Uzbekistan Pt. 8

We're now going to Tashkent ...

We're done with Samarqand for the time being, so pack up our stuff and head towards Tashkent in the North eastern corner of the country. This was the capital of Uzbekistan, and we needed to try for some more visas.

Visas! I'm frankly getting sick of this, as at times it seems as if the whole point to going travelling is to sit about outside embassies trying to get yet another bleedin' visa, just so we can get into the next country. Sometimes I'd like to get every bloody bureaucrat and politician who's involved with setting visa policy, and if they're not actively doing all they can to make it as cheap and hassle free as they can ever manage, they should be sent to Coventry. But then of course they'd need a visa to get into the UK wouldn't they, which everyone in most of the countries I've visited to date tell me, is nearly impossible to get!

So checking the map we head off Tashkent'wards. And on this ride we get a graphic example of the madness of carving up the ex-soviet countries in this part of the world.

In following the main road a dual-carriageway in mostly good repair, find that we are making good speed. At one point we pass a minor turn-off to the right that has a fair amount of heavy traffic on it. We then enjoyed a few minutes of riding on a near empty road, which gives a lift to the spirits. Good and empty roads are always something to celebrate ... But a Kilometre or two on and I notice that there are rather more weeds growing in spots not normally seen on well used roadways, as if this road is a little used back-water. Suddenly there's a check-point and we're at the Kazakhstan border! What? We don't want to go to Kazakhstan! Something was wrong, we clearly didn't deviate from the main highway and all the clues were there, to show we'd not made any wrong turns. We hadn't ... what had happened is that some faceless and nameless individuals in the not too distant past had simply drawn a line on the map of Central Asia right through the road we were on. So we now needed a visa to go to Kazakhstan, if we want to continue along this road to go to Tashkent. It turns out that the side road with the disproportionately heavy traffic we passed earlier, was the main road that would enable us to continue on to the capital yet keep us in Uzbekistan. A U-turn, with a dog-legged ride along a less than perfect road with heavy traffic. Dare I say it? We're hot and tired, and this piece of mindless map-drawing adds to the frustration. Which ... helps to enhance the heat ... and our tiredness ... I think that's all I've got to say about that ride. Except that we're still smack-bang on the old Silk-Route and didn't pass one single camel-train.

Tashkent diary ... 30/7/08

I feel better, much better ... on the home run to the hotel, bought two beers as combined reward and evening softener, after a bloody hard day. I don't mind the thought of relying on a cold beer for a helping hand back to pull me back from the madness of dealing with consular bureaucracy. I've supped one straight off and feel gently mellow already. If Bjorn comes back soon he can have the other one. Hmmm, then again ... Where's that bottle-opener?

Let me explain ... Another round of embassies, with an attempted 'blag' to try and obtain a Chinese Tourist visa, that see us trying the 'fake airplane ticket and hotel booking ploy' ... A strained start to the day, with Bjorn demonstrating piano chord tension. The previous evening he was very bitchy, trying his best to push responsibility for most of the current day to day difficulties in my direction. His impatience is now becoming an ongoing issue with me. The cracks are beginning to show, and find myself having burgeoning thoughts, that perhaps it'd be better if we go our separate ways as soon as possible.

A visit to the Uzbek' Airlines offices to book a flight to Beijing and back, which is immediately followed by a visit to the Internet cafe to book a weeks accommodation in a hostel in the middle of China's capital. 40 minutes later we walk out with a printed copy of this booking, that clearly shows the 4 Euro deposit as paid. This is done just to make sure we consolidate the lie about flying in and out of China. As far as we are aware a visa is a simple and straightforward piece of paper stuck into a passport, that allows entry into the country by any route and any means. So that's our aim ... To obtain a Chinese visa by any means. We tried 'fair' in Tehran and it failed, so we here in Tashkent now to give the 'foul' means a go, to see if that'll work for us.

Let the embassy dash begin!

A mad taxi-ride to make sure we get to the embassy before the 11.am closing time, but find it's open till 12 anyway. We wait ... then are given the nod to go in. Fill in the forms, hand over the dosh ($100 for a one-dayer). Done! We'll either get it, or not. We're now in the laps of the god's, and the vagaries of the Chinese bureaucracy. After putting in the application, we start the walk back. but then I decide I'd go to the Kyrgyz' embassy, to try and see how far I can get with that visa application ...

