Monday 31 August 2009

Dushanbe to Khorog

The rumour mill seemed to suggest that the route from Dushanbe to Khorog, the town att the start of the Pamir Highway, would be a simple and straightforward journey. This is proof the rumour is not always the best source of information, although in this part of the world, it is usually the only thing to go by.

As usual, I left Dushanbe late on the 22nd August, after the last minute errands I wanted to do before leaving town. I met a rather friendly 23 year old girl who helped me buy rehydration salts (of all things) in a pharmacy. I tried to explain to her that they were for my supplies "just in case" but she didn't understand. She was very keen to take my phone number to practice her English, which I thought was rather odd since she is married with a child. She never rang!

The first day was well paved, and I found a teahouse that allowed me to sleep as well as have supper and breakfast for less than $3. This had been the first day of Ramadan, and people tutted "ramadan, ramadan" as I sipped an ice tea in the street. Ramadan unfortunately means that a lot, but not all, of the teahouses I rely on for sustinence are closed.

The following evening I saw a cowboy riding with no saddle, herding his large flock of horses down the road. A few moments later, I ran into some friendly Irish Mongol Ralliers, and we decided to camp together by the river. They had had an interesting trip, having already been to Syria, Iraq and Iran in their car. One of them was a bicycle mechanic and he kindly gave my bike a once over and tightened a few screws. He also gave me some useful bike tools and a pair of long finger gloves.

They cooked me a great supper of pasta and sardines- just what I needed as I really couldn't be bothered to cook. After I left them the following day, there was the amusing sight of both of them pushing the car down the hill that led to the rickety bridge, and jumping in just in time to turn the ignition.

The road by this stage had been awful for a long time, with no tarmac, but stones, boulders, and potholes in spades. The most irritating thing about such an awful road, in combination with hilly terrain is that you go up the hills slowly, and then instead of whooshing down the other side, you go down at the same speed you went up. This reduced my daily kilometer total to less than 50km, when I usually like to count on 100 to 120.

The following day at about lunchtime I stopped in a teahouse that was obviously closed, but desperate for something to eat, I went round the back and hunted for someone who could perhaps help me. They told me they were closed, but gave me an enormous loaf of flat "non" bread and four big tomatoes for which they would accept no payment.

I followed the rotten road down into a valley where there was the wildest ford I have ever seen. The cars, minibuses, tankers, lorries and -well- bibycles were forced to cross a proper flowing river and go straight up a very steep hill of mud and stones on the other side. After letting out a sigh and a groan, and having given a little banter to the assembled children, I took off my shoes and socks, tied them together in a bow so they would sit on my bike frame, and walked my bike through the fast flowing freezing water. A lorry had broken down in the shallowest part of the river which was very irritating. Passengers in minibuses were forced to get out and push on the other side, and I was treated to the amusing sight of a dozen people trying to push an oil tanker uphill.

That evening I was a little caught out by the fact that it now gets dark at about 7.30pm, and I arrived in a village just as darkness was falling. Children shreaked with excitement from seemingly every house gate- highly irritating as I was trying to keep a low profile. Two children started to follow me, and out of irritation I slammed on my brakes and asked them where they were going. I then felt a little guilty as one of them then said he knew where I could stay. After a long and confusing circle of the residential area, where women ignored me when I tried to strike up conversation ("Izvinitye pajalsta...")I was led to the police station. I asked in my best Russian if they knew where I could sleep in my tent, and the old officer made a call on his mobile. With the gesture of a host in a private house, I was then invited into the police station where I was given tea, soup, bread, plov (the national dish) and watermelon. One of the policemen then took me back to his home where I was given a bed for the night. So much for the reports of corrupt and nasty soviet police!

I found an open teahouse the following morning where I received a delicious goulash and the old guy played the usual game of putting things in front of me that I had not ordered. This time, I was delighted to receive a large bowl of honey, and a "non" bread. I met a Pamiri man in the teahouse who is a driver in Dushanbe, and who lamented the demise of the USSR. "USSR was good country- people had to worry about nothing. If you needed clothes, you had clothes. Now, we have to buy things from China, and they brake immediately." There are an extraordinary amount of people here who wear tops with USSR or CCCP emblazoned on the back, and the statue of Lenin still holds pride of place in many towns.

I felt very tired later that day, and a call from Jam Pot raised my spirits. It was great to hear about what my friends have been up to over the last few months. Very sorry to hear that Patrick has had a bad fall from his horse, but hope he is on tip top form despite.

That evening, I made my way up towards the khaburahot pass, and camped by a mountain stream in a place that could have been created just for me, out of sight from the road. The stars that evening were extremely special. I broke my fast the following morning with honey, bread, and lapsang souchong, and headed further up the mountain. En route to the pass, I met many workers who were harvesting, all armed with scythes. The weather was hot, but the water from the mountain springs was cold. I would have to put in a further 22km of pure uphill to reach the pass (having done about 5km the previous evening) The first 18 km of this seemed easy; I was strong and the road seemed to disappear behind me with surprising ease. I spotted what I thought was the pass in the distance, however when I reached this, and there was another valley to cycle round (and then another, and then another) my strength was not what it had been.

