You've Gone Too Far This Time, Sir!

by Danny Bent

  Nila saw me looking at it with lust in my in eyes. She pointed to it and said “OK?” I give her two thumbs up and a big smile to show her how beautiful I thought their treasure was. She opened the door and allowed me to poke my head in. “OK?” It had some old TVs in there and a radiator but they couldn’t hide the beauty of the inside of this yurt. Felt ribbons hung from the ceiling. Brightly coloured ropes criss-crossed the walls, held together by red wooden lattice.

  Nila wheeled Shirley inside. While I’d started talking to Shirley and almost developed feelings for her, I didn’t think she was capable of reciprocating them, so I couldn't quite understand why she needed to see the inside too. Nila rested her against a felt wall. Shirley looked so comfortable, so happy.

  As Nila returned to the cash register, I asked her where I would be sleeping, where the storage shed was. She looked at me quizzically. She re-entered the yurt and pointed at the bed. It took me a second to take in what she was suggesting. The yurt was my room. I almost screamed with joy - in fact I might have done.

  Unloading Shirley, I sang and danced, moving my performance over to the shower where I continued for well over the signpost-allocated time, as the cold water fell over my aching bones.

  As I re-appeared, two French girls looked at me and grinned. They’d heard all the commotion and wanted to know why I was so happy. We were still out in the middle of the desert, surrounded by nothing; miles from anywhere. What was there to be happy about? Uzbekistan, a land-locked country that was once part of the Soviet Union, is home to one of the biggest man-made disasters in history. For decades its rivers were diverted to grow cotton on arid land, causing the Aral Sea, a large salt water lake, to lose more than half of its surface area in forty years. Tourists stop in Nukus on their way there, to crunch through the salt-encrusted land that used to be underwater and to inspect the fishing boats that had been stranded miles away from the current sea shore.

  When I started telling the girls about my trip, I couldn’t stop. It was so nice to talk again. They couldn’t get a word in edgeways. Only when I was taking long swigs of cold beer did they have a chance. They had come to Uzbekistan on holiday for two weeks. What an amazing choice of holiday. We continued talking into the night until one of them said they must go to bed. I was disappointed but definitely needed the rest. As I was getting into bed, one of the girls came into my yurt, giving me a goody bag they had been given with all sorts of treats in. They thought I needed it more than they did.

  * * *

  The next morning I met my first long distance touring cyclist, a fifty year old German, Peter. He’d been on the road for twenty years. His bike was more solder than steel, having been broken and fixed so many times. He told me of his journeys and I was in awe – he’d been everywhere and all by bicycle. Amazing.

  He was leaving this very morning and I shared some stories about the roads he was taking back to Russia. He had neither tent nor stove and I was worried about him being on the road I’d taken which had little to no civilisation. What if the travellers had moved on? What if he didn’t bump into friends along the way? But, then again, he must have known a whole lot more than me about survival.

  As breakfast was served I found myself wondering why someone would travel by bicycle for no reason for an indefinite time. I had my destination I was heading for; I was raising money for the people I saw along the way. What was his motivation?

  Peter was waving at the people in the kitchen trying to get their attention. I asked what was wrong and he said his eggs hadn’t arrived. He seemed agitated. I said I was sure they’d be along soon and offered him some of my bread. He brushed this aside and yelled at the workers. I was a little embarrassed. They either didn’t hear or had experienced this before, choosing to ignore him. Shouting “Where are my eggs?” at the top of his voice, he began cursing the lazy people of this country.

  I made a note to myself that I wouldn't carry on cycling after I reached Chembakolli. I wanted to stay in a positive state of mind where everything around me was new, and setbacks were just part of the cultural experience. I didn’t want it to become my life and to start unearthing all the frustrations associated with it.

  * * *

  I needed to change some money if I wanted to eat outside of the hostel. Access to foreign exchange was restricted, inflation was high, and people had very little trust in banks, so there was a very strong black market. Peter told me the best place to do a transaction was in the park square. He’d managed to get 1,950 to the dollar but someone like me could only hope for 1,800 at best.

