Tajikistan Pt.2 First night ...

First night in Tajikistan

By the time we managed to get away from the border post it was already close to dusk, so then in hitting the first village it was full-on dark and were having to rely on our headlights to avoid unseen obstacles along the way. Night rides as explained before were not recommended in central Asia, and happily our Polish buddies agreed and that we would get some provisions and find a campsite pronto'.

One thing that we had noticed was a marked deterioration of the road's surface. While not always brilliant in the further reaches of Uzbekistan, near to the big towns it wasn't too bad on average. But after a short time on the Tajik roads found the pothole count had increased considerably. We'd been warned from others who'd been through here before (there's heaps of info' on the Horizon's Unlimited website) the roads are 'bad' in this country, so the regular pot-hole dodging came as no particular surprise.

It was during that first shopping trip into a dingy 20 Watt lightbulb lit local shop that we were to discover the value of our new found buddies. Not only could they converse, but they seemed to have some kind of idea of which sausage to pick. There was precious little on the shelves, so stocking up on food wouldn't have been too much of a problem if we were on our own. But when it came to picking out something from the line of half dozen torpedo shapes lurking in the chill cabinet, I for one would not have had a clue. The truth of the matter is that I would have likely dismissed them as inedible tubes of meat-based protein that might or might not have been intended for human consumption. They reminded me of a product I'd seen sold in the UK as pet-food, so would have likely walked out of there sausage-less without the benefit of Justina and Maciej's counsel.

Once we'd made our purchases, the next important thing was to find somewhere to camp. A couple of brief forays and stop-off's to ask for some directions and we ended up by the side of a river. In order to get to the spot we had a short spell of off-roading, but of course the darkness made it much more unpredictable and Bjorn came a 'cropper' at a muddy stream crossing. From that he was left in some pain and once again the girls from the Polish contingent were to provide welcome succour as well as more direct and practical help. As a trainee Vet Justina could transfer some knowledge to people, and concluded that Bjorn would not need to be 'put-down'. Some bandage to give support to his ankle and some pain-killers seemed to help him. He was left with a limp, though seemed happier all round. But the girls together did us all really proud after the medical treatment was dispensed, by rustling up a really tasty supper from bread, sausage, mayo' and spice paste. Mind you the beer helped as did the bottle of vodka that appeared to provide some refreshment, after a bunch of locals turned up to find out who and why we were there.

A young Tajik' girl from the nearby village, who'd come to see these strange foreigners ...

I was initially a bit dubious about our choice of camping spot that first night, as a quick survey with a torch when we first arrived during darkness showed up one place where a load of glass had been broken. Along with a couple of other items of rubbish, indicated it might've been used a dumping ground from the nearby village. But when the morning came there was little further evidence of village detrious and the distant hills and nearby river hinted at some of the good stuff that Tajikistan had to offer. It was a beautiful morning and we had the prospect of beginning our exploration of this somewhat undeveloped country.


Packing up next morning ...

After some routine maintenance by Darek on his aging Africa twin we headed off towards our first high Pass. With horror stories about a new tunnel that had been drilled through the mountains to connect the roads coming from Uzbekistan into Dushanbe, we weren't about to go that way. Besides which the prospect of a high pass held some excitement as a test with some real enduro conditions. In a brief curtsy to our reasons for avoiding that forbidding tunnel, is that evidently after the tunnel had been carved out the Civil Engineers were delighted to discover an underground river was on their chosen trajectory through the kilometres of solid rock. The net result was that anyone going through there had the joyful experience of traversing that hole into hell thro' an aquatic building site. Evidently part of the way into the tunnel you'd find yourself riding in some 300 mm of running water, which added to darkness, high concentrations of exhaust fumes, plus unknown road/river-bed surface condition, I for one didn't relish experiencing.

So Anzob pass it was to be ... And here's a good time to insert a link. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1E8jjECKiRw For those of you that haven't seen it before, it shows highlights of our journey across and towards Dushanbe.

But before that we were to find that travel in the Central Asian country of Tajikistan cannot be measured in times comparable to anywhere in Europe, unless you want to try and ride the length & breadth of the Highlands of Scotland avoiding all sealed roads. Looking at the map it showed a couple of hundred Km's as a bold red line. In other words a main-road ... An easy and a short day's drive in almost any Euro country. But The Stans had shown that we needed to be cautious and open our minds to the vagaries of bad roads, break-downs and fuel supply. Once we got moving we found that things happened slowly in Tajikistan and that we'd not managed to get very far along this highway due to the lumps and bumps that constituted a road surface. Watching the distance reduce as we counted down the Kilometres towards Dushanbe seemed futile that first day, and decided it would be more realistic if could get as far as the turn off for the ascent to Anzob. Towards the end of the first full days riding we were approaching the ill-famed road-works, which were part of the process in creating a new highway. Once completed it would connect the capital Dushanbe all the way from the North West corner of the country.

The road works were being actuated by Chinese labourers, and they had brought their safety standards along with them. Again, the jungle drums of the travel community had sent word ahead, so we had some warning. In some ways though it still made no difference, as it was difficult to comprehend their downright dangerous procedures, that resulted in at least one fatal accident where a car went off the road into the adjacent gorge as a direct result of their road making methods.

