You've Gone Too Far This Time, Sir!

by Danny Bent

  The local kicked him in the balls and then punched him in the face, calling him racist names. I went to intervene but before I could even say ‘Come on that is quite enough’, JP had fisted this guy more times than I could count in my inebriated state, had thrown him in the air, tied him in a knot and was pushing some pressure point on the man's shoulder that was causing him to whimper and beg for mercy.

  He’d picked on the wrong guy. JP was black belt at ninjitsu.

  An equally fast movement caught my eye to the right and JP was flailing on the floor having been kicked in his chest. I looked around and there was the big guy from the restaurant. Where did he come from? He was too big to hide behind the local housing.

  The fight that ensued was nothing short of 'Rocky IV'. Speed and agility vs. strength and grit. My brain revisited the conversation I’d had in Uzbekistan, the knife fight in the restaurant. I told JP this wasn’t England, that you can’t do this here, before realising he was French. You’re not in France. But no use, he was in fighting mood. He shoved me out of the way. With blood on the road, the big guy eventually had JP on the floor, pinned by his arms, and sitting on his chest. He kept punching into his face with fists like sledgehammers. I pulled at him and in my most fluent Russian to date got his attention. I tried to reason with him. I praised his machismo.

  I heard cars arriving behind me and relaxed. People were here to help. I didn’t take my eyes off the big guy just in case he started beating Jean Pierre again.

  As I heard footsteps running towards me, I looked to see who our saviour was, just in time to see a huge fist flying towards my face. I felt my lip tear as the fist made contact and then a whole storm of punches thundered into my body, pounding my liver, kidneys, face, and legs. I pulled myself free and realised our game was up. JP was being punched again. It dawned on me that JP was at risk of being killed.

  Stumbling back, I saw a police car go by a few blocks away and ran for both of our lives. With my lungs burning, I managed to catch their attention and told them what was happening. They put me in a taxi and told the driver to take me to the tourist part of town. I only had an English £5 left after the robbery. The driver phoned his mate to see what it was worth.

  Chapter 23

  Waking up in the morning with a blood-stained face and sheets, I staggered into reception. My muscles were bruised, my joints ached, I felt like the walking dead. The owner pointed to a sign saying “DON’T STAY OUT AFTER 11pm especially if you have been drinking”. Perhaps it would have been wiser to show me the sign when I first checked in.

  Osh is a town that was central to the ancient trading routes, acting as a crossroads to the Silk Route. It was prosperous and hence fought over constantly, and it has been rapped in violence since the collapse of the Russia Empire. Initially, arguments with the Uzbeks over the closely located border led to bloodshed. As an ongoing issue, many Uzbeks live in Osh and ethnic violence simmers then erupts occasionally.

  Sitting listening in the corner to our stories of the previous day was a guy skinnier than skinny. His name was Matt. He had just cycled the Pamir mountain range and was waiting to hear word that the Chinese border had reopened so he could continue to Kashkar, the end of his journey. The Chinese had closed their borders for two weeks due to its being sixty years since the founding of the People's Republic of China by Mao Zedong on 1 October 1949.

  The Pamir was the next mountain range I would come across and I was already nervous about how Shirley and I would fare. Suffering heavy snow fall, closed roads and climbs that tested him to his very core, Matt surprisingly declared that the worst of all was the 'goat effect' - houses built out of goat's poo bricks entombing a fire fuelled by dried goat's poo briquettes that burnt like coal on a fire but gave off a less than pleasant aroma. On top of these fires would simmer a boiling pan filled with, you guessed it, goat. Goat soup was the staple diet of the Tajiks - half water, half oil, then a tiny bit of carrot, half a small potato and an unidentifiable lump of goat.

  Matt complained of smelling like a goat, even straight out of the shower. His water on the bike tasted like goat and his toothpaste tasted like goat too. Goat had permeated every inch of his being.

  I couldn’t wait but, before I could venture onto these highlands with their four thousand metre plateau, I had a town to explore.

