by Danny Bent
Speaking with friends and colleagues before leaving, we discussed the lack of adventure in modern life. I think it has left a void in men’s hearts all over the country. How do we prove ourselves? How do we show our loved ones how much we care, that we are prepared to die for them? Life is too easy.
I think wars and famine satisfied those urges in past generations. Working to keep your family alive, signing up for something you really believed in, that would make the people around you proud, putting your life on hold to better the lives of others.
I considered signing up for the army when I was working in the city selling my soul for money. I wanted to make a difference, make my mark on the world. Unfortunately I don't want to kill anyone, or get killed either, so I probably made the best decision not to.
It sounds obtuse to compare a long distance cycle trip to war, to think of the uniformed men parading down the street on the way to the docks to stand up for what they thought was right, to protect the young and elderly. But I paraded through the streets to Dover in my uniform endorsed by the great Cotswold, and Bicycle, having friends and family cheer me off, knowing they were proud, worried, even envious. A step into the unknown that I knew was a step in the right direction. Of course war offers far more dangerous situations, but my trip has its fair share. My trench foot isn't so bad. My continuous marching is similar. My kit is more technical but equal in weight. Rationing is crucial every day in a desert. My talisman from school sits behind me on the bike. I write home as often as I can, trying to make it sound like one big adventure, when at times it is horribly dull, scary, lonely, depressing. The people you meet make it, or break it.
It's not war, but it is testing mentally, physically and emotionally. I know I'm making my loved ones proud and, with the money raised for ActionAid, I’m making a difference to the world. I can feel a change inside me. Am I becoming a man? What me, 'Peter Pan'? Am I realising how fantastically lucky I am? I always knew that. I can't tell if something is being ignited or extinguished. Either way it's a feeling like a big air pocket rising from the depths of the ocean getting bigger with each rotation.
All I can do is keep putting my feet in the direction that feels right with a smile on my face and a tingle in my heart.
Today was my last day in Kazakhstan. I’d made it to the front line. What awaited me when I got over the top no one knew. Only I could find out. I had to dig in now and hope for no surprise attacks.
Chapter 16
Heading out early for the border, I saw a basic stop sign for cars but thought I'd be OK to go on. I wandered aimlessly through the border, and could see the active Uzbekistan side, when two guards started running towards me with machine guns whilst another fired a shot into the air from the top of the low lying buildings.
The border was closed.
"Are you crazy?" he shouted as he escorted me back to where the stop sign was.
Arriving earlier, I’d been surrounded by Uzbekistanis as a bus taking workers back home had emptied onto the streets. I’ve always loved being the centre of attention but this was intense. People stared at me hard; others pulled me this way and that, hoping to introduce me to their friends who could see me quite clearly already.
As the stop sign was raised I was allowed first into the barracks. Minutes later I was walking towards Uzbekistan. I could see the soldiers I’d been very much warned against. When would I meet the gangsters, thieves and vagabonds?
Before I was allowed to leave Russia, Michelle had taken me to a gun shop. He said I needed something to ward off any Uzbekistanis who would kill me for my shirt. He encouraged me to buy a small handgun but I placated him by buying a can of mace. I’d thought I could perhaps use it on bears and wolves, if nothing else, if they got too friendly.
My first experience left me detained for two hours, filling in the entry forms and bowing my head respectfully at the well-armed men in desert camouflage combat gear. The paperwork didn’t take more than five minutes.
“So why were you detained so long?” I hear you ask.
Each officer in the hut wanted to have his picture taken with me and Shirley. I was then ordered to retrieve my USB cable from the bottom of my bag and they ordered that I put the photos onto the team computer. They were the guys wielding the big guns - what else could I do? Then we had some group photos taken and again I was told to pop them on the big screen. Each soldier’s posture looked identical; chest puffed out; head held high – these people were proud to be serving their country.