  The bank rate was 1,450, so I was more than happy to receive either of these rates.

  Walking into the mêlée, I was greeted by four teenagers wearing baseball caps and jackets in the soaring heat. I was hoping to change $100, and they first offered me 1,500 per dollar. Smiling, I walked away and was swiftly offered 1,800. Turning, we both laughed and I made an offer of 2,000. They said they could do 1,950 and I thought of Peter suffering on the roads to the border and his prediction that I wouldn’t get more than 1,800. We walked over to their car and they looked left and right before opening a boot absolutely stacked with cash. Surely this couldn’t all be real? Pulling out four wrapped piles of notes made up of 1,000 bills (the biggest denomination), they took a number of notes from one stack and handed them to me. I was holding two inches of notes in my hands, just under two thousand notes. I hand over the $100 single bill and we shook hands. On the way back, I stopped at a shop to buy a drink. Pulling one note from my bag, I was almost surprised when the owner looked it over and accepted it. I bought some fruit too and again all was fine.

  Leaving the fruit stand, I was joined by two boys who walked alongside me asking me questions about my trip. Hearing I was a teacher, they said I had to visit their school. Having recently graduated they also wanted to practise their English.

  I got taken round a senior and junior school, meeting teachers and pupils, and taking a few pictures along the way. I was astonished at what I saw. There were four computer rooms, all the scientific equipment you could imagine, and three gyms. I was told that 97% of the population over fifteen could read and write. The Uzbeks associated this with the years of Soviet rule. “They [the Russians] brought education.” In general the Uzbeks I’d met looked back with great fondness on those years.

  When I got home I shut myself in the yurt and couldn’t help throwing one of the piles of notes in the air so that they rained down all around me. What a wonderful feeling! I took all sorts of pictures of me looking like a playboy gangster before reappearing in the hostel where two Aussie girls hand me a beer and we relaxed into conversation.

  It turned out that one of the girls, Jen, was a famous opera singer in Sydney and she gave us a rendition of her favourite opera, Carmen. I couldn’t believe the sound, and lots of locals peered over the wall to hear where this wonderful singing was coming from.

  We were joined by Katya and Cedric. Within thirty seconds of Katya entering the room I knew that she was a teacher. I have no idea how, other than from the strength of her presence, her caring features and her articulation. Cedric had a smile Mick Jagger would be proud of. It formed half of his face, like the Cheshire cat from 'Alice in Wonderland', and was virtually ever-present. It was no wonder really. Katya and Cedric had recently married and were celebrating their honeymoon by travelling the world overland. One of their presents was a dice game that, when mixed with beer, was a perfect way to spend a lazy afternoon.

  * * *

  Nukus hosts the second largest collection of Russian avant-garde art in the world (after the Hermitage in St. Petersburg). Kliment Red'ko, Lyubov Popova, Mukhina, Ivan Koudriachov and Robert Falk, the gallery has them all. Although already recognised in Western Europe (especially in France), these artists had been banned in the Soviet Union during Stalin’s rule and throughout the 1960s.

  Despite the risk of being denounced as an 'enemy of the people', Savitsky tracked down these painters and their heirs to collect, archive and
display their works. With great courage, he managed to assemble thousands of Russian avant-garde and post avant-garde paintings, countering the Socialist Realism school, and shaking the foundations of that period of art history.

  It was not until 1985, the year after he died, that Savitsky’s extraordinary achievements and collections were truly acknowledged, and not until 1991, when Uzbekistan became independent, that Nukus, a remote ‘closed’ city during the Soviet era, became accessible to the outside world, allowing fans to come and admire his work.

  I took a tour with the two Australian girls. It was wonderful seeing the artwork depicting the caravans of Central Asia and the life I had witnessed on my bicycle.