Darkness and dangerous conditions were becoming too frequent for my liking, and on this occasion were to prove to be pretty frightening too. In following the valley we'd wound our way alongside a muddy and fast moving river. Sometimes it was wide and slow and at other times was squeezed into a narrow niche through the mountains and tumbled through when it was restricted so, with a roar that could be heard over the sound of the engine. We'd been following this river over the course of the day and a couple of map-checks showed we were not making very good time. Encountering the road-works were often stoppages that brought us to a halt while they cleared debris or sometimes for other reasons less obvious. In some cases we could squeeze past the blockage and ignored the barriers that we stopping the cars. Whether piles of rock or earth moving machinery if we could get past it, we'd do so in order to get a few more kilometres along our way. Suddenly we hit good road. In fact very good road. In fact it was near perfect newly laid black-top of billiard table smooth tarmac. This of course meant traffic was able to get up some decent speed and it was a positive joy to be able to ride in top gear once again. Of course it was never going to last ... and it didn't. Going around one bend, suddenly things changed. It was subtle and at first didn't know what it was. The only thing it reminded me of was riding on super-smooth tarmac in the wet, or during the winter when you hit patches of frost on the roads in mid-winter. But here it was not only dry, but the weather had been hot and dry so it wasn't any of those things. But the steering was definitely light and alarmingly so. A touch on the brakes told me that it wouldn't be a good idea to pull up sharply. In rounding a bend saw someone directly in front of me waving their arms. It was Bjorn and to one side Mateusz both of whom were warning me of something. The something were a couple of bikes laying in a heap in the road and were directly in my way. There was no chance of stopping, so a quick glance in my mirror showed it was clear to go around them, which was executed gingerly with both feet down in an attempt to gain some extra stability. Once safely past judiciously tried the brakes again, but the 'unsettled' feeling fed back from the road underneath me meant I had to mostly use engine-braking to slow down. Edging my way over to the side discovered things felt more sure and so managed to pull up and got off. In stepping back towards the middle of the road found it was actually quite difficult to stand up. It felt like I was walking on ice. No wonder the guys had come off, the road surface was bloody lethal. It was wet tar! And had been newly sprayed onto the recently laid tarmac as a 'finish' to the road surface. Well it nearly finished us off and along with the other cars had serious trouble trying to avoid an accident. Some didn't as several cars as well as the two bikes had lost control. One car had gone into a nearby pylon and another had gone off into a ditch on the right away from the gorge. This was where the car went off the road killing it's occupants recently, and we'd just had a graphic example of how this could have so easily happened once more.

The people in charge of this project should be ... and here I measure my comments to say simply, that they should be held accountable. In Europe such a serious lapse in safety standards would have seen someone jailed for incompetence. Here, nobody seemed to notice and life carried on as normal. The scenario of vehicles skating dangerously across wet tar is likely to be going on every single day that the finishing touches go into that newly built road. Accidents will be happening every day along with the likelihood of more people dying during this piece of civil construction. It's happening still and is likely to continue until the road gets to Dushanbe. Or maybe someone 'important' will get caught in the daily mayhem, in which case maybe ... just maybe, somebody will do something to stop it.

The guys had picked one bike up by the time I got back to them and I was then able to help get the second upright, but not without some difficulty in staying on two feet ourselves. Another car slewed off into the nearside ditch as we watched. It was a Mercedes that had selfishly blasted past earlier in one of the road-works chicanes, showering everyone in gravel and choking dust. We'd managed to overtake him again a short time afterwards when he'd got boxed in with other traffic. It was a slow speed impact and nobody was hurt so was glad the Merc' owner had this misfortune, as he's been going way too fast in another attempt at bulldozing past everyone again.

After we'd dusted ourselves off, and in Darek's case wiped as much of the thick black sticky tar from his jeans and hands, it was time to find somewhere to sleep for the night. The torrent of a river continued to rush past as we progressed slowly along this section of the road in the rather vain hope of finding somewhere suitable. And once again ... darkness was on us, but I needn't have feared as our intrepid Polish buddy's did us proud again. There was one failed attempt at trying to talk some locals into letting us camp in their village on the other side of a rickety bridge. Rickety enough to appear rather daunting in the gloom. I'd watched Maciej pick his way carefully across and didn't fancy it too much if we were given the thumbs up for us all to follow. I wasn't too bothered when they said there simply wasn't enough space in the village for all of us, but when I was getting concerned we'd need to carry on some way further in the dark again, their conversation with the village elder indicated we could stay at a small place a few minutes back along the way we came. Now, after coming from that direction it all looked like stark near vertical gorge, with little in the way of roadside pull-overs. If there was anywhere even vaguely suitable I expected to be kept awake all night by the thunder of lorries rolling past a few metres from our tents. In short, I was not too optimistic at that point. It was Mateusz and his girlfriend that paved the way and after a foray to investigate the described place, they didn't come back. The agreement being, if they didn't return then it was a suitable spot and we should all follow on in their tyre tracks. Rather pessimistically my thinking was that they may not have come back as they'd encountered a problem and were unable to do so. With us following we may have all ended up in the same fix ... Maybe I should have had more confidence as Maciej and Justina went up the small track, then came back down to report that it “was really nice ... It is a beautiful place”. I remained sceptical and even after arrival wasn't too convinced, as it was dark and couldn't see much under the trees. I was shattered ... 'all-in' after the day's trials and didn't even join in with the evenings wind-down chat over bread, sausage and beer. I simply grabbed a couple of mouthfuls of food, 'skulled' the one beer and crawled gratefully into my sleeping bag. Oblivion soon followed ...

Next morning dawned and it became clear that Maciej was absolutely 'bang on the nail'. It was not only beautiful, but a short walk along to the edge of this apricot orchard to overlook the gorge, showed that it was indeed a truly gorgeous spot. We could see another small orchard on the opposite side of the river reached by yet another rickety bridge, and there too could see a few locals who were wandering along the pathway to assumedly begin their days labour in and around that area. I could just about make out the road below, winding it's way alongside the river. Somehow even though only 20 or so metres down, didn't find the passing traffic particularly intrusive. The overhang seemed to muffle the sound of a lorry as it drove by and so guessed it was bounced back and into another part of the gorge.

And here you can see Bjorn doing his Photobiker 'thing' ...

It got better too. As the others rose from their nights slumber Mateusz wandered further along and up into the orchard, then came back to report he'd found a small stream. This stream came directly from the mountains above and was pretty much guaranteed to be 100% pure water. In bathing here it seemed to wash not only the road grime away, but some of the tension from the past 24 hours too. It was cool and refreshing and I did that thing of drinking from the same water source I'd washed in only minutes earlier. But of course it was fresh run by the time I came to drink and fill my water bottles. I've gotta say there's something quite special about drinking water straight from the stream, as it's a very basic health consideration and not done lightly. Some say that water doesn't really taste of anything, but here the water tasted good. Very good ...

