by Danny Bent
Stopping for chai on the road that stayed within the border of Uzbekistan, I had a conversation with an English speaking local. I told him that I still hadn’t had a puncture and had no need for lights because I never cycled at night.
Ala Kebam….
A mile down the road a nail went through my tyre. It got dark while I found my puncture kit at the bottom of my bags after unloading everything – time for the mozzies to come out. I was being bitten to death. They were everywhere - in my ears, in my hair, in my clothing … it was horrible. Pumping up the tyre as quickly as possible so I could get on my way and leave these wetlands alone, I continued to pump away and BANG!, the other inner tube burst as well. I hadn’t put it on right and the tyre had pinched it, so all the pressure went to one part. Again I had to unload my bags and again the mossies bit in hard. My biggest fear was malaria – although not endemic in Uzbekistan, there was still a risk of catching it.
I carried on with no lights, with locals driving carelessly down both sides of the street. The next chai house welcomed me in, fed me, showed me to a bed, and then the owner took me thirty minutes down the road to meet his wife and child. Once back, he brought out more food which I wolfed down whilst closely watching the progress of a big spider (a monster by UK standards, as big as my hand with legs like my fingers). The owner saw me freeze and calmly came over, smiled at me and stamped on it. I heard the squelch as its body exploded. Before he left, the owner made a point of making sure I knew I didn’t have to pay for anything. I couldn’t quite grasp his rationale. I was the only diner and he had employed three members of staff at least to run the place. But there is no arguing with an Uzbek.
As I lay down to sleep with a curtain pulled around my bed, two women started talking, softly at first but then shouting and finally screaming like cats. Luckily someone else had the TV so loud their screams were barely audible so I was able to sleep soundly.
The three hundred kilometres journey to Tashkent brought few surprises and I trundled into town ready for a rest in a decent hotel. For some reason hostels don’t exist in Tashkent. I was looking forward to a treat.
Tashkent is the capital of Uzbekistan, a city that rivalled Baghdad in its prime. It is the oldest city in Central Asia and the most beautiful if you believe what its tourist board says. Either way I was looking forward to having a look round its numerous markets, monuments and tourist sites. Tashkent is also famous for a more sinister reason. The police are notorious over all of Asia for fleecing the tourists.
Unfortunately, after visiting a number of hotels who wouldn’t allow me to stay, it wasn’t looking like I was going to be able to see these sights. In fact it was looking like I wasn’t going to be seeing any more of Uzbekistan, let alone China and India.
Uzbekistan requires that you register with a hotel within three days of arriving in the country and then every day from then onwards. Cycling through the Kyzylkum Desert, I had been sleeping in my million star hotel - my tent - nearly every day since my arrival. When I arrived in the capital, the hotel owners said they would normally call the police at this point and that they would slap me with a $2,000 dollar fine, my whole budget to get me to my final destination. Fortunately they took pity on me and Shirley, and told us to cycle onwards. As I walked out the door, the hotelier would pick up the phone with a serious look on his face. Was he speaking to the police?
My fourth hotel took my passport and gave me a key to a room. The relief was immense, I immediately relaxed and stepped into the shower to remove the usual grime. Then a knock came at the door. I answered it in a towel with soap suds still in my hair. "Mr Bent? Problem." Here we go again. But no.....
The lack of papers was only the half of it. I’d also failed to notice that my visa was valid for ten days and I was on day nineteen in Uzbekistan. It was looking like I was going to be deported back to the UK.
I’d made it so far. I’d endured the wild dogs in Poland, the sand storms in Kazakhstan, the vodka drinking in Russia and the guns pointed at my head in the Ukraine. Surely I hadn’t gone through this for nothing – to be thwarted by my lack of organization and my failure to do any research on the countries I’d be visiting. I needed to flee this city for the country, but the police almost certainly knew me by now and there was no way I was getting get out of Tashkent without paying out a king's ransom.