  * * *

  A man sat watching me from across the courtyard. I was fixing the perpetual puncture to my roll mat outside my yurt with the help of a bucket of soapy liquid. He had long flowing dark hair and was devilishly handsome. His gaze made me feel awkward so I called out, asking him if he was OK.

  He came over and spoke with me in perfect English. Yusup was a self-proclaimed VIP in the city and a group of them were going out. He asked me if I wanted to come along.

  He said he had to pick up his car and left. Whilst he was away the Aussie girls said they thought he was a little suspect. My dad’s words however still rang in my ears - “Make the most of every opportunity.” I decided to give it a go.

  On the way into town he showed me a Muslim crypt and graveyard. A story suspiciously similar to Romeo and Juliet meant people came from far and wide to visit the burial chamber under a porcelain blue dome, with golden spire and white tiled walls.

  Then we met Yusup's friends, all dressed in suits with dark glasses. They took me out all over town to the best spots teaching me so much about life in Uzbekistan.

  He certainly gave the impression of being a VIP. When he walked into restaurants, people fought to grasp his hand. He didn't have to pay a thing for food. Everyone grovelled in a manner I had only seen in Hollywood films featuring Italian gangsters. I commented that they looked like gangsters when we all met up, and they laughed heartily without denying it.

  Yusup had fought long and hard to keep his homeland on the map, helping charities and businesses alike to keep afloat during the hard times of the recent recession. His family depended on his business skills and his intellect made me feel like an amoeba. It was huge. Politics, history, languages, I felt like all his facts and figures had turned me into a new man.

  He had once worked for AIDS projects until he had confronted one of the doctors he was advising. The evidence clearly showed the medicine they were proscribing to AIDS victims had absolutely no effect. The doctor agreed that this was true but explained that the money the pharmaceutical company was bringing to their projects meant they had to go along with it. This experience changed Yusup's perspective of the world and he got in with a different crowd.

  Afterwards, the men retired to one of their flats where girls of the remunerated kind awaited them. Yusup asked me time and again to join them but it’s not my bag. On the way home he said he’d give everything up to become a soldier. He wanted a Third World War so he could die for his country.

  Chapter 18

  When the people in Russia and Kazakhstan had told me it was all 'take, take, take' in Uzbekistan, I had assumed that they meant that my belongings and money would be stolen. So far my experiences had proved the contrary. They had done nothing but give since I’d arrived.

  I was in Karakalpakstan – the area of the nomadic peoples. Nomads by definition have less interest in possessions than regular people. Perhaps my luck would change when I set off to the centre of Uzbekistan. To get there I tried a new form of cycling. I named it truck surfing:

  Looking behind you for a suitable ride (truck) you pedal like crazy when it approaches. As it passes, you pop up (veer into the middle of the road behind the truck). The truck forms a vacuum behind it as it moves forward, sucking your bike and luggage along with it. I wanted to try hanging five and some gnarly aerial moves, but I had no idea what any of that meant so I decided to leave them out. Wipeouts should be avoided at all costs. I am sure they suck in a 'one hundred foot reef break' sort of way.

  My pace almost doubled when I caught one just right, but the best (read: slowest) trucks tended to have the dirtiest exhausts, occasionally vomiting diesel over you. I could feel the fumes in my mouth mixing with my saliva to form poison which, when swallowed, left me with a very sore throat.

  Talking of gnarly; I had been getting bored waving at people so I decided to give a gnarly 'surfs up' hand signal (finger and thumb extended) to the bus drivers who all hooted their horns in response.

  I could have done with a bit of help when three boys joined me. Determined to beat me up every hill, they thrashed themselves and me. They didn’t speak English and were obviously on a long journey. I assumed they were visiting friends.

  Helping them fix a puncture and sharing my food with the three of them won me their friendship and, although it wasn’t stated in as many words, they invited me to join them at their friend's.

  Weariness overcame all of us as the friend’s house seemed to get further and further away. We spoke to a café owner and he pointed to an off-road pathway that led up to the mountains. Grudgingly I cycled behind them, too ashamed to turn down their invite.