At the top, the snow lay on the dark mountainside in smooth spots, like the markings of a killer whale. The guards at the top were not a barrel of laughs and "joked" that a photo next to the 3252m sign would cost $100.

Just as I was thinking how lucky I had been not to get a puncture, I felt the now familiar sensation of my back wheel becoming more bouncy, and realised I had a flat. With low energy, I found the most idyllic place to rest, with green grass next to a mountain stream, and I drank my emergency can of red bull. I was pretty tired. As the rubber glue was drying, I made myself some rice pudding. Another puncture was then found, and in turn was mended.

Ten minutes after I had set off again, the rear tyre was again flat, and the patch had leaked. It was on the inside, and did not have the tyre wall to lean against- making it particularly prone to leak. I peeled off the patch and applied another one.

Five minutes after having set off again, I felt what I thought was another flat and, spitting blood, I removed my panniers and inspected the inner tube. Nothing. I put it back on and reloaded the bike. By this stage, light was a precious commodity.

The decent from the mountain to the river at the bottom was spectacular, with soaring cliff faces rather than distant views. A police registration checkpoint infuriated me by wasting my time for five minutes, writing down the details of my passport. "TAJIKISTAN VERY GOOD"

I made it that evening to Kalaikhum, the first Pamiri town, although I didn't realise it at the time. There was a pleasant homestay, with a nice supper, although the children didn't bother even aiming for the loo hole, and went in the corner of the room. I was later informed that, out of the 5 Pamiri languages, (people in the Pamirs are Pamiri rather than Tajik), Kalaikhum has its own language. Lenin still stands proud in the centre of town.

The following morning, I reached the panj river, the frontier between Tajikistan and Afghanistan. The road would follow this river for the next three days en route to Khorog. In places the river was so narrow that you could hear Afghan ladies as they washed their clothes, and Afghan donkeys echoed out along the valley. On a couple of occasions, I heard some cheers, and when I looked up I realised it was a load of friendly Afghans who were waving.

Afghan villages had flat rooved mud brick houses, and astonishingly most had satellite dishes. I never saw a vehicle of any descripton on the Afghan side of the river, save a load of donkeys and one bicycle. It was entrancing to watch Afghans go about their daily lives on the other side of the river- carrying their shopping, driving their cattle, smacking their donkeys with sticks. In many places, Afghan children would swim in the river, in sheltered parts where the flow of the river was diverted.

All of this took place to a backdrop of snowcapped peaks on either side. The quality of the road in the valley was comparitively very good, which meant I could enjoy the views without having to worry too much about the road.

On my first night in the Panj valley, I was thwarted by a closed teahouse, but I was invited by Alexi, who runs a business selling fuel from a tanker on the side of the road to spend the night on his rickety spring bed next to his tanker. He prefers to sleep inside the cabin. He only has one leg due to a car crash a year ago, and hobbles about on old fashioned crutches. In Europe he would have been given a prosthetic leg. He studied Business at University, and makes a good living selling petrol. He is 27, but looks 37- most people in this part of the world look well older than their years. Interestingly, his brother serves for the Russian, rather than the Tajik, military.

I was woken by early morning customers, and the smell of diesel being poured into a bucket- the method used for each customer.

Another puncture that afternoon, and another audience who very kindly provided some dried mulberries as I fixed my innertube. I asked in a village where I could pitch my tent, and was immediately invited in, and given tea and supper. The whole extended family came round, including a niece who studies English at the University og Khorog. She was amazed that I don't have blue eyes- "Doesn't everyone in England have blue eyes?" They told me not to use my tent, and gave me a bed inside the house. They all get up at 6am to eat (Ramadan) and pray- and I felt rather lazy lying in until 6.30. I was given a milky noodle pudding for breakfast and ordered to stir in some butter. It wasn't bad, although I usually avoid such things like the plague. They took some fruit down off the apricot tree for me to snack on. I was sent on my way with a large bag of dried mulberries.

I was beckoned over by an old guy less than an hour after setting off, and plied with more apricots, the sweetest I have ever tasted. At midday, as I was getting something out of a pannier, I was approached by a Pamiri girl, and invited into the home for tea. There was a spread of biscuits, watermelon and butter mixed with sugar. Just as I was about to leave, a massive plate of plov made with noodles, and a salad arrived which I was ordered to eat. She spoke good English, but none of the rest of the family did. She is about to start an accountancy course at the University of Dushanbe. The garden was dripping with fruit, and all hands were on deck peeling them, presumably to make preserves.

It was breathtaking to have received so much kindness in one day from so many different people.

I arrived at Khorog just as darkness fell, and had an awful time trying to find Pamir Lodge, the place I am staying at. It was full of cyclists, including Tom and Blaise- so it was good to speak some English with English speakers for once!

I have felt a little tired and under the weather in Khorog, so have decided to stay here for a few days to recharge my batteries before heading to the Pamir Highway. Khorog is framed by spectacular mountain views, but the most exciting thing is a restaurant which serves western dishes in western style! Central Asia has a choice of about 6 different dishes in total, so it is good to have a crispy chicken burger for once!

