Uzbekistan Part 5

Me doing a bit of work on the bike, to make sure all's tight, and there's no sand ingress into sensitive parts, as well as keeping my mind off that churning feeling in my abdomen ...

Moynaq. The People & the Aral Sea

My best, or more accurately perhaps the worst memories of Moynaq, are in fighting-off a good dose of travellers tummy. Wherever it came from and whatever the culprit, I'd woken first day soon to greeted with some rumblings in the abdomen. It led me to think that some of my 'good' bacteria had been displaced by bad. I've gotta say I don't think it would do my reputation or general standing in the community, to describe the physical symptoms or affect that it had on me in too much detail, but will mention the discomfort factor here very briefly. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!

No but seriously, I will go on to enlarge on this episode it a little more than that. And to say, that if this was just travellers-tummy it was bloody distressing I can tell you. I'd had what we generally think of a stomach-ache a number of times in my life, and knew too from past experience how darned uncomfortable severe peristoltic action can be from two occasions of gastro-entitis. But that particular day I remember starting out with a simple tummy ache, and it ended with me being in some good deal of pain. The usual cramps would come and go, but as the day wore on they seemed to continue getting worse and in the end was one ceaseless cramp. As is often the best course of action with these things, and being the tough-bloke that I am, just lay down in a heap for most of the day wishing that I'd die. But of course I didn't, and the next day saw a marked improvement. It turned out that despite my apparent distress of the previous day, it was no more than a straightforward case of dicky-tummy. The day after that again and it diminished to little more than moderate griping. Another day on and was back to my cast-iron stomached self ...

But thankfully this is not my most powerful memory. Before going there I knew something about the basic problem of the Aral Sea, in that it was shrinking more and more each successive year. And knew too about the dead-boats far away from the once productive sea, that are slowly rotting away in what is now just another patch of desert sand. While feeling sorry for myself that one day of incapacitation, had few thoughts about the purpose of visiting Moynaq. But then the following day when I was able to hunt out the ships grave-yard, got to see these sad hulks first hand. It was indeed a sad sight, that set me thinking ...

Standing on what would have been at one time a small cliff overlooking the sea, gave some thoughts to what it would have been like back when the sea reached close to where I was stood. A mini version of Dover perhaps? No it never was, but with some concentration images gradually appeared in my mind. There was nothing spectacular in the vision, but there was a huge difference in the minds-eye where I could view a sea-scape, with boats and sea-birds calling. Opening my eyes the picture snapped immediately back to the aridity of a parched and sunburned land. My day-dream had a few boats on the water and people on the beach, but the reality showed to me a handful of rusty boats with an eco-tourist encampment 50 metres further out on what was once sea-bed. The incongruity of a situation where several hundred thousand dollars-worth of Land-Cruisers, had brought Western tourists to observe this, one of the biggest man-made disaster zones in the world, suddenly hit me. The people living here were eking out a meagre existence in what was to my eyes little more than desert. The community was a part of this reality, but the town itself is a 'has-been'.

To confirm my thinking a short visit to the dusty and somewhat tatty museum full of rather shabby amateurish exhibits, uncovered one genuine treasure in the form of an aging photo-album. In it there were numerous photographs showing images taken mostly in and around the old fish canning factory (so I was later told, is long since gone). This showed me that the people who lived here were productive and proud to be so. There were happy people in these pictures, with often smiling faces. Or if not smiling, then faces intent on their labours. It was evident that it was from the sea and associated fishing industry that the town of Moynaq was born. But alas while it's original livelihood had long gone, the place and many of those living there have stayed on. They were staying it seemed to me, in the forlorn hope that the sea would one day return. A fact that was confirmed is not likely to ever happen, by the statistics of the rain-fall, put against the ongoing irrigation requirements of the region.

Our hosts at Moynaq

In a moment of profound sadness, the question was actually put to me by one of the English speaking locals, while we had something of an in depth discussion about Moynaq and the Aral. Where it was an obvious situation of despair to me, it was clear from him asking me about the sea coming back, that the answer was expected to be 'when'. I could not find it in my heart to tell him, what I saw as the most likely truth for the town of Moynaq and the region as a whole. And that it will a remain border-line desert town with little water resource forever. And that the once important fishing industry had gone from that place, along with the tide never to return.