Our campsite in the orchard ...

With the sun up and warming the air and the prospect of a hot day to come, didn't even bother to dry myself. Simply putting my clothes back onto my wet body felt good and it felt right. The wet clothing would soon dry and besides which I reasoned, would keep me feeling cooler while packing the bike ...

In returning to our camp came across a group of ladies who were sat sorting what looked like dried apricots. They weren't too industrious in their labours and seemed more interested in me. I passed the time of day and they seemed friendly enough, though was surprised when I was offered tea. There was no fire evident, but there by the side of one of the older ladies was an oversized pot filled with a hot brew. Well, what could I say? Life is so much brighter with an early morning cuppa, and it had the effect of putting the icing on the cake for me during that first hour of the day. None of the ladies could speak any English and my Tajik' is non-exist ant, but it didn't matter in the slightest. In those 10 minutes or so I was sat with them I felt quite at ease and laughed along with their amicable banter. It seemed they were having a giggle at me and guessed it was because I looked so strange to them. There was no malice in their laughter at all and got the distinct impression these simple people who scratched out a meagre existence alongside the one and only main road through that part of the world, were in fact very happy people indeed.

With some reluctance I said my goodbyes and thanks for the much appreciated cuppa, and went back to my travel buddies to pack and get ready for the days riding. Anzob called. We were going to cross our first real High-Pass this coming day ...

Tajikistan Pt 1

Pick the odd one out!

1. Wash your eyes with an eye-wash glass full of fine sand.

2. Visit Central Asia in high summer

3. Drink 14 pints of rough cider, then set the alarm for 2 hours after you fall asleep. The moment when you start coming around, put a scratched vinyl record by the Bay City Rollers onto a low-fi sound system, and listen to it cranked up full volume.

4. Vigorously scrape your thighs with a rough grade steel-brush, then apply a good handful of salt and rub it in well. NB. For a more intense experience follow it up with a sprinkling of spirit vinegar and dry with wire-wool.

5. Watch an evenings worth of Coronation Street, East-Enders and Neighbours on the TV.

The answer of course is (5) because it's simply dull as dishwater, and not excruciatingly painful as are the others 4 choices ...

Welcome to No-Man's land ...

A quick stamp into the country, and we'd be on our way to Dushanbe within the hour ... Riding the short distance to the Tajik' border post, we hand our passports over with a flourish and get a nice friendly “Welcome to Tajikistan” from the border guard. After dealing with that surly bastard on the other side, this felt much better. I'm getting a warm feeling about this country before they've even let us in. The map in my tank bag is staring at me, so I do a quick assessment to guesstimate how far we were likely to get before dark. Two minutes later, the border guard comes back and says something in Tajik', then it's repeated in Russian. We still don't understand, but then he says one word in English that we do know “problem”. Confident that everything's in good-order our end say to him, “There's no problem at all. Here ... look at the visa. it says 'Tourist visa' here and 'GBAO permit' here”. He takes it back momentarily, before showing it back to us again, but this time saying “Date no good”. To myself as well as to Bjorn, I start to mumble “What's he on about then?”. Holding it back under his nose to show him the date and say “Look here ... it says 4th of the 8th month, till 2nd of the 9th month, which means we can come into your country as tourists”. He shakes his head and looks at his watch. Now why the hell does he think that time has anything to do with it? And slowly and gradually the penny starts to drop. I look at the date on my watch, then back at the date on the visa. And yup it's only the 2nd of August. The visa doesn't come into force for another 2 days on the 4th. Ever had that sinking feeling? Yup, I looked at Bjorn who was disbelieving himself, then looked back at the Uzbek' border. Nope, we'd been stamped out, so there is no going back there. Besides which wouldn't give much chance of getting sympathy from bully boy, who I'd reckon would sell his Granny for a few Cym. The only way is forward ... Our nice border guard is sympathetic enough to call up his boss for advice or assistance, but all we get is a suggestion to try money. A bribe? What sort of money are we talking here? We start out with an odd five bucks I've got sat in my wallet, which I can tell is treated as a joke and this my first and rather pathetic attempt at 'buying-in' to the well documented central Asian tradition of corruption, quickly petres-out at $20. Even this sum, is still feeble enough to be laughed at too. I sure don't have anything like a couple of hundred bucks spare, which might be given some credence. With resignation kicking-in I leave it with Bjorn to carry on trying to 'talk his way in', and go back along the road a hundred metres or so, to look at our campsite for the next two days.

If you'd have come through the Uzbekistan/Tajikistan border crossing on the 3rd August, this is the sight that would've greeted you ... Note the wind bending the trees. As the day wore on it became a searingly hot-wind. Great for drying your clothes if all you have is two minutes, good for desiccating coconuts etc. etc.

We quickly worked out that 'water' could become a problem. We'd only got a couple of litres and after talking to the guys in the Tajik' side found they had little more than two poorly serviced wooden huts, so they didn't have anything to spare. So it was time to bite the bullet and wander back into the Uzbek' side, to try and blag some drinking water from them. I couldn't believe it when I asked him ... Our bullying border guard thought it was okay for us to take our drinking water from the irrigation ditch adjacent to our campsite. After explaining our predicament he laughed out loud. And the thought passed through my mind that it was, 'good to see the brute's got some sense of humour'. He then pointed back to the caramel coloured liquid running alongside the road that was being used to water the nearby fields. I adjusted my initial thoughts to 'yeah, some bloody warped sense of humour'. But then had to dig deep into my own humour to continue with this in the hope of making some progress. The one and only female border post guard came up and pleaded on our behalf and begrudgingly he pointed to a trailer tank, which if anywhere near full would have thousands of litres in it. Ha! Gotcha ... Give me an inch ... or in this case a few litres. I'd fully intended to raid whatever water I wanted once I'd found the source. And there it was tucked out of the way in a corner of the compound and unlocked.

This is the Uzbek' border post where we came from, and had to try and 'blag' our drinking water ...