I will hopefully be heading for the Pamir Highway tomorrow, and then it will be about a week until I get to the Kyrgyz border...and another 2 or 3 days to the Chinese border! All reports state that the Chinese have pulled the plug on the internet and international calls in Xinjiang province where I will be for the first few weeks, but watch this space!

Thursday 20 August 2009

Bukhara, Samarkand, Dushanbe

As I write this, I am sitting in Dushanbe, sipping a Coke made at Bagrami Industrial Estate, Kabul, Afghanistan. I am surprised the Coke has made it here with no bullet holes! It is the first time since my early childhood that I have had a Coke from a can where the top actually comes off, leaving a little triangle to drink through. Afghan Coke is much less fizzy than other Cokes. I digress.

The journed from Buchara to Samarkand should have been a straightforward two and a half or three day cycle through populated areas(hence easy, due to the abundance of shops and teahouses.)I didn't get going from Bukhara until about 4pm due to the need to sort out a few things before I left. I had found the bicycle bazaar that morning, which had the usual unfortunate choice between Russian or Chinese goods. Some of the inner tubes on sale read "Made in the USSR." I eventually found a decent enough looking Russian tyre, and bought it (having haggled the price down a little, I was then bought a Coke by the stall holder). I gave an old lady begger a minuscule amount of money at the stall (the stallholder had done the same thing) and she gave me the traditional Central Asian greeting of washing her face with imaginary water.

After some beautifully sweet melon, and having taken my B&B hosts' recipe for Plov, I set off into a glowing evening. I managed about 50km that day, further slowed down by a punctured tyre. I stopped at a large commercial teahouse and asked some assembled gentlemen if I could sleep there. Before long, I was sitting in front of a mountain of meat stew, a huge salad, some roasted apricot stones, a steaming pot of green tea, and the world's biggest sugar lumps that they insisted I put into my tea. I had the four kind Uzbek gents for company that night (one of whom owned the tea house, and would accept no payment). They gave me blankets, and showed me where I could sleep.

The following day I became a severe victim of, we shall say, "Travellers' Tummy Trouble" which is no fun at all when you are trying to cover some ground and there are absolutely no loos anywhere. Where there is a "loo" in central Asia, it is a pit with a hole in the floorboards. Flies and mosquitoes -the occasional wasp- enjoy life in these pits. I had to stop early, and I was very quickly invited into an Uzbek home by the kind father when I asked for directions to the "gostinitsa" (guest house.) There I was treated to a bath, which consisted of a sauna (not lit, thankfully!) with some buckets of water to pan over oneself- one of the buckets had been heated on the stove. They also gave me some soap to clean my clothes but I felt too awful to do it. There was a son of about 15, who liked volleyball and a little daughter of about 7, both of whom were very friendly. The language spoken at home was Russian rather than Uzbek, and the children go to a Russian school. The father was half Russian half Uzbek. With some shivers and a slight headache, I couldn't eat much of the lovely supper, but the fresh Apricot juice was delicious. I slept outside, under my mosquito net. When I went to get dressed in the morning I found that the mother had very kindly washed my filthy clothes for me.

The next day I felt much better, and managed a giant 130km, to within a spitting distance of Samarkand. I stayed in another teahouse where I shared a room with the cook, at no cost. Teahouses are rather annoying because they often bring you all sorts of things you didn't order, and then charge you for them. When you get a free bed out of it, it doesn't matter so much!

A mere 40km the following morning, and I was in Samarkand.

"We travel not for trafficking alone,
By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned.
For lust of knowing what should not be known
We take the Golden Road to Samarkand"

--James Elroy Flecker (as in my Lonely Planet Central Asia)

The town itself is an ordinary large bustly city, however the historical sites that peer above the haze there are simply awe-inspiring due to their enormous size, and the fact that they actually satisfy the romantic, exotic ideas implanted in our heads by lines as quoted above. The soaring height, the medressa arches, the domes and the intricate blue tiles are mesmerising, especially when you position yourself so that they are all you can see. If you get the chance to go there, take it up! It was particularly good to have seen Khiva and Bukhara beforehand, building up to the majesty of Samarkand.

On one morning, I woke up at 5am and tipped the policemen to let me climb the minaret on the Registan to watch the rising sun over the city, and the panoramic view. It was very worthwile- and this is the only time they will let you do it!

Samarkand afforded a superb hostel ($6), with free breakfast, tea and watermelon and $2 hearty dinners. It was like an oasis of relaxation, and many travellers recharge their batteries there for a few days.

I met some more British Mongol Ralliers who were taking a more leisurely route through Asia, and explored the town with them. They were a really great bunch of guys, and one of them, Felix, is a current student at St Cuthberts', Durham!

After I had recharged and drunk lots of green tea, and ice cream, (the little chap in the ice cream shop greeted me with great affection when he realised I had been back loads of times, each time with people from the hostel)I headed east towards the Tajik border.

