You've Gone Too Far This Time, Sir!

by Danny Bent

  I was also pulled over by a guy with a beer in one hand and his manhood in the other. He was peeing. He told me he’d seen me on TV the night before. There had been ten minutes of footage. With the photos everyone was forwarding to their friends and the TV coverage, I was beginning to get a Kazak following, but it also made me vulnerable to the evil of the world.

  * * *

  On the fourth day, I realised I'd only been playing the wind's reserve team. Beelzebub had had a broken metatarsal and the devil himself had been sitting out a two match ban for eye gouging in a pre-season friendly. Both were back in the team now.

  Head down to make me more aerodynamic, legs pumping, eyes to the ground, it was not even possible to move forward. I was like Rocky in 'Rocky IV' (the greatest film of all time) getting knocked around like a ragdoll in a washing machine.

  I stopped for a bit but there was no shelter in the desert from this monstrous beast. The flying sand made it impossible to rest. It choked me, pummelled my skin and found its way into every crevice, chaffing and rubbing. At midday I got mad at the wind and threw Shirley to the floor. As I sat down to sulk, swearing at invisible demons, 'Gonna fly now' came onto my iPod, Rocky's training song.

  “Trying hard now, it’s so hard now, trying hard now………..

  Feeling strong now, moving on now, feeling strong now…….”

  I couldn't have written a better script. I wasn't only able to get back on the bike, but I felt as though I could have grabbed one of the lorry tyres littering the highway and dragged it along behind me with no hands. Shadow boxing, I dodged and weaved, ducked and dived the punches Beelzebub threw. I could hear him telling his coach “He's not human. He is like a piece of iron,” in his strong Soviet accent.

  By the end of the day the strain was starting to show. I could see three roads. The coach inside my head said aim for the middle one.

  * * *

  That evening, after all the machismo of the day, I settled down in my tent to a bit of poetry and some light strumming of the ukulele.

  My Fickle Friend

  She wraps her arms around my shoulders,

  Guiding me where I want to go.

  Running her fingers up my spine,

  Stroking them through my hair.

  She whispers sweet nothings in my ear.

  Why does she turn,

  Throwing sand in my face,

  Pulling at my hair,

  Taking my clothes in her grasp,

  Not letting me move on,

  Whilst screaming in my ear?

  The next day the desert started to look more like coral reef. Shrubs appeared that were thick and coarse; to avoid moisture loss in the abundant sun they have only small leaves. The mirages the sun created in front of me looked like the shimmering surface to a calm sea. The last thing you imagine seeing on a beautiful coral reef is camels. They were everywhere, their pert humps blown to sagging sacks by the force of the wind.

  I stopped for food and met ‘Happy’, an eighteen year old Kazak who worked in her mum and dad's café. Four walls, some run down plastic tables and chairs, sheep and lard were what constituted a café by this point. Holding her for a cuddle as I left, I realised my heart had been opened and her embrace filled me with the emotion associated with her name.

  Atyrau is a port on the mouth of the Ural River on the banks of the Caspian Sea. Having found accommodation I needed to get some cash. At the bankomat (cash machine) there were hundreds of people all brandishing a number of credit cards. They were all trying to take what small amounts of money they had in their accounts out to feed their families. The young were helping the old read or understand the procedure for the ‘hole in the wall.’ It was obviously new to the area. An old man grabbed my arm and thrust me to the front where people parted allowing me to take out the cash I needed. “Spasiba.” Thank you.

  The room vibrated as I lay on my bed fully clothed. The beats from the disco below were in full swing causing the bare light bulb illuminating my room to do the same. A knock on the door disturbed my rest. Rina was on the other side. She said she’d come to practise her English, asking if I’d like a tour of the city.

  Walking along the river we chatted about my trip and her dreams. Her mother was Polish and she hoped to return one day. Finances were, as ever, an issue.

