
For now, I learn as I go, a word or two a day. My colleagues are happy to fill in gaps and share bits of culture along the way. Uzbek-language content has started showing up in my feeds too. I have even attempted local films. The first one I ever watched was back in 2009, in Saint Petersburg — Super Kelinchak. I still recommend it to anyone wanting a way into Uzbek culture. I also remember Fatima va Zuhra, Tashlandiq, and old Soviet films set in Tashkent.
For reading, I love Dina Rubina's novella On the Sunny Side of the Streetand the series based on it, which follows people evacuated from blockaded Leningrad to Tashkent. The story unfolds on Amir Temur Avenue. They arrived at the Northern Station, walked down that street, and searched for rooms. I read the book and watched the series back in Saint Petersburg, never imagining I would one day live right there. Quite a coincidence. There is also Abdullah Qodiriy's novel Days Gone By, which opens at Ming Urik, the very same spot where my favourite walking route for guests begins.
For now, I learn as I go, a word or two a day. My colleagues are happy to fill in gaps and share bits of culture along the way. Uzbek-language content has started showing up in my feeds too. I have even attempted local films. The first one I ever watched was back in 2009, in Saint Petersburg — Super Kelinchak. I still recommend it to anyone wanting a way into Uzbek culture. I also remember Fatima va Zuhra, Tashlandiq, and old Soviet films set in Tashkent.
For reading, I love Dina Rubina's novella On the Sunny Side of the Streetand the series based on it, which follows people evacuated from blockaded Leningrad to Tashkent. The story unfolds on Amir Temur Avenue. They arrived at the Northern Station, walked down that street, and searched for rooms. I read the book and watched the series back in Saint Petersburg, never imagining I would one day live right there. Quite a coincidence. There is also Abdullah Qodiriy's novel Days Gone By, which opens at Ming Urik, the very same spot where my favourite walking route for guests begins.
On favourite dishes and local cuisine
I assumed moving here would hold no culinary surprises. I was wrong. Shivit osh, manpar, mastava are the dishes I had never even seen before. Sumalak is not really a thing in Kazakhstan. Neither is nishalda. Cross the border into Kazakhstan and you find kumiss and shubat sold along the roadside. In Uzbekistan, kumiss is far less common, but I love how ayran is made here: suzma thinned with water, served over ice with basil, apple, and cucumber. I have taught everyone I know to make it that way.
I have loved cooking since childhood. Growing up in Shymkent, I was constantly sent to the bazaar with a list that always included morkovcha and glass noodles from the the Korean stalls. You can find all of that here too. At home I cook sous vide meat and make soups with Thai tom kha paste. The kitchen is one of my favourite rooms in the apartment.
I have loved cooking since childhood. Growing up in Shymkent, I was constantly sent to the bazaar with a list that always included morkovcha and glass noodles from the the Korean stalls. You can find all of that here too. At home I cook sous vide meat and make soups with Thai tom kha paste. The kitchen is one of my favourite rooms in the apartment.
Photo from Maria Shinkareva's personal archive.
I shop around. Korzinka for soy milk and tofu, Chinese grocery shops for dried soy protein fuchu and the Gospitalny market for edamame. I am pescatarian. I do not eat meat. Never liked the taste, the smell, or the texture. My mother took me to doctors until I was six, until one of them finally told her: “Leave the child alone. Let her eat what she wants.”
In a country where national cuisine is built largely around meat, the Uzbek phrase I use most often is: “Go'shtsiz bormi?” [Is there something without meat?] It is not a problem though. I get plenty of protein.
In a country where national cuisine is built largely around meat, the Uzbek phrase I use most often is: “Go'shtsiz bormi?” [Is there something without meat?] It is not a problem though. I get plenty of protein.
My favourite dish is manty. I make them with potato for myself and with finely diced meat for everyone else. That tradition goes back to Saint Petersburr, when my mother saw me off to get married, she brought a manty steamer and a kazan [traditional Central Asian cooking pot] all the way from Kazakhstan.
