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.
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