When I got to the border, I cleverly hid the USD that I was carrying under the innersoles of my shoes in case a greedy customs officer were tempted to try to extract it from me. It was when I was filling out my Uzbek customs exit form that I realised I must have also hidden my customs enrty form and registration dockets in my innersoles with the cash! Oh NO!

I had been chatting jovially with one of the customs officers, who said initially, "Da, Bolshoi Problem!" (Yes, Big problem!) when I asked. Then he said it would only envolve a small "fine," then with a little bit more banter, they let me out of the country with no issues and no searches.

On the Tajik side, the kindly customs and immigration officer helped me fill out the Russian forms and welcomed me into his country. The hills of Tajikistan were immediately visible- very exciting. If in Uzbekistan, children seem to do everything that adults do- run shops, drive cattle, hassle customers, the children of Tajikistan are all riding donkeys or donkey carts.

The men nearly all wear tall skull caps, worn more like crowns, sitting up on the top of the head. The women wear long flowing dresses, with bright patterns or bright stripes. They also wear matching trousers under the dresses. With respect, they remind me a little of Wilma Flintstone! Headscarves are now very common, but they are simply tied around the back of the head, and do not cover the neck, or all of the hair. All women, with very few exceptions wear this uniform. I have observed families where the women and girls are in traditional garb but the men and boys are in western clothes.

My first night in Tajikistan was in Pendjikent, where I asked the first person I found where the guest house was. He refused to speak Russian to me, and insisted on speaking German which was highly irritating. All he said in English was "I am a student of Leningrad University" which was highly irritating! He led me, even more annoyingly to the decrepit Hotel Intourist (I later found out that the guide book has rather a nice place in it). This place had no water in the en suite bathroom, meaning that guests have to use the pit outside. Despite this the filthy loo still dripped, producing a sea of water flooding the carpet.

The following day I managed to change money with a friendly well-to-do Tajik lady who needed dollars "for Dushanbe" and I had some breakfast of fresh bread and strawberry juice at the thriving market, the foothills in the background.

I was invited into people's homes three times that day, but unfortunately had to decline each invitation because I really wanted to make some progress. One chap was very old in a remote village, dressed highly traditionally, and spoke very good English. He was a retired English teacher. At one store I bought some cold water, and I was treated to a selection of Russian and Iranian biscuits. He also refused to allow me to pay for a couple of AA batteries.

The road was hilly and bad, making progress slow. The following day, I met some more British Mongol Ralliers who gave me some fresh water and purifying tablets. It was a real lift to see them as the weather was hot, and my motivation levels were sagging.

That day I ran into some seriously odd people. In one teahouse (I simply couldn't use the loo as the room and the vicinity were scattered with turds), I bought a big bottle of Coke, to find it poured out to the first punter who walked in without asking me! Enraged by the annoying child who wouldn't stop touching me and asking annoying questions, mainly about the value of my bike, and my casio watch, I picked up my Coke and moved to leave. Another guy said "Hey, I haven't had any Coke!" No one said thank you. They then pestered me to let them ride my bike, which I refused and sped away. That was in the town of Ayni, which still has a majestic statue of Lenin in the centre.

I stopped at another teahouse later that day. No coke. No Fanta. No food. No Juice. Only tea and nescafe and bread. And two children from hell who would not stop shouting at me with menaging grins. They were both filthy and had horribly eroded teeth. The staff (parents?) did nothing to make them go away, and later picked up my mobile phone and tried to use it even though I had expressly told them not to (I don't have much credit at all). They seemed to think the whole thing was hilarious.

After a severely tyring day, I found a teahouse that let me camp in the grounds. When I told them I didn't need help putting up my tent (it is truly a one man job, and is very fast when done as such), they sent a teenager o help anyway, and were rather surly when I sent him away. I then had to coach him through putting the thing up. When I pointed out to him he was about to step on a turd, he reached down, pcked it up and threw it away! I was in rather a grump at the end of the day- especially after the added "extras" I was charged for at the teahouse, such as sugar!

Next day, I headed up the Ansov pass. The road itself up the pass is new- thanks to the Chinese road workers who are toiling away on it. It is closed to
traffic, making it rather a pleasant,if tough 2000+ metre ascent. At the top was a tunnel, under construction, which was open to bicycles. The first 50 yards were terrifying because there was no light, and a lot of water flowing through it, but soon there were dim lights lighting the 5km way. I felt like Indiana Jones! On the other side, I was greeted with a breathtaking view of snowcapped summits and glaciers (It is AUGUST!), and deep green valleys. I really felt privileged to be there, especially since that particular place is out of bounds to most people at the moment.

There followed 90 km of glorious pure downhill to Dushanbe. At the bottom of the valley, there flowed a fast white river and the road followed this. Nearing Dushanbe there were very smart teahouses on the river with swimming pools. I also went past a presidential palace that straddled the river and could have been modelled on Chateau de Chennonceax in the Loire Valley.