The 'water-run' was to turn into some kind of entertainment each time I made it. Whichever guard was on point-duty at the final barrier, he never quite knew what to do each time I walked through and past into their compound. They knew full well of our predicament and that we weren't going to try and get back through. We just wanted some water. And if from that they tried to stop us, were going to have dehydrated western tourists to deal with ... The best of the sport though, was in photographing the Uzbek' border post from the other side. The point-duty guard noticed me taking pictures and motioned me to come closer. Of course I knew that it was just so he could tell me to stop what I was doing, so motioned to him in return to come over to me. Which of course knew he wasn't allowed to do, and so happily brought my camera back up to take another shot. Even from a distance I could see he was furious ... I wonder if he wanted to shoot me?
And this is where were headed to. Tajikistan. It might look flat here, but don't be fooled!

A couple of hours into our enforced refugee status a mini-bus pulled up. A German speaking lady came up with a bag full of supplies. We were amazed to find that we were something of a talking point and our predicament had prompted sympathy within this Deutch touro' group to have a whip-round on our behalf. An assortment of goodies appeared and Bjorn's eyes lit up at the sight of chocolate! I hate to argue nor relished the sight of seeing a grown man cry if I won the toss of a coin, so let him wolf the lot!

Well, we'd well and truly stuffed-up this time. Here we were stuck in between borders, with a prospect of living in no-man's land for a couple of days. At the time I viewed it, our camping spot didn't look so bad. But that didn't account for the fact that the following day was going to get very hot. Very, very hot indeed with little if any shade to provide relief. The first day started out reasonable enough, but as soon as the sun move around from behind a small stand of protective poplars, our campsite was bathed in clear unrelenting sunlight. It got worse too, in that a fierce wind came up that didn't seem to have any refreshing coolness to it. It was a hot-wind and if anything increased the drying effect, so even when sat in the shade it felt as if every bit of moisture was being sucked out of you. A most unpleasant sensation. I'd been 'slack' too in that I'd put my t-shirt on way too late and so had picked up some sun. My stomach was bright red come the afternoon time, but by this time was so uncomfortable in the extreme heat, a touch of sun-burn wasn't high on the personal discomfort list.

Strangely enough our first night there wasn't too bad. The one main reason being, that the guard on the Tajik side was a genuine dyed-in-the-wool nice guy. In realising we were in for a difficult couple of days, came along to ask if we needed anything once we'd pitched tent and started making tea. I laughingly told him that “a bottle of vodka would be good”. But instead of taking it as the joke as it was intended, he said he'd see what he could do. He then went to say that he was a practising Muslim and that he wasn't allowed to drink alcohol, but that he thought it would okay to get some on our behalf. I was amazed at his benevolence. Half an hour later good to his promise he came back with a bag full of tomatoes and some rather cute little cucumbers. He was also clutching what looked like fairly lethal, but happily a proprietary brand of vodka too. Along with some spices and pasta, I was able to rustle up a passable feed with these few items. It was a bit 'tomatoey', as they went into both sauce and salad, but what the hell ... a couple of shots from our bottle of gratis vodka, made it taste like a gourmet meal.

Not much I know, but we liked to call it home ...

There was some light relief that first evening, when I was sat rummaging through the dark recesses of my brain practicing my own unique version of meditational therapy, when a sight pulled me back into some kind alertness. I thought that I was looking at a 60's Mini struggling it's way through the sheep-dip type vehicle-wheel sterilising pit, coming from the Uzbek side. It's low slung frame meant it had to take things slowly, mainly because it was weighed down further by one of those old-style British red phone-boxes. If it had been the end of the 2nd day you could have accused me of going a bit Trop'o' from the heat further cooking my age-addled brain. But this was first evening and had yet to have my brain fried. Nudging Bjorn he too did a double-take and in picking his chin up off the deck asked of me, “Is that a '60's Mini with a red phone-box on the top?”
A Very British Adventure. Participants of the Mongol Rally

It turned out to be a contingent of the Mongolian Rally ... From what I could gather it was a bit of a Gumball styley vehicle-race of sorts, from the UK to Ulan Baatar. These guys had come up with something called 'A Very British Adventure' and through Ben Avery's (get it) website, were angling for funds for their charity. Of course it was also a good chance to compare travel notes, as well as listen to the rather Pythonesque approach of these four likable loonies from Blighty. The two guys had evidently made a pact to wear their DJ's all the way, but the girls were at this stage doing their best to persuade them to put the pledge to one side. It was something to do with the smell apparently ... Englishmen smell? What? Confounded nonsense of course!

It was while we preparing for our 2nd night that we got the call that we could go through. And suddenly instead of settling down for another uncomfortable night in no-man's land, we were scrabbling about in the failing light to get ourselves packed and ready to go on into Tajikistan. It came about after we'd been chatting to some Polish bikers who were on their way through from Uzbekistan. After we'd said our goodbyes to these guys and while they were still being processed on the Tajik side, Bjorn wandered along to both wave them off and ask the border post guards if we could do our paperwork upfront so we could ride straight through first thing in the morning. From that he came sprinting back, to say they were going to let us all through together ... Now! But with the proviso, that if anyone stopped us and asked we should hang back, and let these guys show their papers first. As Polish, most of 'em had passable Russian, and so could blag-it on our behalf.

We were 'in'! And not only that, but we had our own Russian speaking escort. There were three bikes, two of which were ridden by Brothers Macjek and Mateus each of whom had brought their respective girlfriends along with them. Then there was Darek the 'Mr Cool' of their group, on his aging Honda Africa-Twin . Our newly formed gang made their way into this, another new country. It was to become a roller-coaster ride in Tajikistan ... literally!

Uzbekistan Pt 10

A Bully on the border.

The road to the Uzbek'/Tajikistan border saw us making fairly good time I recall. I also remember filling our tanks using up the remaining Uzbek' Cym, so felt pleased at the efficient use of the last of the local currency before leaving the country. There was a nice guy at the small shop that served as both local bar and gas-station who insisted on buying me a beer. He spoke a little French and his mate a few words of English, and therefore became a surreal experience because the usual choice of tongues for this region in which to converse were Tajik, Uzbek or Kyrgyz, with the only unifying language being Russian. But the the border was only minutes away and would likely be hanging about for some time when we got there. So some little time spent there speaking Franglais with these Uzbek's was a bit of a novelty. Besides which, the beer might even help me sleep through some of the expected waiting time at the border.