Tea was brought from an unseen source and then came a money changer, a lady with a bag full of Uzbekistan Som. She offered me a rate and the officers bartered her up after she walked away indignantly twice. We struck a deal when the soldiers gave me the thumbs up behind her back.
Waving to my new friends, I cycled along the quiet road from the border post. The only traffic seemed to be tractors towing large carts packed full of Uzbek men squatting on their hind feet off to a farm, field, or workshop to do a day’s hard manual labour. The first person to notice me would jump up and shout, swiftly followed by the rest of the human load. The cart would hover on the verge of toppling over until the driver of the tractor stopped under the demands of the workers.
Waving, they would demand I take a picture of them. These Uzbeks love their photography!
* * *
The dry barren landscape was made worse by the unrelenting flies that’d tracked me, diving into the moist spots of my eyes and mouth whenever they got the chance. I couldn’t blame them; it was darn hot out there and constant drinking made no difference to the dryness in my mouth.
I decided to do an experiment. I was riding at nineteen kilometres per hour and the flies were circling me. I wanted to see how fast these flies could fly. I upped it to twenty kilometres per hour then twenty-one, making my legs burn but the flies were gone. I was stuck with dilemma of whether to kill my legs or suffer the flies. I decided to allow the flies the luxury of a drink from my tear ducts.
The other pests were the guards at the checkpoints which came thick and fast. They must have been bored to death sitting in the desert all day long and they bombarded me with questions, selecting a piece of kit (usually my glasses) that they took a particular fancy to, telling me I had to give it to them. “Prize, yes?”
At night there was absolutely no choice but to pop up the tent a few hundred metres from the side of the road and just hope that no passing cars saw you. There was no cover whatsoever. The flat planes went on as far as the eye could see. One evening I pitched my tent behind what I thought were some bushes – in the morning they had moved on along with all the other tumble weed.
Without cover I would wake up at 7am soaked in my own sweat as the sun beat down upon my tent, turning it into a furnace. I’d pack up, get on the bike and cycle until lunch when I would cook some noodle surprise and then cycle on along a straight road that seemed to go on forever, before waiting till nightfall and pitching my tent behind the smallest of bushes to try and avoid the night travellers.
At night the heat was intense and would keep me awake, writhing in the dirt and sweat of the previous days. I wasn’t helped by the fact that my mattress had another puncture. I’d used almost a whole pack of puncture repair kit on the mattress whilst having cycled for 4,000 miles without a single puncture to my bike.
It was my tenth day solid riding in the desert through Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan when I ran out of noodles with only a trickle of water in my bottles. The only food the desert offered up was the flies that pestered me day and night, and the occasional camel that had strayed from its flock and died. I was already looking gaunt from lack of nutrition. I had few fingernails left as they had all become brittle and had snapped from vitamin deprivation. Sheep and noodles surprise were not giving me the nutrition I needed.
I could feel my cheeks sucking against my skull. My eyes were sunken and dark. My suntanned skin was pulling taut across my muscles. My tongue was stuck to the top of my mouth. I was dizzy from dehydration and my
speed had reduced to ten kilometres per hour, about the pace of a brisk walk.
As time went on I began to get really desperate. I was burning up. My body had stopped sweating; it had no liquid to spare. My cheeks were salt-encrusted.
I didn’t see the point in stopping and waiting, I might have waited for days for someone to help me so I just kept plodding onwards. I knew there was a village ahead and if I kept rotating my scorched legs I hoped to get there eventually. Surely they’d be able to spare some water and food. Head down. I couldn’t see in front of me, but I was travelling so slowly there was no risk of crashing into anyone. Suddenly two hands were resting on my handle bars. They brought me to a standstill without the slightest effort. “As-Salaam Alaykum”. It was Ismim from the café in Kazakhstan, greeting me with the Muslim welcome, Peace Unto You. He thrust bread into my hands and held a bottle over my head and poured. I raised my face to the lip of the bottle and allowed the water to moisten my throat. I realised I hadn’t swallowed in a while. I just had to let it trickle down my throat until the moving parts were oiled and I was able to gulp it down in huge quantities.