¾ of an hour and a couple of changes on the Metro later, a rather confused 'me' gets off at the station closest to where I'm supposed to be going. A 15- minute 'mooch' around, and I find the embassy. Bingo! Except that it doesn't open for an hour and a half at 2.30pm Time to find somewhere to eat, drink and sweat ... Which I do ... profusely. The meal of Pilov's not bad though. For 1900 cym (sic. don't remember the exchange, but it would have only been a US dollar or two), have what I think to be a good feed. Nice pot of çay, send a birthday SMS moby message to my youngest daughter Laura in France, and an hours gone by. Wandering back to embassy in good time, a fair queue has already formed. Not too many in front of me though ... Ava'chat with a guy I reckon to be of Japanese origin, who tells me he's Canadian! Nice bloke, but then he tells me he's a Christian Missionary, which puts my inbuilt anti-preaching early warning alarms onto 'alert' status. No evidence of preaching, nor any hints that I could be 'saved' if I embrace Jesus, comes out of the conversation that I can detect, and we just end up talking about Canada, future winter Olympics and other harmless stuff. So maybe it's just me being a tad paranoid I guess. Then the nice security guard nod's at me from across the road. I'm in ...

After getting the application form and the 'low-down' on the procedure from the sole visa department official, was told I now needed to go to a local bank to pay the money into the embassies account. It's not too long a walk, but takes me back around the small streets, to an underpass across one of the busy main-streets. And as its very hot walk, choose the shady path whenever there is any. Arriving into the appointed office I'm immediately directed to a window to pay in the money. One small hitch though, is that the computers are 'down', with no view when they're gonna be back online in order to complete the transaction. 'You have gotta be kidding me!' Rings around my over-heated and over-stimulated brain. They assure me, there's nothing they can do till the computers are back. 3.55 pm the system's back up, giving me little more than 5 minutes to get back to the Kyrgyz embassy. I run ... in +40⁰C heat. I sweat, but keep going ... check the time. 2 minutes to go. Check the time ... 1 minute to go ... round the corner, see the security guard. He looks at the time, I look at the door ... which is closed. “Closed?” I venture. “Cloosed!” he confirms, and gets a good sound “Bugger it!” in response from me ... then he grins. He's taking the piss, 'cos he knows full well I've pulled out all the stops to get back in time. He's obviously seen this before, and is enjoying himself. He indicates I can go in, and do so with considerable relief. There is sweat dripping from my face and my T-shirt is stuck clammily to my body.

It's cool inside and approaching the little hole that acts as a service-hatch await some attention. There sits the young Krygyz' chap behind the desk, and who I can see is intent on doing something he's already started, which means he ignores me momentarily. I'm not too concerned as this gives me the chance to complete the till then, uncompleted application form. 4.10pm, it's in, he accepts it and in handing in the bank receipt I get another receipt in return, along with some more paperwork to show as ID in case I'm asked for my passport by the Uzbek' authorities. Phew ...

Gotta get back to the Chinese embassy now. Time check. 50 minutes ... “should be enough time” I think. 10 minutes later am back on the Metro, and head back to the station where I had to change lines on the way there. Okay for time so far. I ask for directions. Big mistake ... as this well-meaning man wastes another 5 valuable minutes. He 'rabbits' away about the names and number of stations, but the conversation doesn't seem to be heading towards any conclusion. So it's only after he's confirmed to himself his spoken English 'works' and that he's able to make himself understood by me, I realise in return that he doesn't know what the bloody hell he's talking about. He finally asks another lady, but this adds yet more minutes with little progress. She does however seem pretty confident after looking at my city street map, which shows the Metro stops at street-level. She even goes to the trouble of showing me where to get off, and points with confidence to a station four stops along. Though it doesn't seem quite right to me. And indeed proves to be so ... When I get off and surface back up onto the road first thing was a directional check. Noting the position of the sun and along with confirmation by my trusty compass, make a start at walking. I'm certain I'm going in the right direction even though I don't recognise anything. 10 minutes later the realisation hits me, that I'm bloody miles away. Bugger it! It's now well gone time, but the only chance for arriving before it's too late, is to do something I should've done in the first place. Get a taxi. Another time-check ... 5.10pm. Late, but not so bad. Taxi driver is not too sure, and wanders ... He checks my map ... he deviates, then deviates again, and then finally he asks a policeman. “My Christ”, I think, “They obviously don't do a local version of 'The Knowledge' for Tashkent taxi drivers”. We're close ... Then we're there, arrived ... And it's ... just gone 5.30pm. Dammit! Empty ... devoid of people. Not a good sign. I expected to see Bjorn, but there's absolutely nobody there. Except for one lone security police guard. Who confirms ... “Cloosed. Coome beck tomoorow ... mehbee?”