As predicted we soon come to a barrier and STOP sign that signaled the edge of Uzbekistan. Gathering up our paperwork for both the bikes and ourselves wandered into the border post building to start the exiting process. It was here that I found myself observing some rather disturbing behaviour by one of the guys in charge. He was a stocky sort with thick hairy forearms, and after seeing him order some people to be strip-searched on the flimsiest of excuses, made a note to treat this guy with kid-gloves. Patiently waiting in line with my one single piece of luggage brought in off the bike, was hoping they'd not insist on us carrying my whole 'kit & caboodle' inside to be searched. With it being hot and getting hotter, I sure wasn't about to haul it all in unless specifically asked to do so. The panniers and tank bag were left on the bike. So far as I was concerned it'd be heaps easier if they took a look inside those luggage items in-situ.

Our passports were taken for perusal, then after some debate taken elsewhere to another office. Lord knows why, but whatever came of it I was intent on sitting patiently till they'd finished looking at them, exit stamped our visas, returned our passports and let us go. But before getting that far Bjorn suddenly said to me “What's he doing?” with some annoyance then disappeared outside. Evidently he'd noticed the brutish guy had wandered outside and with curiosity getting the better of him, was seen poking around with the GPS unit on Bjorn's Dakar. In the interests of keeping an eye on the situation (or you could say I was being a nosey bastard!), wandered outside myself, just in time to see Bjorn barge his way in between the bike and the Customs guy. He then removed the GPS unit from it's cradle on the handlebars and put it into the tank-bag he'd brought along as his 'luggage'. Obviously this had the effect of putting the border-official's nose out of joint, as his reaction was to immediately order Bjorn to take all of his luggage into the customs hall to be searched. Outwardly I was calm but inside I winced, as this was the definitely the wrong bloke to upset.

Any chance of getting quick clearance had now gone, so put my backside on the tiled floor of the customs office and squatted with back to the wall, getting as comfy as possible in readiness for a 'long-wait'. During this time, practised my 'calmly bored expression', and did little more than answer a couple of questions over the course of half an hour or more. One question was ... “Australian?” (it's written plainly on the front of the bloody passport, ya Jackass!) to which I gave a 'yes', and the second was “Tajikistan?” and gave the same mono-syllabic reply, while thinking: Now, that's the 2^nd completely inane bloody question you've asked me! As if I'd come all the way to the border of Tajikistan, when I really wanted to go into Turkmenistan or Kazakhstan. This of course is rather long-winded, because the words that actually formed in my brain were ... 'this guy's a real twat!'

In retrospect Bjorn got away lightly, as the disturbing behaviour I mentioned earlier was repeated on some other unsuspecting emigrants. We watched as more people came into the building and stood in line for a few moments. It appeared to be a complete family with grandparents and parents right through to kids and grandkids. There might've been an uncle or aunt or two to swell the numbers as well. In waiting for their turn to be processed the father reached across a short barrier, to get one of the customs forms on the desk where the guard was sat. The guard immediately scolded him for this misdemeanour. I thought at the time that this guards reaction was disproportionately harsh and wondered why he should do this. Maybe he saw these people as coming from the 'wrong side of the track'. But whatever the reason, they appeared to be open for general abuse from this guard. After that short exchange, I thought things would calm down. But no ... after the bollockin', the Father seemed to be trying to explain himself. Which prompted the guard to launch a further tirade. Then 'Bully-boy' came back in and took over! With him facing me I could see he was relishing the fact that he was going to 'take control'. Barking orders at the family, things suddenly erupted into a full scale argument. But it didn't last, because whatever was being said, could see that a couple of female family members were soon pleading. A short while later it became obvious what was happening. They'd been ordered to go into a room to be strip-searched. Now, if you were to have seen these people, they were about as far as you can get from international smugglers as it gets. It seemed pretty clear to me, that it was never expected to find any contraband on any of those people, the strip-search was just being used to demean these individuals, and was a form of punishment. The thought passed through my mind ... what if I get the same treatment? Would I comply? Or would I do my best to ram the rough end of a metaphorical pineapple up this brutes arse! Talking of pineapples and arses ... maybe he was like that prison warder guy in the film The Midnight Express. It was enough to give you the shivers ...

Luckily it never came to this, and a big show of unlimited patience seemed to do the trick. After the men from the unfortunate family came back out buckling up trousers and straightening themselves, they appeared to have retained most of their humour if not dignity. It seemed to have the affect of placating the border officials though. Things started to move for us after that and could get going at last. One small hiccup was that in being told to go, had yet to get given my bike registration document back. So the fake anger tactic was called into play once again, and gambled that my age and nationality would command some respect. Up until that moment I'd been both calm and polite with them, but as soon as this bully tried to be dismissive towards me I 'barked' “Moto Passport!” at him, and looked him square in the eyes. It did the trick and he started made some noises to try and placate me. I stayed rooted to the spot and retained my grim expression until he eventually walked back over to the other office and came back with my paperwork. With passport stamped, rego' document back in my sweaty little hands, that was it. We were off to Tajikistan.

Uzbekistan Pt 9

One of the towers of Bhukara ...

Bjorn acting as entertainment for the locals in one of the villages in Uzbekistan. You'd think he was turning cart-wheels with all the interest being shown, but he was only changing an air-filter!

Back to Samarqand again ...