Chapter 21
I searched my brain in desperation. Was there anyone who might be able to help? Something triggered in my brain and I remembered the first day I'd set off to Dover with friends and family.
I remembered cycling with Derek, a guy from my cycle club, and his saying something about Uzbekistan. I grabbed my diary and searched through to that first day. There, stuck in between Day One and Day Two, was Derek’s business card. On the other side in scrawled handwriting was: Maksud – Tashkent, and a phone number written below. He was the brother of a friend. Should I call him? What harm could a phone call do? Maybe he could help?
Maksud drove straight over. He spoke calmly but forcefully with the hotel owner. He knew a man who might be able to help. A member of the Russian Mafia. There was no time to lose.
Pulling into a darkened alleyway, we left the engine running. Twenty metres ahead, the door of a Tata Nano (a tiny old two-seater Russian vehicle) opened, and slowly our man unfolded himself from the car. He was well over six-and-a-half foot and almost the same wide. He opened the back door of our car and I felt the suspension sag under his weight as he sat down. As we drove away, the two men discussed the situation in Russian. Within a few minutes we pulled alongside a house that would have been big by English standards let alone Central Asian. Behind a tall fence the huge Russian - to whom I was never formally introduced - proceeded to unlock the door to the house. It took four different keys to deal with the deadbolts and, when he pulled it open, I could see that the door itself was two inches thick. Behind this door was another that required the same level of attention before it would open in its turn.
Inside, the house looked like a palace. Statues lined the walls and antiques were intermingled with high tech gadgets and TVs. I was taken for a tour before the two people I assumed had been my saviours left, locking the doors behind them. I tried the front door, but no, I was locked into a Russian safe house.
Sitting in front of the TV watching Russian soaps and dubbed Hollywood movies, I waited. Two days later, Maksud returned and I was told to get my stuff, we were leaving.
I had to keep my head down as we drove through the police checks. When we hit the open highway, we pulled over and I extricated my bike from the boot, and my new friend waved to me as I cycled into the mountains.
* * *
Waving goodbye to Maksud was like saying goodbye to a bodyguard. The rest was up to me now; he’d done everything he could.
I would pass through towns with my head down and stop to sleep in empty Chai Hanna where the owners were happy to let me lie across benches to earn a few extra bucks.
For three days I continued in this manner. There were police stops as usual, but it required little more than adding my passport number to a dog eared book and they were too interested in having their pictures taken, playing my ukulele and asking for presents to pay attention to the passport.
Trying to remain inconspicuous, I stopped to tighten up one of my panniers. I looked round as there was some serious Uzbek dance music resonating from the nearest house. I walked towards the music and, as I reached the house, two ladies jumped out from the front door, wrapped me in sheets of ribbons, and dragged me into the courtyard, leaving Shirley outside. Inside I danced with all the children and ate anything that was passed to me by the women waiting on their men.
After a few minutes, a boy came from nowhere looking particularly done up and riding a donkey. People stuffed notes into any of the boy’s orifices they could get to. He looked absolutely scared to bits. I realised I’d arrived at a coming of age party and became afraid that they might drag me into the whole bizarre episode, but fortunately I was jus
t seated in the elders' room (filled with the wisest and oldest men in the village) where the finest of foods were served. They could have put me in the regular men’s room which was across the corridor.
The young boys weren’t allowed in either but sat in doorways waiting and hoping for the year when they would be accepted to have reached manhood. They took scrap bits and sent for more food as soon as their Western guest showed any interest in any one type. One young boy had been staring at me for quite some time before he plucked up the courage to tap me on the knee and ask “Wayne Rooney?” The eyes of the men lit up. How did these people in the middle of nowhere know Wayne Rooney, and what on earth was possessing the Uzbek man to think I was him? Yeah, I have white skin, yes I have a ginger beard, yes I have a round head and a barrel chest, yes I have small sharp eyes …. oh shit …. I do look like him.