I have since been informed that the problem of the shrinking Aral Sea was clearly known about during the Soviet era. But of course the up-tempo productivity of the cotton industry that was draining the water along with life and sole of the region, was the most important thing to the politic of the time. I believe it was Krushgev that made a speech to the effect, that as the sea shrank, so would it make more land available for the growing of cotton!

For anyone interested in finding out more about the Aral region, then see the following link: http://www.orexca.com/aral_sea.shtml

Uzbekistan Part 4

The Ride to Moynaq

The ride from hell I discovered, wasn't riding around the industrialised Bulgarian town of Sofia. Neither was it crossing the Turkmenistan desert in blistering heat. No, the ride from hell is a small and now virtually unused road that goes between Qazaodarya and Moynaq in North West Uzbekistan.

The clock had been moving forward by the time we'd arrived at our penultimate stoppover. And after a brief interlude for a visit to the home of the 'Jeep' drivers family, we finally set off with Moynaq our destination for the night. I'd been slightly edgy while waiting for everyone to go through the ceremony of greeting and parting. It was becoming apparent we were not going to arrive at our final destination until after dark, and was confirmed by Peter's driver just before starting up the engine of the Rusky built 4wd.

We'd already been prepared for some of the more difficult parts, that could be expected over the chosen route by Peter. Who'd described a few places where the bridges were down, and would have to leave the road to drive around the gap then get back up onto the road again. “Ven vee come to da plaze viz da brooken bridges, joost go down onto ze track for feefty medres or zo, den beck up onto da rood. Dis vill be verry eazy ... Jhoo veel see ...” I remembered these words, as they would be ringing in my ears like a mantra very soon.

And so we went onwards .... the first few 'K' saw us motoring along with some good speed and were making good time too. The road we were on had a few pot-holes, but was overall in fairly good nick condition. At one time some years ago this would have been a good bit of black-top. Top speed would have been around 60 Km's/hour and was finding that it was possible to start to relax a little. Until that is, the first fallen bridge.

A few metres before the broken section there was a track leading away and down from the road. Evidently this was the way around the fallen bridge, so headed in that direction with caution. The drop-off was a patch of soft but not too deep sand. Sand as you'll know by now was not my favourite surface. But with the knowledge that we've got a long way to go, just went for it and plunged over the edge. The front wobbled a little, but mostly I was able to get down without too much of a scare. Continuing onwards, simply followed the tracks of previous vehicles that I guessed still used this old and derelict roadway on occasions. There were small patches of soft stuff that wasn't too deep, but the going was mostly firm, and managed to negotiate this first 'ride-around' without any major problems. I did have one mildly nerve-wracking wobble that put me on the limits, just as I gunned the motor to get back up onto the road. Jabbing my left foot foot down to steady things, I jarred the injured ankle again. A dull throb from the boot, reminded me I was supposed to be taking things easy ...

Crikey, that was only the first one ... I thought. How many more? And the ever present doubts, as to how much worse they were likely to get, crept to the fore-brain and began to drag my previously buoyant mood downwards. The ride carried on, with Jeep and bikes swapping the lead on a few occasions. Each successive broken bridge ride-around seemed to get longer with softer and softer patches of sand becoming evident. One of the dry river-bed tracks wound it's way through rough scrub for some 5 minutes or more, with me stopping to steady myself each time a serious wobble threatened to dump me and the bike in a heap.