I didn't quite reach Dushanbe that night, and stayed in one of the teahouses-cum-hotels, which was quite expensive but had a warm shower. The chap I dealt with was an 18 year old Tajik who goes to a Turkish school, and is taught wholly in English. I found him friendly at first, but then highly irritating as his attitudes could have been taken directly out of Borat. He found it hilarious that we have a Queen in the UK "She is a woman! That is terrible for your country!" and he was obsessed with an idea of western women learned from, it seems, MTV. This, he backed up with movie extracts saved onto his mobile phone. When I was asleep in bed, he burst into my room, turned on the lights, and asked me to help his friend fill out a visa application form that had to be done in English. I refused.

In Dushanbe, the following day, I met up with Tom and Blaise again who have had a totally different experience of the people of this country, talking only of kindness, respect,and generosity. These have been the hallmarks of my interraction with the vast majority of the people I have encountered on this trip. You can meet bad eggs in every country you visit and I have unfortunately met a few here- that said, no one has ever been really really unpleasant. I have no doubt however that the rest of the trip here will be of a different nature.

Dushanbe itself is a pleasant, leafy town with surprisingly western amenities, a thriving market, and colourful women as always. It is beautifully tame, and I have been enjoyng the normal food in the restaurants (a break from mutton!). I had pizza last night in a Turkish restaurant, chicken for lunch at a Georgian restaurant, and supper is going to be an Indian curry. Well, I am not far from India and Pakistan!

I am extremely excited about heading to the Pamir Region -my GBAO Pamir travel permit arrived hand delivered to my hotel by a very kind man this morning. It is going to be a challenge making it over the multiple mountain passes over 3000 metres, but by all reports it will be worth it.

My tajik number is

927916740

The international code for Tajikistan is +992

So to call me, it will be either +992 927 9166 740

or, +992 791 6740

I can't work it out, but if you try all alternatives you should get through!

Saturday 1 August 2009

Cultural Learnings from Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan for Make Benefit Glorious Kingdom United

The ferry had one air conditioned common room, however the portholes were large, and could be opened wide, allowing a good breeze for sleeping. We cooked on our stoves on the top deck, in front of the setting sun and clusters of oil rigs- some of which had yellow flares piercing the purple hue.

To kill the time, we invented a game on the deck rather akin to boule, but with far more rules and played with Azeri coins. It was rather good!

As Kazakhstan came into view at 10 am the following morning, we all got rather excited at the idea of hopping onto our bikes and heading into the desert that afternoon. We headed very close in, and just as I had gone below to pack up my stuff, I heard the loud and familiar noise (having lived on a boat) of the anchor chain being lowered. There was absolutely no public announcement other than the rumour mill, but the ship was to anchor off the shore for another 22 hours.

When we finally docked, the Kazakh customs officer came aboard and started telling tourists that no meat products, including tins of tuna, could be brought into the Glorious Nation. It was extraordinart how East Asian he, and all the other Kazakh officials looked. If one had been told they were from Vietnam, it would have been believed.

Customs was an irritation as all our bags (I have 6) had to be humped from one room to another, while our bikes stayed onboard, to be collected later. Once through the first truly Soviet border formalities I have yet encountered, we were cycling into town when Azret, a local cyclist pulled up beside us (me, Greg, Tom and Blaise), and started chatting to the others. I heard his voice and thought it was Tom doing a Borat impression!

He was a very kind chap who was very generous with his time. He showed us where we could get food, sim cards, sunscreen, and lunch. He cycled with us for a little period after lunch. I had to stifle a snigger when he mentioned the Borat film "Who is this idiot talking bullshit about Kazakhstan?!" Of course the film does not bear any real reality - it is far better suited to Georgia and Azerbaijan (sorry to my Georgian and Azeri friends- you guys don't count!) The English accent Borat uses is however pretty accurate and the dislike for "A**holes Uzbekistan" is right on the money. It is very rare to find anyone from Kazakhstan who will not warn you about problems in Uzbekistan.

Actau had a lovely looking quiet beach- unfortunately with the absence of a fresh water shower I abstained from a dip in the Caspian.

We headed out of town on lovely tarmac, and found a great place to camp on the Steppe just before sunset. The steppe is technically not desert, but as far as I can make out, it is pretty much the same thing, but with hard, dried mud instead of sand. You can stop wherever you like and set up camp which makes life easy. It was very exciting to have seen our first camels in the Steppe- both single hump dromedaries and double hump bactrians. A pack (what is the collective noun?!) of horses seemed a little interested in our camping, but went away with some shouting. I put my inner tent up, but the others just slept in the open air and were bitten to hell. It never got very cold that night- we were below sea level- and we were all sleeping in pools of sweat.

The following morning, we got up at 5am but we were very disorganised and were not cycling until about 7. The steppe is so aggressively hot (about 45 degrees c) that it is totally necessary to shelter from the sun from about 11am to 4 or 5pm. We sheltered that day in a passage under the road that was full of dry camel poo. Most days however we built shelters by tying tarpaulins onto our bikes and crawling underneath for a few hours to melt away into a pool of sweat. There were plenty of tornadoes around the steppe- they looked just like water spouts going right up into the clouds. On a couple of occasions these were quite close to where we were sheltering. I don't know how strong these were, but being the steppe they could not have been very dangerous due to the total lack of debris.