Giving me his mum’s address and phone number in Xiva, he said I must visit her. With this he jumped back in his car and drove off in the direction of his work in Kazakhstan.
With the liquid and food I was able to get some speed up and I eventually came across a café perched on the side of the road. No cars were parked nearby and only the owner was in the bar. He was a huge guy, the biggest Asian I’d met. He introduced himself as ‘Facker’.
I bought chai and three Snickers, bread, and some mutton. I would have stayed if it hadn’t been for his behaviour towards his wife. He clicked his fingers whilst watching TV (Asian man's favourite past-time) and she would scurry in and put what he desired in front of him. How she knew what he wanted I had no idea. Was there a tone to the click? The man's attention meanwhile wouldn’t leave the square box in front of him and the wife scurried out without the slightest recognition. I entertained myself by calling him Bolshoi Facker, ‘Big Facker’, for the rest of my stay.
Thanking the lady for such nice tea - ‘blogadaria’ - I headed out. I only made a couple more miles before finding somewhere appropriate to pitch my tent. I’d managed to procure wet wipes at the café and my ritual of the three wipes began. One for my face and hands, one for my body and another for the parts in contact with the seat.
Sitting out watching the stars, I played my ukulele to the moon in the nude, allowing the air to pass over me, drying my sweat and washing my worries away.
* * *
At this point I’d cycled non-stop in the desert for fourteen days, and with no shower in five days. It was no wonder I was starting to slow down - I needed a rest. But a day's rest in the desert with just the flies for company? That didn’t sound like any fun at all.
Once again I ran out of food and liquid and, driving into the middle of the road, I was able to stop a car to ask where the next shop or café was. They, in turn, flagged down a bus that was going in my direction and told me to get on it. “No, no, no. By bicycle,” I stated lamely in my pigeon Russian.
The bus driver pointed to a number of crooked shacks about four hundred metres away and said there was a shop there. As I got closer, I could see simple homes set amongst cattle sheds. Uzbek people are nomadic by tradition and this was a temporary settlement that would remain until they were ready to travel on. It’s a life that to me is extremely appealing - always on the move, new faces, new pastures, a loving community you can rely on and care for. I guess I’m seeing past the poverty, the lack of education and the lack of hygiene.
I could not imagine a shop being here but, when I asked, they said “Yes.” They sent a boy to fetch the key. As they opened up a barn door behind me, I could see all my favourites: Snickers, Coke, and my very favourite of all, watermelon. I pulled out my penknife and chopped up the water melon whilst people sat around me and watched. I offered pieces to the children and women, who declined my offer. I didn’t bother spitting out the seeds. I crushed the flesh with my tongue and swallowed. Every young female came to see the stranger and to sit at a distance and watch me with interest. It felt as though they were looking at me for a way out. Could I take them away from this life, could they cope with the ginger beard? They see the Western life as perfect - stability, water and money on tap. I guess they’re seeing past the impersonal element, the way people stagnate, become miserable and forget how lucky they are.
Pulling away, I was joined by the boys of the village. As soon as they were out of sight and earshot of the adults, they asked for a taste of Coca-Cola. They sold it in the shop but rarely, if ever, tasted it due to the cost which for them was the price of three meals. I passed them a bottle and watched them share it between them. Boys of all sizes took their turn and no one took advantage. It was beautiful to see and, when the bottle was finished, they threw it to the side of the road, with all the others, and set off ahead of me, racing the white man until they got bored, when they left me to my own thoughts again.
I was lost in my own head when I saw the top of a Landrover approaching me. I waved as it went by. It pulled over and a Swiss couple jumped out. They were travelling back from China to Switzerland and were keen to hear the state of the roads ahead. I warned them of the stretch between Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan. They groaned, complaining of the sore bottoms they were getting from sitting in the car all that time. Laughing in unison they looked at me and said “I guess yours must be worse,” and we shared a sore-bottomed group hug.