  * * *

  Osh is known to have the most bustling bazaar in all of Asia. Inside the bazaar you can’t stop moving. It was like a conveyor belt of people. Making your decision, you had to hand over the money before you were shunted onto the next stall. If you weren’t quick enough, you’d grab some bananas and then hand the money over to the hat shop, leaving a very bitter banana man and a very happy hatter.

  Venturing through the bazaars we were joined by Matt who laughed each time any of us made a purchase. He prided himself on the fact that he was barely carrying anything other than what was on his body. He had cycle shorts, two shirts and a pair of trousers - and that was it. Comparing it with my tent, stove, winter gear and sleeping bag, he was massively under-prepared. Without any kit he had to find civilization each night, and accommodating civilization at that. I was sad for him; I couldn’t help thinking he was missing out on some adventures. His bike was a steal framed 1970s 16 speed, which looked quite stylish but, with aged tyres and rusting parts, I had no idea how he had made it so far.

  As we bought nuts and sweets he asked me to pay for him because he only had a big note. I had travelled a bit after university and I knew from experience that you always come across a ‘Big Note Guy’ who will never pay for anything if he only has a Big Note. It's self perpetuating, of course. If you never break a big note then you never have small notes, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

  I told the others I’d meet them back at the hostel. I’d noticed a quiet area in the market where old men were playing backgammon. I was invited to take a seat and a hatter came over and put a big fur hat on my head for warmth. The winter was setting in fast which only made me want to get going and be over the bigger mountains sooner rather than later. Somehow I found myself on the winning side against the café owner. Admittedly, at about 117 years old (or thereabouts), he could barely lift the pieces or see the board. The hatter now took up his champion's mantel as the café owner went back to serving brews in thimble-sized white plastic cups. The two of us drew quite a crowd and the hatter and his supporters laughed as I made mistakes, not completely knowing the rules. Onlookers tried to find a taker for a bet; but no-one was backing the white guy. I eventually got the hang of it and, with the most amazing dice rolls, found myself in a tied position. The hatter was beginning to sweat and I began to laugh. The blacksmith made a bet with the man selling birds in tiny boxes, backing me. He received a look of annoyance from the hatter. Luck was in my favour and I managed to clear up without his having made any sort of dent. Not looking very happy, he shook my hand and took the hat off my head. It was time for me to leave. I offered to buy the hat at his asking price and this seemed to soften the blow. I discovered that wearing that hat meant I commanded more respect. People nodded as I went by. This was clearly the hat of winners.

  The aggression in Osh was so clear. Youngsters wrestled in the street. No man made way for anyone. The fur hat gave me a presence and no one caused me any mischief as night fell on my way home.

  (Shortly after I returned to England, a well-orchestrated well-financed effort by armed groups to provoke conflict between Kyrgyz and Uzbeks caused 170 people to lose their lives and 250,000 Uzbeks to be displaced from their homes).

  When I got back to the hostel, I encountered a bike outside encumbered with a huge amount of luggage - four large panniers, a stuff bag, a handlebar box and a rucksack. I couldn’t imagine the pain of carrying all that up the mountain ranges. This guy made me look like a lightweight traveller. Sander had been travelling on his bike for nine months. He’d met a Turkish girl and had lived with her family for some time, and was now touring the world by bike, trying to leave his past of drugs
, sex and rock and roll behind him for the simple honest routine of a tour cyclist.

  * * *

  There is one quarter of the oxygen at 4,000 metres as there is at sea level, hence the body pumps more blood to the brain to compensate for this, causing headaches, nausea, exhaustion and shortness of breath. At anything over three thousand metres, High Altitude Cerebral Edema (HACE) can set in, which occurs when the excess blood causes the brain to swell. Symptoms of this are inhibited mental function, hallucinations, loss of muscle coordination, impaired speech and severe headaches. The result of this is that you could possibly end up in a coma.