The light faded, the ride continued and the heat and the dust were taking their toll. Any seriously negative thoughts were held at bay and kept going with a grim determination to press on whatever I encountered. At the river bed crossing of the main dried up Amudarya near Parlitav, I eventually came to a grumbling halt in the darkness. After taking the lead some 20 minutes earlier, managed to find some relief from eating everyone else's dust. For a while it was possible to forge ahead and bulldoze a way around three or four of the broken bridge tracks, before tiredness and held-back anger brought me to a halt. Looking back at the way that I'd just come I could see the single light of Bjorn's bike, and the glow of the 4wd' head-lights somewhere off in the distance. By the time they caught up I'd thankfully recovered some of my humour. Bjorn hadn't ... and when the Jeep pulled up alongside there was a heated exchange with Peter in German. I guessed he was making him eat his words, for saying that it would be: 'Very easy ... You will see!” This was not easy ... far from it. The road was pot-holed, which is bad enough in the dark, but the broken bridge ride-arounds that would have been hard enough during the daylight, were bloody difficult. These sandy tracks were really tiring, taking every bit of concentration to stay upright. Each subsequent ride-around was sapping our energy reserves further.

I tried to lighten the mood, by saying I was going to drain a whole barrel of cold-beer when we finally arrived at Moynaq. Tempers eased and we spent a few minutes surveying the moon-lit scene, of what looked like a broad sandy delta. Bjorn took a timed-exposure shot, and used a torch to paint some light onto the fallen bridge pilings.

After re-assurances that this was the last of the broken bridges, and that we were about to hit paved road, we struggled back up onto something vaguely solid. Five minutes later we come to yet another downed bridge. Again, we go around. And again ... without incident. Our luck was still holding. Yet more duff info'??? Maybe, but it didn't phase us so we rode on. Encountering another patch of deep sand, everything comes to a grinding halt once more. This was really deep sand too. After grabbing a handful of throttle the back wheel buries itself. The Jeep joins us and a couple of guys jump out to help drag me out. A tense mood can be detected with the others, but I'm laughing ... actually laughing. Maybe they'd think I'm going mad? But the promised road eventually appears and there are no more bridges. Well, no more broken bridges. But if I was reading the map correctly, there was still the best part of an hours ride left. Now was the time to dig a little deeper, as tiredness was biting into our reserves of concentration. An accident in the darkness and on suspect roads, was still only one small mistake and a moment's lack of concentration away.

Finally the town sign of Moynaq revealed itself in a silvery light. And with the Jeep in the lead to show us the way, minutes afterwards we're heading in through an open gate-way. We'd arrived at our stoppover for the night ... and in one piece too. The day's ride had come to an end.

Uzbekistan Part 3

Parting of the ways?

Nukus I recall did little to ingratiate me with my first stay in Uzbekistan. The difficulties of the journey from Ashgabat north to the frontier, in order to cross over the border was still very much colouring my feelings about this whole region. So I was in need of comfort, good food and beer, along with a few more days stagnation to catch up with myself. Sadly it wasn't to be ...

During our brief interlude in this our first Uzbek' town, we met up with Peter Navratial, a self-employed Cartographer. During a conversation in a local restaurant, he invited us to tag along on a planned field-trip west of the Aral Sea, where his task was to search for locusts. Most often I'm game for a bit of adventure, and with a passing interest in bugs and stuff as a kid, the idea caught my interest. But before unconditional agreement, the memory of the rough ride through the Turkmenistan desert, had me questioning what sort of roads we'd be riding on. His non-committal reply about road-conditions left me unconvinced, but tentatively assented to tag along for the time being anyway. Bjorn was obviously dead-keen, so I really didn't want to seem to be a 'spoiler'. I wasn't quite ready to go on my own sweet way quite yet. And besides which, was not able to do a U-turn and go back through Turkmenistan, as the transit-visa had expired upon leaving the country.

The next morning we all met up, and were introduced to Peter's mostly young student entourage. Once everything was ready, we followed their 4WD out of town. I'd pretty much kept my fears about poor road condition to myself, so it was with some trepidation as to what the day was going to bring, that we all set off. After the first hour we'd already crossed a few tracks with loose surface, as well as the usually pot-holed roads that connected each section. We finally turned off onto a sandy track, that quickly deteriorated into dust and the dreaded soft-sand. The front wheel started to wander, and paranoia towards another fall brought me to an instant halt. A short conference to speculate on how bad or how far this would be, and it was decided that Bjorn was going to carry on. I watched him disappear in a cloud of dust, his rear wheel weaving alarmingly. I was staying put for the moment ...