That afternoon, the tarmac ran out and the road became a "way" covered in moon-style dust. This was not great for cycling through and feet would disappear down into it. The next time we would see Tarmac would be Beyneu, 5 days later, and then it would disappear again until we were well into Uzbekistan. Here would begin 10 utterly gruelling days!

On the Steppe, the dry heat parches the mouth, throat and sinuses and the wind is almost worse as it speeds up this process- it is so hot that it is not actually cooling. If you have ever been in a sauna and blown onto your skin (can be painful) you will know what I mean. Sometimes the wind blows in your favour (usually evening), sometimes the wind blows against you (usually morning). It seems to change quite a lot.

The roads are usually straight, however the wise cyclist will regularly change positioning on the road to pick the smoothest places. I found that the best place to cycle was on the right verge. There were very few shops or teahouses- perhaps one a day. It is extraordinary how much you can look forward to a cold drink, and also how hot your water bottles can get! Tom came up with the ingenious idea of brewing tea in his sun-warmed water bottles, and before long we were all doing it. There was a train line that followed the way (purposefully not calling it a road) and you could see the telegraph poles heading in a straight line before disappearing into the distance. This is rather disheartening!

In Kazakhstan, the tea house owners were the most miserable bunch of people I have met on this trip. When you ordered something from them, they usually appeared genuinely sad that they had to actually do some work, rather than happy that they had some business. They also have utterly awful mathematical skills (which is a lot coming from me)- very basic sums (100 tengi plus 100 tengi, for example) are a true struggle. Most of the locals that we did meet in the little towns we went through were however very friendly and interested in us. One chap had met Isabel a week earlier, and pestered me for hours for her phone number!

During the time in the Kazakh Steppe, we didn't see any of the famed deadly Black Widow spiders, but we did come accross 3 scorpions. One was at a teahouse, the other was under something I picked up in the morning when I was packing up camp (and properly flattened), and Blaise found one too. I have been tapping my shoes in the morning ever since (good idea, Major Boulter!)

In Europe I never had to cook more than once in any given day, however on the Steppe, it was necessary to cook three times a day- the lack of teahouses made this obligatory. Rice pudding made with powdered milk is a favourite brekkie treat. Powdered borsch or schie and rice or pasta does well for lunch or supper. On the occasions where a chaihana (teahouse) is found, the offering is usually fried eggs and bread, although some places will offer lagman (noodle soup) or borsch.

The steppe is flat, but there are a few gruelling hills onto new plains to deal with. These are a challenge, especially in the heat. At the top of one of them a teahouse came into view at the very last minute, which was a real boon!

Reaching Beyneu on the 6th day was a fantastic feeling, not least for the tarmac that surrounds the town. It is little more than a large rail transport hub, and most useful things such as shops crowd round the station. It is dusty, and the buildings are mostly bungalow style with no upstairs. We found a cheap little hotel near the station (surprise surprise) which was sandwiched between the main line and a branch line. I didn't mind this as it felt like we were sleeping pretty much on the tracks. The action taking place around us was a pleasant change from the Steppe! We all crammed into one room (4 of us), and they kindly let us bring our bikes in too.

A shower had to be paid for extra, but was well worth it after 5 days sweating in 45 degree heat, slapping sunscreen on each day, and going to bed each night utterly filthy before more sunscreen on salt crystally skin the following day. Cleaning my clothes was also a succulent treat- they were not as you can imagine not clover fresh. You can see the veiny streaks of salt crystals in the fabric. I have been known to take a rehydration solution to replace body salts lost through sweat.

The following day we only cycled in the afternoon, and spent the morning trying to find an internet cafe which was alas closed. It took a long time to find it- Greg and I nearly walked into a school by mistake on our quest. It was amusing to note a multi coloured nodding-donket oil pump in the playground (a climbing frame?) and - best of all - a 20' section of railway. I suppose this is how the clildren learn to play on the railway tracks. Beyneu did have a lively bazaar with a lot of very jolly and friendly ladies selling fruit and nuts.

On the way out of Beyneu, we saw an enormous hulk of USSR Steam Engine rusting on a siding. Like children, we ditched our bikes and clambered all over them. It was fascinating to see that there was still some coal left in the storage hold, and to note a plaque that seemed to indicate that the train was built in the 1950s.

The following day (another camp on the steppe, like every night), we reached the Uzbek border. It was quite extraordinary because the road was an untreated dirt track without much traffic, and the border appeared, on the Kazakh side, to be equally deserted. There was, unsurprisingly, no indication as to where to go, but we eventually arrived in no-man's-land.

We were pretty worried about corrupt Uzbek officials after some horror stories on the grapevine. Immigration was no problem, and they were very friendly. We then had to fill in customs declaration forms in Russian, so it took rather a long time! They wanted you to delare pretty much everything you carry, including all cash. Conventional wisdom is to use discretion. We were not searched at all, which saved some time. Most or all cars were searched with a fine comb.