  Laughing and smiling she made jokes about the way I spoke and the way I dressed, my ginger facial hair and my ideas about the world. But then suddenly everything changed. Her demeanour flip-reversed. A tear welled in her eye. She said she had something to confess. She hadn’t come to the hotel to practise her English. She hadn’t come to show me round her beautiful city. She’d been asked to come by the manager. He’d requested her help as she was the only girl he knew who could speak English. Without knowing how well, he had phoned her to ask her to meet him at the hotel.

  Her job was to warn me. On entering the hotel I’d shown the manager a map drawing my finger along the route I hoped to take through Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan, then onto India. She now told me that if I was to enter Uzbekistan I wouldn’t return. The people there are little more than savages who would kill me to steal my shirt. The police would be no protection as the police were corrupt and would be looking to scam my money and belongings from me for themselves.

  Chapter 14

  Whirlwinds danced across the road in front of me, whipping my clothes around me and filling the air with sand and dust. When it cleared, I saw two buildings in front of me in equal disrepair. Signs indicated that one of the buildings was a mosque where you should get on your knees and pray to the west. The other was a toilet where getting on your knees would probably result in gastroenteritis, vomiting, diarrhoea and more time spent on your knees in front of the toilet bowl.

  The toilet was simply a hole in the ground where waste was allowed to fall into a pit below. The temple was in rack and ruin and looked like it should only be used in case of an emergency, much like the neighbouring toilets.

  Stopping beside the side of the road, I pulled out my stove. I was becoming a bit of a connoisseur of single stove cooking. My signature dish was noodle surprise – the surprise being that it was just noodles.

  As I was unpacking, ready to rustle up some of that yumminess, a car pulled over and the driver asked if I was all right. This was followed by the obligatory mobile phone photo shoot. He handed me a half drunk flat bottle of Coke which tasted like pure heaven and which washed the dust and sand from my throat. The sugar and caffeine instantly hit my veins and I could feel the high more than ever. I felt so grateful.

  He said he was running low on petrol and that I’d probably see him later in the desert as I went past. I gave him a smile and whipped out my fuel bottle. It felt so great to be able to offer these people something in return for their kindness. Using the Coke bottle and his engineering genius, he poured the litre of petrol into his car, gave me a hug, and went on his way. Those that help get helped. What goes around comes around.

  My noodles were even more surprising this time as they were uncooked. Since I’d given my petrol to a broken down vehicle my stove was useless. I dropped the noodles into a pan of water and then lay my head down to rest as they soaked through. After picking the bits of fly and twig out of the water, I tucked into what tasted like edible chewing gum.

  On the road a small snake weaved across the road avoiding my tyres. I stopped to take a closer look. Confronted by me, it rose up and began to thrust its fangs towards me. Cool! I got out my camera to try and get a decent picture of the aggressive little cutie to send back home.

  * * *

  Later I checked into a gostinitsa and café. Two men greeted me as I came in. They had a buffet of food spread over their table and several bottles of vodka. They beckoned me over and, as I sat down next to them, a tumbler was brought over and filled with vodka before I could refuse. They raised their glasses to me and, although vodka was the last thing I needed, I raised mine and poured the vodka down my throat, putting the glass down on the table with a r
esonating chink. Quicker than the speed of sound, even before the chink had reached my ear, the glass was full again. Other people from the café next door were joining us now. I was trying to see who was the manager, hoping to ask for some food and a bed as my third vodka was poured, then my fourth. As the fifth hit the back of my throat, I collapsed onto the soft cushions around me.

  Two hours later I woke up with a very dry mouth and a heartbeat in my head. I was invited to eat with the couple who were still making headroads into their buffet and numerous vodka bottles. The chubby one was the owner and he commanded more food AND WATER – hurrah!