Recollecting snippets of an earlier conversation between Peter and his driver, believed that this was likely to be just a temporary halt only, and that we'd possibly have to come out on this track again. So rather than chance getting bogged-down or another fall, maybe I could simply leave the bike here and wander on by foot and see how far it was to go? But the usual concern about leaving the bike and luggage unattended held me back. Some ten minutes in the hot sun left me wondering whether to walk, or take a chance and go on with the bike in the hope that the soft stuff didn't get any worse. To save the need for me making any more possibly regrettable decisions, I spotted a cloud of dust coming back in my direction. It was Peter's driver. After pulling up alongside, he laughingly assured me it didn't get worse and once around the bend it was all solid again. “Yeah okay I'll give it a go”, I said and started off wondering if I was being spun a good yarn. It turned out something in between ... The first 50 metres felt distinctly uneasy, but after that turned mostly solid. It sure wasn't any walk in the park though, as some deep ruts bottomed out the suspension, as well testing my very limited off-road abilities on a bike loaded with luggage. I arrived in a cloud of dust into a hard-baked courtyard with some familiar faces and a handful of local Uzbek' villagers looking on. Loosening the grip on my teeth, opened my helmet and said “Hi”.

'Five-fingers' ... Our lunch

The destination was a village where one of Peter's mates lived. And was pleasantly surprised that we'd been invited for what turned out to be a rather interesting if-not gourmet lunch. It's name of '5-fingers' described the hands-on approach of no cutlery. We all sat cross-legged eating from the same plate, and apart from the thought of what the rest of the journey was going to be like, enjoyed both the company and the meal. This was a real melange of tradition, that included both a personally applied hand-wash from one of the ladies of the family, and a number of toasts with locally made vodka. The hand-wash was quaint, but noted it was all part of re-affirming the patriarchal balance of family life. The lady went around the table with jug of water and a bowl for us to rinse off our fat-smeared fingers. A few dribbles of water were poured with some ceremony, and a wringing motion of the hands was intended to disperse the worst of the greasiness. A grubby rag was then passed around to wipe off the rest. Unfortunately it happened I was at the end of the line, so favoured a modest 'pat' with this rag, rather than a full-blooded wipe. With care I somehow managed to avoid re-absorbing more grease back from the fat-soaked drying cloth. My fingers still looked rather shiny though ...

The hand-washing ceremony

I liked Peter, as he seemed a kindly sort, but was also a fairly straightforward bloke too. At an appropriate time towards the end of the meal, he aired his thoughts and verbilised what was already going through my mind. “De roods are devinitely goin do get verse from here on in, so ve vill need to dezide vot ve're goin to do.” This was my prompt to be equelly frank, so said simply that I was unable to continue. Quoting the fact I was both guarding an already injured ankle, as well as minimal confidence in my ability to deal with soft sand. I wasn't surprised when Bjorn told us he'd prefer to give it a shot, as his youth and better off-road technique meant he was more prepared.

For a while it seemed to be a parting of the ways for us. I was not in a hurry to repeat the Chinese visa debacle, so was beginning to formulate a plan to extract myself from the region completely. But before I'd worked out the logistics, there had been a change of plan. Peter announced they would be going straight to Moynaq our original destination, so if in agreement we could still go along with them. I wasn't displeased as a couple of my early considered options were to get myself to Almaty (two visa applications away in Kazakstan), or perhaps to bargain my way with Pashtan tribal leaders through Afghanistan.

If I knew then, what I knew now, would not have been so happy a bunny, as our three vehicle convoy set out during the middle of that scorchingly hot afternoon ... As I sit writing this, sincerely hope the following description turns out to be of the worst ride of this trip. Not only that, but it turns out to be the worst ride by a long way ... a very long way indeed. In fact if it turns out to be the worst ride of my life, will be quite content for the remainder of my days.

Uzbekistan Part 2

Yet another 'barny' with Hotel Management!

For the 2^nd time in a few weeks I end up 'spitting the dummy out of the pram' about the parking of our motorbikes, so another heated exchange over bike storage ensues. And it's over the fact that we're being asked to pay an extra $5 for the privilege of putting our bikes into the so-called 'safe' compound. Now I could pretend that I'm just being a 'dyed in the wool' Capitalist and that I do expect some kind of 'customer service' for my money. But the real reason is quite simple. These foolish people haven't learned not to disturb me in mid-doze.

