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.