When my parents visit, I try to impress them with molecular gastronomy restaurants, the kind of sushi bars that are having a moment right now. My father always compliments the food, then adds, without fail: “Still, our own food is the best.”
When my parents visit, I try to impress them with molecular gastronomy restaurants, the kind of sushi bars that are having a moment right now. My father always compliments the food, then adds, without fail: “Still, our own food is the best.”
Photo from Maria Shinkareva's personal archive.
For everyday meals, I love what my colleagues call milliyki: simple, no-fuss restaurants serving traditional food. My regulars are Anjir, the kurutob place on Shota Rustaveli Street, Bukhara Premium, and Afsona on Shevchenko. I also stumbled across a spot on the Ankhor near the Olympic Glory Museum. You push through some overgrowth and find yourself at the old Al-Aziz shashlik spots right by the water.
“
Uzbekistan has so many regions, each with its own food culture, and that deserves to be celebrated and shared more widely. In Khiva, we took a class on making shivit osh and Khorezm-style bread. In Bukhara, we learned to make green plov with basil and liver. Tashkent could use more of that.
“Every place has left its mark”
People say: don't confuse tourism with emigration. Honestly, I cannot point to anything here that has been genuinely difficult. Before moving, my husband and I had traveled a lot and learned to adapt quickly. We feel that Tashkent has everything you need for a comfortable life — even the director of our favourite clinic in Saint Petersburg has since opened a joint practice here with a local doctor.
My husband found a Warhammer community here. They hold painting days and travel to competitions in Kazakhstan. I joined a philosophy club from Threads, where we discuss philosophical ideas and theories, sometimes for six hours straight.
My husband found a Warhammer community here. They hold painting days and travel to competitions in Kazakhstan. I joined a philosophy club from Threads, where we discuss philosophical ideas and theories, sometimes for six hours straight.
“
Who knows where I will be in ten years. But while I am here, I want to help build IT alongside local teams, grow the DIY community, keep learning Uzbek, and absorb as much of the local culture as I can.
The idea of “bloom where you're planted” has never resonated with me. I have been to 58 countries and lived in Kazakhstan, Russia, and even spent a month stranded in Oman during COVID. Every place has left something behind, shaped the way I see the world. That, I think, is the most interesting thing that can happen to a person.
Quick-fire round
— The first Uzbek word you learned?
— I already knew some Kazakh, so I arrived with a basic set: “Assalomu alaykum” [hello], “Yaxshimisiz?” [how are you?], “Charchamayapsizmi?” [are you tired?], “Tuzukmisiz?” [all good?], “Mayli” [okay/alright], “Xo'p bo'ladi” [agreed/okay].
— Favourite season in Tashkent?
— Spring, without doubt, when Isabella strawberries and mulberries come into season. I cannot walk past a mulberry tree without stopping. Autumn is wonderful too; it runs long and warm here. And I love winter for skiing and snowboarding in the mountains.
— An Uzbek dish you still haven't got used to?
— Tuxum barak. I tried it at a wedding in Khorezm and again in Tashkent. Shivit osh I loved immediately. Tuxum barak, not so much.
— How has Tashkent or Uzbekistan changed you?
— Here, it feels completely natural to message a stranger: “We have so much in common. Want to grab a coffee?” and actually meet up. Getting to know someone on a tour or at a bar and staying in touch is just how things work.
My friends and I have even developed our own tradition. We hold a “Gap” [a traditional Uzbek social gathering where members take turns hosting] every Friday. And tanish-bilish, in the best sense, has become second nature. In whatever the situation, the first thought is always who you know, who might have advice, or who could help.
Text by Zilola Toirova
Edited by Victoria Abdurakhimova
Photos by Yevgeny Sorochin
Additional photos from Maria Shinkareva's personal archive
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