We safely moved through the border 3 hours later, past the policeman who cannot control the local children who run past the barriers into no-man's-land to sell parched border crossers a drink. We were immediately greeted by a host of friendly money changers, and purchased Sum for dollars on the black market. The black market is the only sensible way to change money in Uzbekistan- the government enforces an official rate of about 1450 to the dollar in official banks but the street rate is between 1800 and 1900. The largest not is worth about 50 US cents, so a hundred dollar bill translates into 180 notes, which all need to be carefully counted. This takes time and is very frustrating when you have a ten year old tugging at your t-shirt trying to sell you a drink when you are on 12o-something. Reminds me of stock takes!

There was initially some tarmac in Uzbekistan, however this was not an awful lot of use as it was mainly molten. This is great for noise pollution (not that it's an issue on the steppe) as I saw road workers ploughing up the road rather than having to use pneumatic drills! We were soon greeted by our usual rocky track.

Teahouses in the Uzbek steppe became even more seldom (sometimes 160km between each one) meaning it was necessary to carry 16-18 litres of water on the bike. The bikes were hideously heavy. Far from being true to the Kazakh warnings, the Uzbek teahouses seemed immediately more cheerful and pleasant to be in. In the first one we found a friendly onlooker bought us a watermelon. It had been the first teahouse for about 150 km and the accompanying coke and fried mutton were most welcome.

The Uzbeks are very similar to the Turkish (well, they are technically turks) in their culture of hostpitality looking after travellers. Teahouses have raised tables with beds around the side so you can recline Roman-style when you eat, and then have a snooze when you have finished your meal. It was preferable to tarp shelters, when we could find one. The food in Uzbek teahouses is a little more varied, with shashlyk (skewered and BBQed mutton) or laghman (noodle soup) usually on offer.

The second stretch of Steppe, from Beyneu to Nukus in Uzbekistan was not much different to the first. Just as gruelling, but with nicer teahouses. Aside from scorpions, we also saw large hairy white spiders the size of your palms. Lovely.

Nearing Kungrad, a town near Nukus, there was a drop in the road by about 100 foot, and in this time the landscape turned from Steppe into lush green farmland with canals and heavy irrigation. The air became humid. On the downward hill, just still in the steppe, we cycled upto what looked like a bustling city with little houses everywhere and a large sapphire domed mosque on the highest point. I thought this must have been Kungrad, however when we got closer it eerily became apparent that this was not a town at all, but a cemetery in the wilderness!

In Kungrad we visited the market to get some tomatoes and melons for supper from the, and we were completely mobbed by a deluge of questions by the fascinated residents. As always, the market traders were very friendly, and I had a personal assistant who led me through the market, helped me pay for things, handed me back things I dropped, and held my bike steady while I loaded the produce into my panniers.

Now we were out of the desert/steppe, we couldn't just camp anywhere we liked because all the land was being used for something. We cycled down a side street and asked an old chap in a car if we could camp. The gobsmacked gent said that of course we could, and so we set up camp. 20 minutes later, he turned up and said that we couldn't camp there- and showed us a better place, further from the ubiquitous mozzies. 5 minutes later, he was back again, and invited the four of us to camp in his garden, which was ideal. His pretty daughters wanted pictures with all of us (steady, Greg!) and we slept very well aside from a hostile dog that he kindly scared off in the middle of the night. Uzbek homes have many of their facilities outside. The sitting room is a large raised bed on the porch area, and the basin was also outside. Not to mention the loo...

The following day, we finally made it to Nukus, having been treated to another free watermelon at a teahouse/yurt en route. It was great to be in civilisation once more, and the hotel had a friendly Georgian-family-run teahouse next door. I am not sure whether it was the soft scoop ice cream or the pretty daughter who operated the ice cream machine who kept me going back.

In Nukus there is an important art museum, full of art from artists who had been persecuted under communism. There were also ancient Uzbek artifacts. Many paintings depicted the misery of life in the cotton fields, and it was surprising to note quite a lot of Lowry-style paintings and Russian cubism.

It was in Nukus that I tasted my first cup of green tea- which has become the norm. For 100 sum you get a large pot, the equivalent of about 4p. Samsas have also become a cheap staple food- similar to the samosas of India to the south, these are usually triangular pastries and filled with chopped onions and mutton meat. They are very tasty, especially when you shake a bit of dill-enfused clear vinegar on top of them.

Still could not find internet that worked in Nukus, but I did find one place with computers, and no connection. As I waited in vain for the connection to start, chatted to the pretty Kazakh girl on the computer next to me, Bagilla. Rather like the former Yugoslav countries, there are many different nationalities living next to eachother in these Central Asian countries. Just because Bagilla has an Uzbek passport does not mean she is Uzbek- her family speak Kazakh and she is a Kazakh. The same is for the Karakalpaks (Nukus is the capital of Karakalpakstan) She is off to Almaty for university next year. She informed me that she works in her father’s “fragrance store” in the bazaar and she drew me a little map of how to get there.

I ventured into the bazaar to change money later with Tom and Blaise, and by chance went into her chemist shop to buy some sun cream. I was greeted by a cheerful “hello!” – I like to think Tom and Blaise were impressed at my speed in chatting up the local girls.