  Leaving Osh I had to climb to 4,000 metres, three times as high as the highest point in the UK, Ben Nevis. Cycling for one minute I would then stop and hang over my handle bars, sucking in as much air as possible in an attempt to get oxygen into my body. My head was pounding.

  As I stopped by the side of the road, a lady said she would get me some soup to warm me. She came out with some grey liquid that was lukewarm and clearly made with unclean water. My brain couldn’t think of an excuse fast enough as to why I shouldn’t drink it, so I ended up having to down the lot. I knew this could only end up in a number of trips to the toilet but it made her happy seeing me eat and drink.

  Wrapped up in all my winter gear, I plugged on doggedly with sweat running down the insides of my clothes and yet the cold attacking my nose and eyes, my only exposed areas. I’d read about frostbite in Osh and, with my hands and feet numb, the same warning played over and over in my mind.

  “If you have frostbite, you may not realize at first that anything is wrong because the affected area will be numb. With prompt medical attention, most people recover fully from frostbite. However, in the case of severe frostbite, permanent damage is possible, depending on how long and how deeply the tissue is frozen. In severe cases, blood flow to the area may stop and blood vessels, muscles, nerves, tendons and bones may be permanently affected. If the frozen tissue dies, the area may need to be amputated."

  The Texas Mountaineer

  I checked my hands regularly to make sure they weren’t blackening.

  Not far from the summit I could see a horse rider in the distance standing by the side of the road. I felt an uneasiness about this for some reason. Wearing a balaclava, he looked menacing, but my whole face was covered too from the cold. Struggling to hit walking speed he pulled out in front of me but I was able to dodge round him, only to be attacked with his whip. He was a bandit and wanted my belongings.

  My good fortune continued as the first car I’d seen all morning pulled up alongside me. An arm through the window grabbed mine and the speed at which I was dragged away left the horseman in his tracks with a look of shock in his eyes.

  It started to rain, washing the sweat from my face and feeling cleansing. Coming over the peak of the mountain, however, I saw that I faced a long descent. The wind, as I screamed along, penetrated every piece of my clothing. It went on and on and I got colder and colder. I was beginning to shake uncontrollably and I couldn’t feel my hands or feet. I couldn’t be sure about being able to use the brakes if I had to. If I hit a lump in the road it could throw me anywhere.

  It was such a relief when I finally approached some buildings - I would have cheered if my lips hadn’t been frosted shut – and to realise that one of them was my saviour, a tea house. Dripping muddy water over the floor and shaking uncontrollably, I rummaged through my gear for dry clothing and sat huddled over a cup of tea. The owner motioned with her hands to the side of her face that maybe I would like to sleep there. Oh my goodness, no more cycling. “Yes please.”

  I was taken to a metal circular building - a metal yurt. The room was full of budgies in cages that generated a small amount of heat for the room. There was also table and chairs in there, but no bed. I was invited to eat with the family in their home. Warming up, I noticed the daughters were dressed in less than I would wear back in England on a cold day, let alone in the mountains. I popped back to my lodgings to find a family in there eating their supper. I felt sorry for them having to endure the smell of my kit but they seemed happy to have me there. The dad was the head of the local police and this, I was informed with a sweeping hand, was his family. I grabbed some of my warm gear - my down jacket, a jumper and woolly hats -and draped them round the shoulders of the daughters who looked awkward but appreciated the extra heat. After dinner, the daughters went into the kitchen where they had to prepare food for the guests. They were making manti, stuffed pasta. I asked if I could have a go at making it myself and, with a startled look, they said yes, giggling behind my back. I rolled and cut the pasta and then stuffed it with the meat before pinching the parcels shut. When I stopped, their younger brother, who’d sat the whole time watching them, asked if he could also help. It felt as if I might have closed the sex gap in this one household.

  The father and elder brother came home from work and were also very cold. Luckily my collection of hats had only got bigger during my travels and I was able to give them fur hats to help them combat the cold that crept under the door of every house, taking the weakest with it as it left in the morning. Hypothermia can claim the old, the young or the sickly if the body is allowed to drop from its normal 98.6 degrees to 95 degrees.