  The conversation was flowing nicely. They’d run through the usual repertoire of questions. Where are you from? What is your name? Where are you going? Solo? Do you have a wife? I took my photos out of my wallet to show the onlookers a few pics of my family and friends. In doing so a condom fell out of my wallet (it’d been there for some time now and was barely recognisable) and in unison every one of the men (there were only men in the café) picked up their phones and started dialling their most desirable prostitute. In the end I managed to get my message across, even though the men were confused that any man might not want a prostitute. Another vodka seemed to deem me an all right bloke.

  Asking for a banna, shower, I was given a bucket. I didn’t want to clean the shower, I just wanted to clean me. Oh, this is the shower! When I was naked and covered in soap, one of the men, Ismim in the café, came in, handed me his mobile phone, and smiled. I said “Hello”. A sleepy voice responded. He’d dialled his brother’s number in the UK and given the phone to me. “Speak!” he demanded. We made simple chit chat for a minute, costing the friend a fortune, I bet. Ismim is an Uzbek. He told me there was more money in Kazakhstan. I looked around at our surroundings - a simple building made of mud bricks, two rooms, one for sleeping and eating, the other for cooking. These men when they sleep cover every inch of the floor, the mattresses are no more than a yoga mat, snoring fills the air. Mobile phones are used as music players repeating one song all through the night. The walls let in the lights and the fresh desert winds. The food is simple - sheep and, if you’re really lucky, potatoes. What must Uzbekistan be like?

  Leaving, I remembered my picture of the snake and asked them which snake it was. “Cobra” one man said whilst drawing his finger across his neck to demonstrate the capabilities of such a snake. A single bite ejects enough venom to kill twenty men or a full grown elephant. That’ll be the last time I take a picture of a snake at close quarters.

  Chapter 15

  The Kazak stage of the Dakar rally had ended in Zhanaozen, and the support crews, media, drivers and groupies were making their way to the final leg in Turkmenistan.

  It was interesting to see the bright coloured lights and revving engines making a beeline out of the bloody desert through the desolate landscape. They didn’t stop at any of the small roadside cafés. Hedging their bets with the cuisine and drinks supplied in the cities, they passed through.

  In the distance I could see huge sand storms and nervously made my way towards them. I had no idea what one did when one got caught in a terrible sand storm. They have been known to strip the skin from someone’s face in ten minutes, to ruin crops and to disorientate people so they walk into the desert, get lost and die of starvation.

  Continuing on, I saw a pile of sand and dirt blocking the road. Road workers were blocking the road to allow the men to resurface it. With deep sand either side of the road, I now understood that it wasn’t a storm I had seen, just the Dakar troops speeding through this deep sand.

  As I stood wondering what to do, some of the younger workers came over to see me. They offered me sunflower seeds. In my gratitude I threw a handful in my mouth and crunched down. They were a bit crispy but I managed to get them down and smile (showing only small amounts of the seeds round my teeth). The workers looked at me with surprise and shook their heads before popping their own seeds into their mouths, turning them round their mouths before spitting out the shells and swallowing the fruit. Oops.

  The boys wanted to have a go on Shirley. I asked them to treat her well and they took it in turns to ride her up and down the road. Their smiles said it all - massive white half moons embedded in their darkened skin. Their boots were covered in tar and I could see it slowly encrusting Shirley. I was worried about her mechanics but the boys were enjoying themselves; looking at her brakes and gears. Bikes in Asia have one gear and no brakes.

  The pile of earth still obstructed my way. Cars had churned through the sand on either side. I took the same exit in the dunes and immediately slipped and slid to the ground taking all the skin off my legs and arms. Luckily, a bush softened my fall. Unluckily, it was a thorn bush, leaving my body pierced, with leftover thorns waiting in my shirt to get me later.

  I stopped for lunch and added five large Snickers to the luggage. Owing to the extra weight I thought it was probably best that I eat four of them within the hour. It was all for weight advantage. I’d also downed a pot of tea that must have been so strong I was shaking from the effects. I blamed it on that but it could have been my diet of sheep fat and bread. My nails had started to show signs of my malnutrition. The slightest knock cracked them in half. My waist was also a sure giveaway. My skin was pulled tight over my muscles and my body fat must have been well below ten percent, which left me little defence against bugs and viruses.