The rate in Nukus was much better, but when I produced a $100 note that was not the most recent series, the guy said the rate had to change from 1870 to 1800! I protested that dollars are dollars, and got the original rate although the chap wasn’t happy about it. “This is not bank! This is bazaar!” the chap complained. It certainly was bizarre. Dealing in 100 dollar bills felt like swapping football stickers at prep school- a 2006 series (Man-U striker) is clearly worth more than a 1999 series (Blackburn defender).

Into the steppe again for a couple of days, and then split from Greg who wanted to head straight for Buchara, I then cycled to Khiva. Khiva is an extremely well preserved walled city and former khanate on the Turkmen border. It feels rather like Carcassonne in France- arguably not a “real” town anymore, but very beautiful architecture. The people suddenly became – extraordinary as I am going East – Turkish or Azeri looking rather than East Asian or Mongolian features. Many of the girls are absolutely beautiful. I stayed in a lovely guesthouse with a superb breakfast – about $10 a night. The air con didn’t work brilliantly, but it was a miracle it still worked at all since it was built in the “CCCP!”

After Khiva, I headed into the Kyzulkum desert- this time a real sandy desert – for 4 tough days before reaching Buchara. This was easier going than the Steppe because there was tarmac all the way, and usually teahouses every 20km- so no need to cook. On the first night I bought a honeydew melon which was the sweetest I have ever tasted. A whole watermelon can be bought for as little as 20p.

The final day was truly grueling, and I was very tired. It was difficult to motivate myself, and I cycled pretty slowly, getting to Buchara at sunset. I decreed that as I was tired, a rest is in order, and I have spent three days in this wonderful city. I met Greg on arrival who led me to a charming little guesthouse he has found ($9 a night)- it is run by a lovely Uzbek family who also live there (Madina and Ilyos). It is also rather unusual- the shower is in the kitchen (!) and Ilyos rather infuriatingly has a little hole in the window large enough for him to poke a screwdriver to turn off the USSR air conditioner when he thinks you are asleep. They do serve a wonderful breakfast of egg, fried aubergine, potato, frankfurter, cake, melon, cream/yoghurt, and green tea, which varies a bit each day. There are a couple of resident kittens, to the delight of the guests.

The town’s Islamic architecture is truly breathtaking- soaring medressas dripping with blue tiles, domed bazaars, a fortified palace, a soaring minaret- and plenty of store traders to fill in every space. I nearly feel that a genie is about to appear and grant me three wishes. I bought a great “four skin” (!!!!) hat yesterday, made from sheep fur, with a flap that can either be tied up, down, or back. It will come in handy in the Pamir mountains. The lady who sold it to me had been befriended by Greg, and on mentioning his name, she became even friendlier than she was already. Her family make the hats at home, and she called her son on the phone so I could speak to him in English. I sat with her for a while sipping tea, and she made sure I ate some sweets – boiled on the outside, fondant on the inside. She insisted I accept some old Sovier banknotes and coins as a gift souvenir. They are from the 60s to 1991 – with Lenin’s head winking out of them. Later I sat and chatted to a 19 year old persian carpet seller who was bored “come and sit on my magic carpet for a while!” His boss regularly goes to Iran on carpet-buying missions. As usual in these parts, he has no desire at all to visit a foreigh country. He was shocked when I pointed out on a map how close Turkmenistan is to Buchara, and he said he doesn’t want to go to Tajikistan.

“Why?! Why don’t you want to go to Tajikistan? It is supposed to be very beautiful and you Uzbeks don’t need a visa!”

Tajikistan – Prob-lem!”
“Really?”

“OK, maybe….maybe no prob-lem. I just…I just don’t want to go!”

The town has also been swamped by largely fresh-faced Mongol Ralliers. It has been great to seem some other English guys, and it is rather satisfying when they balk with disbelief that I have cycled here from England.

Heading up to Samarkand tomorrow, which is 3 days’ cycle away, and Samarkand is half a day from the Tajikistan border. I am very excited about Tajikistan and the Pamir Highway, having heard so much about it’s beauty. It is going to be a challenge, with many mountain passes higher than 5000m that are going to be as tough as they are glorious…

The Steppe and Desert were very tough, but they are beautiful wildernesses. It is thrilling to see the land on the steppe as flat as the sea, with the sun setting and rising at exactly the time it should. The dunes of the desert were equally fascinating- although pushing the bike through them to a camping spot required motivation. By cycling through them I have understood (dear God) truly what a desert is- rather than in the protective bubble of a car. It is amusing to hear Mongol ralliers complaining about their 3 days- they should try 2 weeks! This sort of travel is not supposed to be plain sailing all the way, and when you emerge at the other end, the satisfaction at having “earned” to be here in Bukhara is immense. When we were doing it, we didn’t think it was all that hard- we were far too busy - it is only from the comfort of an armchair and hindsight that you realise that it was actually really hard work! This doesn’t mean that I didn’t constantly yearn for the hospitality I would have been receiving from the legendarily generous people of Iran, had I taken that route. Another time.


Anyone who wants to talk to me can call me on +998 9137 03491.