Highly privileged, I was shown the ladies' chambers. Again the the expression in the eyes changed. I was looked upon as an escape or as a money sack made of skin and bone. Mothers thrust their daughters towards me. I soon made a neat exit to find Shirley had made a friend too. The once ridden donkey was nibbling at her handle bars. A strange pang of jealousy ran through me and I showed the donkey off, wiping the saliva off Shirley to make her mine again.
* * *
Only the mountain passes lay between Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan now, between me and my safety. Cars were strewn along the way, victims of the steep passes and harsh climate. Some had crashed over cliffs leaving charcoaled remains, others had just been deserted.
Growing tired, I got more and more agitated at the attention I, Shirley and my belongings were getting. I was fed up of people saying I looked like Wayne Rooney. Before I reached the top of the highest pass I stopped in a restaurant where, as always, they allowed me to stay. The waiter wanted to ride my bike. I didn’t see why he shouldn’t. Unfortunately the weight was too much for him and Shirley dragged him to the floor, to the laughter of everyone around. He had taken my sunglasses for his ride (such a vital piece of equipment in these parts to protect from snow blindness) and in falling had broken one of the arms off and smashed the screen of my camcorder. The anger boiled up inside me, but what could I do, demand he take a three year advance in his wages so he could pay for the damage?
However, he did make it up to me later, asking me to sign a 500som note, the second largest domination. He stated he was going to frame it in his room that he shared with four siblings. Soon huge bosomed women would be parting their shirts for me to sign their assets.
Climbing into the mountains, I was beginning to show my first signs of altitude sickness. I had a headache and was breathless even when I lay down. Sleep came quickly but so did my awakening. At 5:30 I was woken by a jungle beat pounding. Looking up I saw the daughter of the owner praying. The pumping beat was surreal under the purposeful prayer.
As I was continuing towards the pass in the morning, a police car sounded its siren and pulled in alongside me. Shit! Looking at me sternly, the policeman started to speak. Drawing on all the energy in my body, I gave him my biggest smile as I greeted him. As-Salaam Alaykum. He smiled back and through the window he took hold of my arm and made me hold on tightly to his wrist. He accelerated his car as he spoke to me in a kind and interested way. He was dragging me up the mountain. Just like in old mega drive games, I’d held down the fire button and blasted my way through with my finest of smiles. I was beginning to feel the faint glimmer of hope arising round me.
The descent to the border was a large hole held together by tiny bits of tarmac. I flew past cars as I swerved to remain on the road at sixty kilometres per hour, including one estate car whose chassis was dragging along the floor as it had been loaded with a whole house including sink and cupboards. They were clearly relocating.
Again stopping at a chai house I was offered a bucket to wash with. Humming after days without a shower and all the hill climbing, I set to scrubbing myself up as best I could. All the boys from the village were watching me standing in my boxers. I sensitively asked if I could clean what was inside my boxers but they gave a shocked “No, people watching” looking over their shoulders.
“I know,” I thought. “You lot!!”
Slightly cleaner and more refreshed, I was invited to join a celebratory feast with twenty men from twenty to thirty years old. When I started to eat, I was told off for using my fork in the wrong hand. Being left handed, it’s natural for me to use my left hand but this is the hand used for cleaning one's bottom. I was then told off for pulling the spoon towards me rather than pushing away. I greeted any newcomers with the religious Muslim greeting “As-Salaam Alaykum’” and everyone in the room burst out laughing. The guests continuously left the room and came back in again, encouraging me to repeat my statement. We were in the Benzin Bar – Petrol Bar. It seemed like an appropriate name for a bar in a country where I was sure they were drinking Benzin.
* * *
The next day it was time to face the border. It was a make or break moment for my whole trip.
It is hard to remain invisible when you are the only white guy in the queue, especially when all the locals were pushing me to the front, cheering and patting me on the back.