  As I tried to sleep, I had to block out the TV from the other room. I don't watch much TV in England and throughout Europe had not even seen a TV set. People in Asia all have TVs and they play them as though they are proud of it, as if they want their neighbours to be able to hear them.

  In the morning I questioned the owner. She didn’t know the road I intended to take to Uzbekistan, which should have fired off some warnings in my head.

  The road was horrific. Massive holes in the concrete road were joined by bits of wire sticking out at all angles. The wires once held the slabs together, but were now weapons for stabbing, tripping or impaling falling cyclists. I had to be careful.

  Then it got worse.

  The road basically disappeared and left sand, gravel and rocks. Walking some bits where the sand was too deep, I pulled muscles in my back, neck, arms and shoulders trying to keep the bike upright.

  Part of the road was guarded by a huge cobra and this time I wasn’t going anywhere near it. I tried to pass it on the left but it lunged at me with intent, so I tried to pass it on the right to the same end. Shirley came to my rescue, guarding me as I walked past the snake with her between me and the enemy.

  Night fell and still I hadn’t crossed the seventy kilometres I had hoped to do that day. I was utterly exhausted. A lot of pain later, I managed to get to the border and another 'hotel'. I swallowed a sob as I crossed the threshold and saw cold drinks and cooking utensils. I was so tired I couldn’t feel the hunger and thirst. Rolling out my mat, I lay down and slept, waking shortly afterwards as the workers in the nearby mechanics came back and set up the table for their supper.

  Looking for a bathroom, I saw the women out the back washing what I thought were sheets in a tub. Further inspection showed it to be a sheep's stomach. The rest of the carcass was hanging close by, bleeding all over the floor. I decided to try and help and poured the water into the intestine and other bits so they could be cleaned and used for sausages. The man had just ripped the sheep’s jaw in half and the babushka (grandma) was hacking out the teeth with an axe. The teeth were flying at me, as were the sparks from the axe.

  Surreal.

  One of the sons, noticing my eagerness to help, brought something over for me to clean. I rinsed it in the water like the women had done and began squeezing it a little. Before I realised the others were shouting “No”. I'd squeezed a load of sheep shit into the cleaning water. He'd given me the anus to clean. The family couldn’t look at me for the rest of the evening without laughing heartily. I was pleased to have entertained them so.

  I wanted to know if they ate ev
erything and, with some hand gestures and my almost pigeon Russian, I managed to ask whether they ate the brain. “Yes.” I really wanted to ask about the sheep’s more private parts but didn't want to ask the women 'Do you eat penis?' due to possible sexual innuendos, and I was worried about asking the man as the men are generally very homophobic here and he had an axe in his hand.

  Walking back to the café I remembered I’d left my wallet out on the table with all the money I owned in it. Panic swept over me. There was probably more money than the workers owned in a year in the wallet and it was just sitting there in front of them. There was no way they could resist.

  Walking in, I saw that the wallet had gone - my cards, my money, even my emergency phone numbers. What was I to do now?

  I went over to my bed and lay down. The floor was lumpy and something jabbed into my back. I rolled the mat over to see what it was and there was my wallet with everything intact. They’d put it in my ‘bed’ to make sure I didn’t lose it!

  * * *

  I sat up and smiled at the men as they began to question me. When people hear what I'm up to they can imagine the adventure, they see why I'm interested in the countries, why I might like riding a bike. The question everyone asks though is simple. Adin, one, solo? Why am I doing it alone? Where is your Jena, your wife? Your children? They simply cannot understand it, especially given the fact that I am thirty years old.

  It’s a good question and, each time, I give an answer that I don’t believe: that I don’t know people mad enough, that I like to be on my own.