In gaining the much treasured Chinese visa, there was no need to wait a whole 7 days to pick up my Kyrgyz' visa. And have got to say here, that I really can't be arsed to go into another over-long anecdote about persuading the guys at the Kyrgyzstan embassy to take my passport off of 7-day visa processing pile, and put it on to a smaller pile that's labelled 'same day', just so I could the heck out of there. But I will tell ya this much ... and that is once I finally gained ingress to the Kyrgyz embassy had to do some fast-talking, as the Consul initially told me that 'it can't be done'. But I managed to encourage him otherwise, as it was evidently a lot more work and hassle for him to return my money and passport without visa (my idea was to apply for it in Dushanbe). And so it was, that he finally accepted my nice crisp new $50 dollar note to upgrade the application. Over went the fifty dollar bill and back came nothing! “Come back at 4 O'clock” he told me, so trustingly went along my way intending to be back there on the dot at the prescribed time. It was fairly clear, that the absence of a receipt meant this one was 'off the books'. But hey ... so long as my visa got processed, I didn't care if my fifty bucks was going to stand the embassy crew for their first round of drinks on a Friday night. In walking back out, looked at my watch to see how long I had to wait till the 4 O'clock pick-up time. It was 4 O'clock! Anyway, heading back across towards the small crowd who were waiting in the shadows cast by the trees on the other side of the avenue, and found my new fellow traveller buddies Alvaro & Salva'. These guys had been away from their home country for years, with plans to keep travelling for many more years to come. My Spanish buddies were both overland cyclists and were waiting to pick up their visas too. In touching base with these guys I didn't notice the fearful heat and time passed quickly. Suddenly the call for people to pick up their passports and visas went out.

Having done my 'time' here in Tashkent was getting out of there. It was too bloody expensive for one, and with little or nothing else to encourage me or other tourists to tarry, it was back to Samarqand.

The picture above was taken in Bhukara and is nothing to do with Samarqand, but as it's Uzbekistan decided to put it in an as it's similar architectural style throughout the region ...

I've got little to say about the journey back from Tashkent, except to say it was a mirror image of the ride there. Another dodgy night-ride during the last hour that had me gritting my teeth, but little else to remark upon here apart from that. And the same applies for the one-night stopover back in the Samarqand, and that my mad dash back had drained most of my 'good stuff', leaving me feeling as if I could stay for at least one more night to recover. Once again, my inbuilt warning system failed to send enough feedback, to prompt me to dig my heels in and do just that. Bjorn's urgency it turns out was somewhat misplaced, and was to prove that two more nights chillin' in the cool shade of the guest-house with cold beer, would have been way, way better than what was to come ...

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 ...

Uzbekistan Pt 7

Uzbekistani people

No ... These ain't Uzbek's. This is Alvaro & Salva, my two Spanish overland cyclist buddies, as seen in Urgut market.

I like it here in Uzbekistan. I really do ... It's the people ya see. Friendly, but without being 'in yer face', as has been encountered during previous travels. An encouraging percentage of unsolicited approaches by the locals seemed to be without agenda, apart from genuine interest in who you are or an excuse for them to practice their spoken English. There was one interview with a lady on a bus, when we were coming back from the Urgut market near Samarqand, that left me wondering though.

The direction of the conversation seemed initially to be going well, but soon began heading up what for me was a dead-end creek. It began when the lady I was sat next-to started off with the usual 'What country do you come from, what's your job, and what do you think of our country?” interrogation, which was just fine by me. But things soon deteriorated as the subject turned to my marital status. Once discovering I'd left my wife somewhere along the rough road of life, she started speculating on possible scenarios for my future. It wasn't certain whether she was offering herself or her sister in marriage. Or simply perhaps expressing the idea that Uzbek' wives are as good as they come. A sort of 9/10 on the perfect-wife scale perhaps? She aired her thoughts further, venturing that I could become a rich man, if I were to have my pension* paid to me while living here. My proffered replies indicating I had no ambitions to be either rich or be married, did little to deter her. The 40 minute ride allowed a wide range of topics to be covered, but was pleased to eventually drift on to more mundane things, like comparing the cost of living in our respective countries. It turned out she was a teacher and from that did consider while talking with her that I could probably be of help by sending her some books when I finally finished my peregrinations. I might add that no rash offers were made, but chose instead to file it all away into a spare EPROM brain cell for possible future reference. We parted exchanging contact details and me saying to her that if she wanted to keep in touch, she should send me an email. Getting off the bus close to one of the main tourist attractions Registan Square, I watched as she crossed the busy road. My fellow compadres were gathered ready to walk back to the guest-house by that time. As I turned to walk back with the others, wondered if I'd ever receive an email from her**.

*What in the world gave her the idea that I could either be, or soon to be retired? F'goshsakes, I know that I've got white hair and a permanent five-day growth of whiskers on my chinny-chin-chin, but this was the first time I'd been mistaken for being old enough to be retired. Cheeky bloody cow ... Maybe I should've just told her to piss-off?

** To date and over 2 months on, haven't received an email from her ...

That same day I had more chance encounters with females. One was while I was sat on a park bench, watching the sun go down over Registan Square. But this time she was mid-teens and no threat whatsoever. It gave me chance to get some idea of what the 'up and coming' adult generation might expect from living a life here in Uzbekistan. To put it simply, she told me that once she's in her late teens to early twenties, society deemed she should marry. I asked whether she would prefer to have a career? She didn't understand the word, so tried my best to explain further in terms of her going out to work in a job of her choice. The conversation faltered, until she made it clear to me she did not relish the prospect of getting married when she was so young. I considered: Was she a lone deviant, or just maybe she was giving me an insight into the thinking of 'modern' Uzbek women? One more short encounter with a delightfully friendly young lady that evening, helped with my early conclusions. “I worked as a translator” she volunteered. “But my husband didn't like it, so I had to stop”. Patriarchy it seems, is alive and well in Uzbekistan.

Uzbekistan Pt 6

Kiva's big truncated tower. It was evidently intended to end up much taller, but guess they run out of money

Kiva and the Ride from Kiva to Bukhara

So yeah, the Lonely Planet has some nice things to say about the walled town of old Kiva, though does criticise it for being over-renovated to the point of being sterile. I didn't find it quite so, and thought it was rather 'quaint' (whatever that means?), because of its mud and straw buildings. But to be honest it did lack any kind of 'buzz' that's sometimes to be found in many places on the traditional travellers route along the Silk Route. So it does in part bear out the LP's comments to some extent. The site of the original town has been kept pretty low key with most of the old city buildings, and along with its market fairly small scale. To cater for us Touro's there are a handful of modest hotels, in one of which we score a room for an apparent bargain of $25/night. Because ... luxury of luxuries, it had air conditioning! And what a relief that was, as we'd arrived very hot and very tired.