My hopes disappeared. This wasn’t your usual Uzbek security check. Computers, printers, TVs and film equipment were conspicuously set up in a fashion that filled me with fear. The border guard welcomed me. “As-Salaam Alaykum”. I took a breath and returned his greeting, Wa Alaykum-as-Salaam, as I handed him my passport. He flipped through the pages, typing my details into the computer. He looked at my passport then at the screen. Something wasn’t adding up. Again he looked from one to the other. He turned to beckon over his supervisor. I had to do something. The game was up. There was only one thing for it. I stroked my beard and pointed at myself whilst enunciating as precisely and clearly as I could two words: “Wayne Rooney”.
His eyes turned back to me. He looked me straight in the face. A pause ensued which gave me enough time to consider what I was going to say to mum when I called her from Heathrow Airport. The entire staff in army uniform had left their seats and were coming round to my side of the desk. SH*T. I put my hands up in the sign of surrender. They were upon me. They were smiling. They were holding their phones up to take pictures. My passport was thrust into my hand, freshly stamped and each and every guard wanted his picture taken with me before allowing me to cycle on my way.
Chapter 22
I made the short ride from the Dostuk border to Osh.
Osh is the second largest city in Kyrgyzstan, located in the Fergana Valley in the south of the country, and often referred to as the 'Capital of the South'. The city is at least 3,000 years old.
I followed the cryptic instructions to find the Osh Guesthouse. I was in a mood to celebrate. No fines, no deportation, my ego was still dealing with my likeness to Rooney, but I was sure a few beers would put an end to that too.
Before I’d carried Shirley across the threshold and dropped off my bags, I was asked to go out celebrating with French and Norwegians. I’d endeared myself to the Vikings by telling them my favourite words in Norwegian. “Rumpetroll”, tadpole, and “du er djevelen”, you are the devil.
We headed out for food first but, in true Central Asian style, vodka and lots of it accompanied the fine cuisine. The food had flavours, spices, substance, aroma and, most importantly, wasn’t sheep fat.
Whilst we sat devouring plate after plate, and bottle after bottle, there was a scuffle in the club that was situated at the back of the restaurant. One man came out covered in blood. Then another. Another was wielding a rather large knife. We sat and stared, concerned for our own safety, as another guy with blood streaming from a head wound appeared holding a girl who’d been stabbed. No-one in the bar really paid them any attention.
If it had been in England, it would have either erupted into a mass brawl or people would have been killed in the crush to leave the restaurant. In the end a gargantuan man arrived to sort out disagreements.
He didn’t look like the kind of guy who was averse to a bit of blood, especially if it wasn’t his own. He wore a tight vest encasing his voluminous muscles, and a scar down his left cheek running up into his hairline.
Just his presence was enough to calm everything down, and everyone left quietly without him having to even raise his voice. His face wore an expression of disappointment.
Everything returned to normal and so did we. I’m not really sure how we got there but quite a lot of vodka and beer later we were in a club dancing wildly to Asian Techno, throwing shapes that I thought were new age Michael Jackson, but to anyone not completely inebriated probably looked more like old school epilepsy. Luckily there weren’t any of that type in the club.
Slowly everyone left. It was just me and an Afro-French guy, Jean Pierre, the only black guy I’d seen in Asia, a conversation I’d had in Uzbekistan about Central Asians having no respect for African people completely forgotten as locals bought us drink after drink, dancing with us and laughing.
It was early morning and we thought we’d better leave. Neither of us was in any fit state to hail a cab, so one of the locals we’d been dancing with offered to share one with us to reduce costs. Not long after we left, he told the taxi to stop and we fell out of the cab looking for our hotel and giggling when we couldn’t recognise it.
The guy we’d shared the taxi with asked us for money, politely. We’d forgotten to pay the cab. Ooopss. More giggles. JP gave the man more than double what a reasonable taxi should have cost but he wanted more. So he doubled what he’d given. “More”. At this point the taxi was driving away. Oh you want all of our money. I was busy getting my wallet out but JP was saying “Non, fuck you” in his strong French accent.