  Continuing, we took a turn to the right and great domes of grey stone hove into view, symbols of the Muslim religion. Passing under an archway proclaiming that this was Sultan Bobo, it dawned on me that this was where our cyclists were heading. It was the last day of Ramadan and I had been invited on a pilgrimage. I should have known better than to think people rode for social reasons. I was an offering to the gods, fate had thrown us together and the boys had assumed it was for a reason. I just hoped I wasn’t to be sacrificed.

  Sultan Bobo is the Mecca of Karakalpakstan. I had suspicions that I might be the first Westerner to visit this holy of holy places. The architecture was wonderful and all around people lounged waiting for darkness to fall so they could pray and then resume life as normal.

  I sat in a tea house with hundreds of pots of tea, and cups and saucers on every surface. It was the Mad Hatters tea party with a difference. First we were brought bread and sweets. There seemed to be more flies than food. They buzzed around our heads, they covered the food we ate, they even pestered the food you brought to your mouth. I suspect if we hadn’t consumed the bread it would have been writhing in maggots within a couple of days.

  They then served us meat. I was offered a piece of chicken - a delicacy, the neck. I didn’t really know what I was supposed to eat, it was just bone. Waiting until someone else picked up the other neck, I watched as he tore off the skin and sucked the bones. I tried to do the same, nibbling and pecking, but I don't think I did it right.

  I played with a boy who wanted to ride my bike whilst the other boys went to pray. I took pictures of him and showed him them on my screen. He squealed with laughter when he saw himself on the bike, taking the camera to show all the adults in the vicinity.

  We slept in the same room, waking to eat the bread left over from the previous night that had been marinated in fly the whole night. Slightly nauseous I was ready to head off but the boys had different ideas.

  We cycled in the opposite direction to the main road I was hoping to return to. We headed instead for the mausoleum where Sultan Bobo was supposed to be buried and walked around the building three times anti-clockwise touching the walls, before proceeding to pray.

  Next on the agenda was a mountain climb. We all selected a rock at the bottom to take with us and climbed to the top where we placed it on top of a pile of rocks. Some were wrapped in pieces of material - prayer flags. I wondered why we didn’t just select a rock at the top. It would have made the climb much easier.

  * * *

  After saying my goodbyes to the boys, and being given a third eye on a bracelet to protect me on the rest of my trip, I headed out onto the main road. I was totally amazed wh
en a coach driver gave me the gnarly sign before I even waved. It must have been catching on.

  Cotton pickers were everywhere on the road, carrying massive bags full of cotton. It was harvest time and everyone had been put to work.

  Entering an old café surrounded by workmen’s caravans, I met Kola. He was a tall slim man with a clear intelligence and dark brown eyes. He endeared himself to me almost immediately by telling me he loved his family. “It's a national custom in Uzbekistan." It was so refreshing after all the offerings of ladies of late. My heart melted.

  He invited me to stay the night and to celebrate the fifty-sixth birthday of one of the workers. At fifty-six, Ramil had already outlived the life expectancy for an Uzbek male. It seemed as though he was doing his damndest to try and drink himself into a coffin during the night.

  The most important and privileged workers had been invited to the dinner. Praying together before our food, we cupped our hands and, once over, touched our faces. The director was present and asked me to give a speech in Ramil's honour. First I sang happy birthday and then toasted his health and family. Everything fell silent. People looked at my glass. I downed the vodka and everyone cheered and clapped telling me it was a good speech. They so enjoyed watching me down vodka I ended up quite wobbly, obviously not as wobbly or pickled as the Uzbeks, but enough.

  The following morning after taking breakfast in the canteen with hundreds of big strapping Uzbeks, I was joined on my bike by a swallow. She took to diving in front of my Shirley like a dolphin at the bow of a boat. She would then disappear off to the right or left before joining me again at the bow.