Come to think of it, we always arrive hot a tired. I can't think of one bloody ride where I've arrived anywhere fresh and cool. Usually we usually rock-up wild-eyed, half-dead and dehydrated, and ... I've got a theory that the worse we look when we ride into town at the end of a day, the better the rate at the hotel. Dressed like storm-troopers with body armour and helmets, maybe they think we're a right-rough 'lot' who'd slit their throats if they tried charging us too much. This is complete bloody nonsense of course, as my encounters to date have shown that most hotel and guest house owners are direct descendants of Genghis Khan, who's favourite pastime is sharpening people-length spikes ready for insertion. Hang on a minute ... That was the Hun'ish practice of Attilla. Genghis had a preference for separating people into four bits using horse power ...

But I digress ...



Kiva is in fact a bit of a showcase town from the hey-day of the Silk-route. No doubt it'd be a good back-drop for period films. But try as I might cannot remember anything that jumped out at me to lift it out of the greyness of being just another ordinary tourist spot. There was no thriving market that I could detect (the one I saw while well peopled, was a poor clone of many others I'd seen). The towers and ornamental arches weren't bad and indeed were brilliant examples of that particular style of religious architecture. For some this will be good enough, but I was beginning to feel a bit hollow about the whole Silk-route experience by this time. I'd seen camels, but no camel trains (of course). I'd seen markets, but they sold mostly 'tat', and local produce which was obtainable in the UK all year round. It made me feel like what I probably was, in that I was a spoiled western tourist looking for some more 'substance' to my life. Whatever it was that wasn't ringing my bell, could find no 'wow' factor in Kiva to make it stand out from anywhere it else I'd visited in the region. You could aways use your imagination to fill the searingly hot cobbled streets with snake charmers, camels and other animals, traders of spices, silks or rare oils. Let's add in a few sellers of herbals and remedials for good measure ... Then fill the alleys with smoke, the stalls with unidentifiable food items and the air heavy with exotic scents and some smells not so perfumed. This is the cross-over from the land of Ali-Baba to countries from the deep East, who's traders came bearing strange gifts from off the map of the charted world. Fill your fantasy with whatever you will, but a sad and hollow facsimile will await you when you wake up back in the reality of today's Kiva. My main recollection of that place is walking around with an almost duty bound sense of taking some photographs ...


In truth I'm being unkind and sure that anyone beamed in from planet Europe would view it as an exotic destination. It did however stand out for one thing to me, in that we completed the ride to get there in darkness.

It'd long since been agreed, that after leaving Europe, night-riding of any kind was an ill-advised thing to do. Our recent adventure to Moynaq, which produced 'Ride from Hell III' confirmed that. And here we were doing it again on the road into Kiva. But before finding that scary section of road in the dark, we had to cross the Amudarya once again. However I might, add that having travelled some few hundred Kilometres south and east from our first encounter with this river, were now way 'down-stream' and henceforth found it with water in it. Unlike the 'wadi' we'd got stuck in, on the way to Moynaq, here it was wide and shallow, and chugged along nicely at a pace that would've made for a difficult fording had it been necessary. But the map showed a bridge, so all would be well of course.

So what's your idea of a road-bridge then? Yeah probably the same as me, in that the only way a road-bridge becomes of any significance, is if it's a civil engineering Wonder like the original Severn crossing, or maybe smaller with some interesting history like Brunel's Clifton suspension bridge. There are others ... Tower bridge in London. Or you might have your own personal favourites locally made from concrete or steel, or perhaps monumental landmarks like Sydney harbour spring to mind. But when it comes to the 'span' that takes you from the main north to south (& east) road and connects you to the road that will eventually take you to Kiva in Uzbekistan, you can forget those!

Trundling along the main highway, which serves to connect far-flung different regions of the country, we managed to find the Kiva road branching off through a small town noteworthy by me, for forgetting it's name. I was however pleased to see that the surface condition was fairly reasonable overall. Moving along this new road we encountered a couple of 90° bends, which kept us on our toes and served to remind us we were some way from the home straight. But then without warning the road became narrower and we were filtered into a checkpoint, where a handful of burly looking uniformed police stood guarding the barrier. Their leader fancied he'd have a go on my bike and gestured to that affect. But after handing over my passport, one of their number gave it cursory glance and handed it back in short-order. Now this was a good thing, as the failing light had given me a sense of urgency and the feeling that I wanted to press on and get to Kiva. With my passport safely back in my pocket, it gave me the option of trying to bulldoze my way past and carry on. Getting a sense that the main guy wasn't above heavy-handed tactics, took a chance and tried to make it obvious that I was going to move on as soon as I'd completed the start up routine. Avoiding eye-contact snicked the bike into gear and moved gently forward. Part of me expected this guy to start shouting or making some issue to stop my progress, but he moved aside just enough to show he was going to be compliant. Time to give him and the others a big smile and a nice confident sounding “Thank you, thank you ... and goodbye!” and away we went. Inner-talk man told me that would be the last hurdle, and some 30 or 40 minutes from then we'd be in Kiva. Wrong! 200 metres along the road, hidden by another bend and some shrubbery was the Amudarya bridge! Once we spied this odd river crossing we simply rode up to it, but didn't venture to cross immediately. I actually stopped for a few moments to take it in, as it didn't entirely compute into any known brain-cells. What I was looking at was a pontoon bridge, not that unusual in times of war or following natural disasters I'd guess. But what the heck, we're in Central Asia where anything goes.
Me walking back and getting ready for the crossing. It looked okay at first glance