I would've thought that after the rukus in down-town Tehran a few short weeks back, that the jungle-drums would have sent the message winging it's way across Central Asia by now. 'Do whatever ya like, but don't disturb Lenz while he's taking a cat-nap!' There will be a consequence! Why oh why do they do this? In haranguing me to move my bike before I'm ready to do so, someone was bound to end up in tears.

After unloading the luggage, my travel weary brain tells me that it'd be best to take a shower and have a bit of snooze before doing anything else. The motorbike should've been okay where it was, stood outside the front for an hour or so at least. It was away from the road, and there were plenty of people in and out of the hotel. Besides which I'd figured, with there being at least a couple of hours before darkness, there was plenty of time to put it 'safely' around the back.

But oh no! The hotel people had other ideas ... No sooner had I laid down for a doze while waiting to get into the shower, than someone banged on the door. Dragging myself off the bed, I opened the door to find one of the hotel 'boys' standing there. He's gesticulating and making noises in what sounds to be a mix of Uzbek' and Russian, to say that I should move my bike round the back. Initially I'm polite and tell him I'm tired and intend getting to this task a bit later. Then I shut the door, ready to return to my state of relaxation. But he doesn't accept what I've told him and continues hammering on the door. Before I'd even moved away from the door, I'm opening the damned thing again. I go on to tell this over-persistant lacky, that the bike will get moved, when it bloody well suits me, not him. And eventually have to tell him where to get-off. So thinking that the well known and universally understood bit of Anglo-saxon does the trick, I head back to the bed to let my brain drift back into it's previous flat-line of semi-torpidity.

Unfortunately it was little more than a two further minute hiatus, as this over-enthusuastic hotel employee returned with the Manager. Before I can ask what part of f*ck off didn't they understand, the manager tries his best to explain in his broken english that: 'Bad people damage your bike'. I start to roar, WHAT??? in a loud firm voice, and and at the same time went to grab my vest and bike keys to go out and see what he was rabbitin' about. He hastily back-pedal's with a quickly paling face, “No, no not now ... maybe during the night ... your bike needs to be locked up safe”. The hypothalamus stops squirting it's 'fight or flight' hormones, and I quickly come back down to earth. Seeing it's in my hand, I might just as well finish donning my vest, and at the same am thinking to myself, that I may as well go out to move the bike now too. F'cryin out loud ... It looks very much like it's going to be the only way to get some bloody peace around here!

Uzbekistan Part 1

Crossing into Uzbekistan and arriving in Nukus

The border crossing had been a fairly painless affair as these things go, but the guard did question us about bringing Turkmen' Manat into the country. He then went on to offer to 'take it off of our hands', telling us that we can't spend it here. From that comment I remember thinking he wasn't too bright, but he was sure 'quick enough off the mark' to negotiate a poor exchange rate for our remaining Manat. I wasn't not too bothered myself, as a quick bit of mental arithmetic told me that it's just a load of zero's, and not really very much money if it was converted back into Sterling. But after the 'sting' Bjorn went back to the bike and got his lap-top out to check the last known exchanges. Finding he'd taken advantage of us dumb-tourists, Bjorn pulled him aside and gave him a hard-time, but of course it's way too late. Short-changed we left for the short ride towards our first town shown on the map ... Nukus.

Hotel Nukus is a dingy post-soviet style building, but it was the travel guide's recommendation from a short list of two. Their tariff seemed to us at the time to be charged at a rather high rate, though in fact turned out to be moderately priced in comparison to some others we stay in at a later date. Shortly after arrival and agreeing to stay for a one-nighter, Bjorn again gives 'em a hard-time about their poor US Dollar/Cym(Sum) exchange rates. It seemed that there was a significant disparity between what was quoted in dollars, and how much it'd cost us if we could have paid using the local currency. Blimey! Before today I'd never even heard of Cym before, let alone know what the exchanges were. It was another reminder to make sure we do some bloody research first, but it also stood as a testament for how little we (or, me at least) know about this region in The West.