It was amazing to be talking freely again to English speakers and sharing human contact. I had been missing affection, normally my staple diet, and realised that in the arms of these people I had had only one hug since I had left home.
I asked if they wanted to share a camping spot but they were hoping to cover another few hundred miles before they camped. They said they were envious of my freedom and I said I was feeling the same about them - to be able to travel hundreds of miles in one day sounded fantastic to me - but they still said they’d have preferred to be on bikes.
This idea made me smile as I unwrapped another chocolate bar for my evening meal and sipped some more Coke.
In the night I could hear voices around my tent. People were passing by and discussing what might be inside. In a state halfway between waking and sleep I lay there unalarmed and allowed the voices to take me back to my dreams.
* * *
The next morning I was joined by a Russian travelling on a beaten up old motorbike. We shared shutkas. Before he opened up the throttle and left me in a cloud of diesel, he told me the place I wanted to stay in Nukus was the Jepak Jolly, a hostel every visitor to Nukus stayed in.
As I got closer to Nukus, every state border guard, policeman and local bystander reminded me I had to stay in Jepak Jolly. Then a guard told me about the new bridge that takes you straight into town and probably saves you twenty kilometres. Passers-by whispered Jepak Jolly as I went past, people travelling in cars wound down their windows and said the same. It was becoming eerie, but I was excited. It felt like a conspiracy. The last person to tell me about it was a man on the arch of the large bridge into town. He grabbed me by the face and tried to kiss me.
Night fell as I crawled into Nukus and I stopped to devour as many samosas as I could buy with my change. I’d run out of money after only changing a small amount with the guards. A taxi driver led the way to the hostel where I rested Shirley against a post and entered the office. The light bulbs and glass looked a little strange after so much time in the desert. I could see two computers set up for travellers in the corner and heard European voices behind the thin wooden doors. The lady behind the desk smiled.
Bouncing off the walls and ceiling, I just couldn’t believe my luck. They had showers, they had Western faces, I could hear English.
I asked if there was a room free.
She shook her head and said sorry, they were fully booked!
Chapter 17
> I'd been five days sleeping in my tent without a shower. I’d cleaned a sheep’s anus, cycled 1,500 kilometres, been blasted by sand, diesel fumes and tumble weed. I was dehydrated, and malnutritioned. I wasn’t prepared for a knock back. All the people had told me this was where I’d stay. It’d become an inevitability. Sitting down on a chair I winced as the paddling my bottom had taken during the off-road section hadn’t quite healed.
My arms, hands, legs and back ached. Every muscle now gave in as my head hung low.
The lady, Nila, looked at me with sympathy and disappeared. I could hear her speaking quickly with the owner, saying “Angleški”, English and “Velocipriate”, bicycle. Returning, she led me into a courtyard and told me they had a storage shed that I might be able to squeeze into. It was not ideal but I followed nonetheless. In the courtyard stood the first yurt I’d seen.
A yurt is a portable circular home made of a wood lattice and covered with felt made up of the wool of the owner’s flocks of sheep. It’s the traditional home of the nomads in the Steppes of Central Asia. The frame is held together with ribbons and rope and they look absolutely gorgeous. I’d seen these in pictures in National Geographic as a child and had dreamed that one day I would build my own and retire to the mountains and live happily ever after. It’s so grand. Beautiful.
Yurts were brought to Uzbekistan by the Mongolian invasions in the early 12th Century. Led by Genghis Kahn, the Mongol warriors swept south-west, conquering and inflicting large-scale damage on the Khanates.
This particular one had hand-stitched pieces of canvas adorning the exterior and roof. The door was wooden and hand-carved, with well-designed dark black metallic handles. Mats made up of colourful woven wool hung either side of the door with tassels hanging to the side. It must cost a bomb to stay here, I thought.