Concluding this little anecdote, I took a warm and rather long walk back to our nice expensive accommodation. My mind had settled into a neutral sort of a place after the 'good' of getting one application in, and not so good of failing to get back to the Chinese embassy in time. When I arrived back hot and tired, I half expected a tirade from Bjorn about not being at the embassy by our agreed time. But I was initially surprised that he didn't even mention my poor time-keeping, and was happily chatting away to a fellow traveller about something unrelated. He seemed to be well into his first cold beer, and so I guessed the alcohol was mellowing his oft encountered 'edgy' side. I'd already decided to take care of my bodily needs and get myself into a better mind-frame, and so cracked one of my own coldies that I'd bought from a nearby grocers shop. A few sips later and Bjorn let slip the reason for his buoyant mood. He'd evidently managed to pick up both of our passports, and the two of us now had the 'so hard to come by' Chinese visas. After all the hassle we'd had in Tehran, this was a revelation. We'd told a bare-faced lie about flying into China, but we'd complied with their procedure. Which clearly proved that cheating does pay!

Moving on here, would like to say a few words about our accommodation in Tashkent. It seems that the only reason for any visitors to Uzbekistan going to Tashkent and who are not on business, is to obtain visas for onward travel to other countries. So there are not really any 'travelly' places to stay (not that we'd managed to find, at any rate). And now we come to cost ... We did try hard for a discount bearing in mind the spasmodic water supply, but still had to pay $20/night each, though will add this was with breakfast. After all it was a 'Hotel'. For this sum we had A/C, which with heat often reaching oppressive levels, was a good thing. But it was still way over-priced, as the once new and shiny facade of that place had long since gone. This was a tatty 'has-been' of a hotel, that had pretensions of being better than it actually was. After stepping in through the gate, you entered a courtyard that was also the site of the 'swimming pool'. And please do take note of my use of the single ' ' marks, to highlight the fact there was something different about this potential bathing area. The reason for mentioning it, was that initially I didn't realise it was a swimming pool. No, honestly! The milky turquoise blue colour indicated to me, that it was a pool of water with some other as yet unidentified purpose. Apart perhaps from dangling one's feet into that viscous looking coloured liquid, could not imagine anyone wanting to take a dip. It looked to me as if it were a place of incubation for yet to be discovered water-borne diseases and its sole saving grace being, that there weren't any nasty bits of luminous green vegetation or brown sludge floating on the top.

Which is more than be said for our hosts. A very brief bit of goss' that makes reference to a not at all disguised sleight on their possible characters, was that we overheard what sounded very much to my ears like an abusive argument during one of our night's there. It came in the form of several brief and aggressive sounding outbursts, things going flying and the odd scream or two from a woman (though to my unqualified ears didn't detect fear in any of the screams, that might have prompted action on my part). I think I'm fairly safe that the proprietor won't ever get to read this, and from that go on to accuse me of doing horrid things to his standing in the community through defamation. So will tell you here, that there was some evidence that he was a violent drunkard. The main reason for me making mention of it here, is that I'd never met a Violent-Drunk before. I've little doubt there are plenty around, but usually not too many people hold up their hands or wear badges as members of this dubious minority. He wasn't like this all of the time though, as I had a number of fairly coherent conversations with him during the course of my short stay there, that were mostly prompted from the lack of water to our bathroom. When talking with him I did note a rather heavy smell of something volatile on his breath too early in the day, but so long as he didn't do anything to upset me (such as giving me a hard time about parking my bike) wasn't about to make any negative judgements about him. So I didn't really have any personal gripe with this particular hotelier.

However in saying that will admit to one fairly serious failure on my part while staying at this Inn of ill repute, which cost me a whole twenty bucks. And that is when I came to pay my dues when leaving. This failure was for timekeeping, in thinking we'd stayed one night longer than we actually had. So because of that I ended up paying for 4 nights and not just the 3 which was the correct number of nights. On a tight budget, any oversight that cost me $20 was close to stupidity. Handing over my carefully counted out 80 dollars, I kind of begrudged giving over what to me was a large sum and that 'bit' a noticeable hole into my wallet. This money was pocketed just a little too quickly by one of the women there who I took to be 'the wife', with what appeared to be some surprise. That should have rung an alarm bell with me, as I'd guess that normally it would immediately be written down into their ledger as 'paid', seeing as they took such pains to enter all passport details into it on arrival. I really would have believed too, that all money transactions would be recorded that related to peoples coming, and in my case going. In other words, I think they realised there was a mistake and chose not to mention it. Mean Bastards! Or should I say 'Mean Bitch'. Come to think of it, maybe that guy had some cause to get riled if he was getting it 'in the ear' from his Haridan of a wife. Who knows? Maybe she would wait for him to get drunk and then 'press his buttons' knowing what the result was going to be! There are some very odd people about ya know ...