As a legacy from the border post rip-off, what appeared to be a big 'wedge' of dosh in local currency and made my wallet bulge, didn't in reality go too far. The testament to this, was in finding it wouldn't cover the cost to pay upfront for our first night in the hotel. From that we're pretty much forced to pay in dollars, at the noticeably trimmed down exchange rate, which again dipped into my finite travel funds. To add insult to injury, we find out that we've got to pay another $5 for secure parking in a compound behind the hotel for our bikes, taking it to a grand total of $30. Now I can hear you say that 25 bucks isn't a huge amount to pay for a hotel room, and in part would agree, particularly with the current state of the U.S. dollar. But if you were to have seen the place, you'd understand our reluctance to pay that much. The room turns out to be tatty & poorly decorated with no air-conditioning. It was hot and stuffy, the windows jammed shut behind grimy curtains, hanging limply on something resembling a curtain pole. Opening the bathroom door revealed an antiquated shower head, with pipe-work that ran at unusually abstract angles. My best guess was that the chosen run of free-hand pipe-work, had been dictated by whichever fittings the plumber had in his bag at the time. Or maybe his philosophy was the same as dry-stone wall builders, who are taught never to put down any stone they've picked up, until they find a place for it to go. “Ah ... here's a 90 ° bend, and ooh, now I've got a 45 degree'r”. And to add, mark you ... none of that Namby Pamby feeble western copper rubbish. No, these were good solid 1 inch (or whatever the Soviet standard was) cast-iron screw-in fittings standing proudly out from the wall! The paint had long since gone from it's original white to a sort of yellowy cream, with dust encrusted cracks and corners. Reaching halfway up the walls, the white tile-work was seen to be unevenly interspaced with dirty brown grout, well past any kind of clean-up'able state, with spidery crack lines showing on every other tile. The whole effect made this 'wet-area' into something that was quite uninviting, except for perhaps for the absolute minimum necessary ablutions to keep the worst of the B.O. at bay. But we were all-in, and really didn't have the energy to go looking for anything better or cheaper. Hotel Nukus was our home for the night whether we liked it or not ...

In truth we get what we pay for in terms of western value. Be honest, what would you expect to get in the UK for 15 quid? You'd be struggling to find anything for at least double that price, I'd say. Though having said that, you'd usually get what I've now found to be the 'world' famous English Brekkie. Here we'd learned to expect a bit of dried bread, a slice or two of processed cheese and (thankfully) wafer-thin bit of sausage, most likely made from all the unsavoury bits of animal scraped from the abattoir floor. Sometime's the repaste would stretch to a little honey or jam, though the saving grace for me was always the tea. Light, refreshing and in some establishments, drink-as-much-as-you-like refills. Unfortunately the Hotel Nukus was on the low-end of things, and our breakfast was meagre, by even Central Asian standards.

Continuing with the whinging session ... Everything's run-down here, and in serious need of replacement/refurbishment/redecoration. But of course nobody notices, except us, and ... this isn't the West y'know! So, to lead onto another topic that's been bothering me ... if it's so poor here in Uzbekistan, I'm wondering why do so many people have mobile phones?

Something's gotta be way off-kilter. To my untutoured eye it's often hard to find the best shop in order to buy a decent loaf of bread, yet there are shiny modern adverts for 'Paynet' everywhere. The bill-boards for these mobile phone networks are to be seen sported outside all kinds of establishments, though this doesn't necessarily seem to give much of a clue as to what kind of shop it is. It might be a shop selling mobile phones, or accessories. It's just as likely be a sort of grocer's shop, vending highly sugared drinks in day-glo colours, which are responsible for making children leap about like lunatics, as well as creating healthy queues of people with unhealthy teeth, stood outside the local dentistry. It doesn't seem right to me, that I can see people wearing tatty plastic sandles who you might think can't afford anything better, yet are walking around with a nice shiny moby held to their ear. Those 'Paynet' signs also tell me that someone, somewhere's making a lot of money in this country.