One clue that told us the bridge was under continual renovation was a guy hidden behind a welding mask. A kind of 'bridge-doctor', relentlessly patching and gluing bits back in place as they fell off. Watching for a moment or two to see how other vehicles on the bridge were faring, it allowed us to make an assessment for what to expect when it came to our turn. Judging by its condition, this bridge had been here for some time and it's limitations of being 'fit for purpose' were evidenced by the slow progress of the single vehicle we could see going across. In watching, the car 'meandered', steering from one side of the bridge to the other. From where I was there was no obvious reason for the car to take such as tortuous route. Until that is that I proceeded to cross myself. The ramp onto the first pontoon gave a clear warning that it wouldn't pay to pick the wrong line. Sheet steel had been welded together and the countless vehicles driving over it had buckled it into a rather large 'Pringle'. So okay ... take things slowly and apart from bouncing around a little it was no big drama. First pontoon to second pontoon and the next obstacle presented itself. There was a difference in height that again meant some thought needed towards taking a good line. I'd guess at its worst, I was looking at a 2/3 inch gap. Once again, nothing too serious, but wouldn't do the front tyre a lot of good if it was negotiated at speed. But when we came to make the crossing from pontoon no. 3 to 4 there was an even bigger height differential between barges. This could be a show-stopper, if you missed seeing it. Not that anyone was likely to miss seeing it, unless they were foolish enough to try driving across with their eyes-closed. I'd guess the height for this 'step' was something just over an imperial 'foot'. A 300mm mini cliff-face, that was pretty much unclimbable with a bike loaded down with luggage. In truth it was little problem for us, as all it needed was for us to move across to the other side, where the step reduced to a couple of inches. So this explained the rather odd course of the car we'd been watching earlier.

The Bridge across the Amudarya. You could be forgiven if you think this looks okay to cross in the daylight with the sun shining. But it'd be a different story altogether on a dark and rainy night ...

Take it slow, a bit of bump ... and up onto the next pontoon. The weather was dry and there was still plenty enough light to illuminate these obstacles. With little traffic, this river/bridge crossing was of interest as an oddity, rather than something really difficult to halt our days riding. But add a mix of darkness, increase traffic and throw some water onto the smooth metal surface after rain, so it reduces the coefficient of friciton between the tyre rubber and bridge, and then you'd have something infinitely harder to contend with ...

Locals walking across. They'd got the right idea ...

The light continued to fade, so we pressed on in an attempt to get to Kiva and miss another night-ride. We failed ... The last stretch of road to Kiva, is a good road. It was 'arrow-straight' for one. And being wide with some street-lighting on the first section, should for the most part have been a 'walk in the park'. But due to the other road 'users', it was right up there on the top ten list of scary rides of the trip so far.

I had a good head-light that illuminated some way ahead, and so had some warning of hazards as they appeared. Even so was it was tough going ... After a Kilometre past the last town, the meagre street-lighting stopped. It then became something akin to what many people pay good money for at fair-grounds, in the name of fun. The 'ride' was called 'Miss hitting the Hazard'. With a good and smooth road surface the temptation was to keep up a decent speed, which was going to get us to our destination ASAP. And to help put things into context, that speed was around the 40 mph mark ... so not exactly fast! But the hazards were manyfold and various, which meant that in reality this was way to fast. Hazards included cars without lights, buses without lights, trucks without lights. Then came the animals similiarly unlit. There were donkeys without lights, donkey-carts without lights, people without lights ... I think you'd get the idea, that nearly all the other road users had, or refused to use their bloody lights. Then to make it better fun, were the few cars/trucks/buses etc. that did have their lights on. But they were either permanantly full-beam, or maladjusted to shine directly into our eyes. Here on the road to Kiva, I discovered were some people who I can only guess, must've spontaneously developed infra-red vision. These gifted individuals sped their way right down the middle of the road. They must have been able to see in the dark. If not, the only other explanation, and one that might strike fear into the faint-hearted, would have been that they were gambling and simply hoping there nothing was in their way ...

My one 'big' scare was a donkey that wandered obliquely out into my path. After gradually reducing my speed more and more this near-miss told me, that what I thought was a moderate speed, was in fact still 'speeding'. Had I even side-swiped said donkey, it could've seen me and the bike sprawled along the highway and broken. As well as, to likely give the mad moke a few bruises too. Later that night, Bjorn related his own close-encounter with a donkey-cart. The cart in doing less than 10 mph, meant that his 40 mph would have been a 30 mph impact. He'd evidently only seen that hazard only metres before, and only a combined swerve/emergeny braking prevented them hitting each other.

The best tactic I found was riding close to the crown of the road. This gave me more tarmac either side in order to avoid these unpredicatable and mobile obstacles. But in doing so, had to keep a weather eye in my mirrors for the night-vision drivers bull-dozing their own central line and trying for all their worth to go through me. Albeit widely spaced and low in candle-power, we eventually came to some more streetlights, which indiated we'd arrived at Kiva's suburbs.



In titling this ... Kiva and the ride to Bhukara, had better complete this section with that ride too. At the risk of turning this BLOG into a series of scary-rides, will try to keep this bit concise.

The main surprise was that the one single 'spine' road, highway or whatever you want to call it, was the only way to get from one part of Uzbekistan to the other. There were railways, but couldn't imagine these would be models of speed or efficiency. My Western naivety told me that due to the importance of this road it would be big, well serviced and in top condition. A simple and polite description for what we encountered is 'variable'. Overall we could keep up a reasonable average speed, but pot-holes were common on some stretches, as were sections of road-renovation that would bring us down to a relative crawl of 20/30 Km/hr or less. One noteable thing was that the road carved its way across quite a big stretch of desert, and while not quite the same extreme heat of Turkmenistan, took us well into the discomfort zone. If anything though, the one brief stretch that saw desert sands encroaching onto the road, stood as testamant to the ongoing task the Uzbek's had, in keeping this roadway open. A 'Bharkan' had wandered it's way onto the tarmac, and one lonely motorised road-scraper had it's work cut out trying to clear the soft sand from the road surface. At the time we were passing I was happy to find a tyre-width line of clear asphalt, that led me safely through my newly discovered phobia of soft-sand. If you've been following the journey up to date through reading previous BLOG posts, you'd know that sand dunes, a heavily laden bike and me, do not mix well!