  Suddenly my stomach took a turn for the worse. The soup I had drunk earlier that day had decided to poison me and a brutal evacuation was imminent. Was this my punishment for being polite?

  I had to make repeated trips to the toilet which was an outbuilding seventy metres from the house. Unfortunately it was pitch black and my torch was still in the building with the policeman, and I didn’t want to interrupt them again. On the way out to the toilet, I fell into a roadside drain wearing sandals and my warmest woollen socks. Shit (literally)! These socks, which I’d brought to get me through the cold of the Himalayas, needed to be thrown away.

  When it was time for bed, the mum cleared the table from the head of police and lay a blanket on top of it with another two blankets to wrap round me. This was my bed for the night. Luckily with the hypothermia, bad guts and tough mountain climbing I couldn’t have slept better in the Pea Princess' bed.

  As I left the following day, the daughters gave me a colourful plastic bracelet and a key ring to attach to a phone which I hung on my mascot, my school sheep.

  * * *

  I pulled away into the mountains again and was greeted by laughing, smiling kids who threw stones at me. Jokingly I shouted out ‘Moi Dumba’ in pain, whilst motioning that they’d scored a hit on my bottom which encouraged another hale of stones to fall on and around me. I’m not sure if the same kids released them but a pack of dogs chased me for another kilometre. They didn’t scare me any more; they were just like everyone else, looking for something to do.

  Looking for a chai house, I saw a large building that looked like it might be one, so I stopped. Arriving at the front door I realised it was a school. As I touched the door, two teachers ran over from opposite directions. They’d both been relaxing in their own homes leaving the kids on their own.

  Within thirty seconds I’d been pushed into a room of thirty children all with their mouths hanging open at the sight of the Lycra-clad white guy with the ginger beard and sun-touched face. I read a story and made barking noises, smelling like the dog I was reading about.

  As I went along, I introduced a number of other animals that I mimicked as best I could, and I imagined Lucy sitting in the class saying “You’re embarrassing yourself, Sir. You’ve gone too far,” but the children’s faces had lit up and some were laughing and smiling.

  The school was made of two small rooms and a cupboard that was used as a staff room where I found myself drinking tea and eating biscuits with both teachers who had left their classes again.

  On leaving the school, I waved to the children who pressed themselves against the class window. As I rode off I could hear a chorus of pig squeaks, mooing, and barking behind me at the school.

  Chapter 24

 
; The Qur’an is the religious text of Islam. Muslims believe the Qur’an to be the verbal divine guidance and moral direction for mankind. It states that Kafirs (non-believers) will be subject to eternal torture, whereas believers will be able to trough in rivers of wine and enjoy unlimited sexual pleasures with supernatural Houri virgins.

  The Bible has its moments too. In ‘Judges 21’, God orders the murder of all the people of Jabesh-gilead, except for the virgin girls who were taken to be forcibly raped and married.

  In a chai house in the middle of nowhere surrounded by mountainous white peaks, I met three Muslims who seemed to believe they were already in the afterlife and were thus bathing in rivers of vodka in the absence of wine. As a non-believer, I was asked to join them while they tried to persuade me of the wisdom, perks and benefits of the Islamic faith, forcefully attempting to lubricate my enlightenment with ample quantities of vodka. However, with a stomach still doing loops and somersaults between regular explosions, I had to refrain, which elicited complaints that I wasn’t being respectful towards them.

  They then asked me if I wanted a prostitute and were again disappointed at my refusal (I think I can quite honestly say that the girls they were planning to call were not Houri virgins). So they took me to their car instead to show me the gun they owned. Was this a more aggressive tactic to convert me?

  Goodnight. Spokoinoi nochi. This was the final straw. I made my excuses and went to my room. For a change I had a lumpy mattress and a pillow stuffed with beans. I think I preferred the straw mats.