The Long Hitch Home

by Jamie Maslin

  The placid mood didn’t last for long. From out of nowhere, a wind began to moan and some clouds came in behind the arch, noticeably darkening the sky.

  “We need to get moving,” stated Etienne. “We could still die out here.”

  He was right on both counts. There was no time to linger.

  As we turned and headed back, I glanced for a final time upon the arch before it disappeared from sight again behind the narrow walls of the slot canyons. I was sad to see her go, but I knew that one day I would return and stand beneath her again. Only next time, it would damn well be in summer. And with a 4 x 4.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Honey Trap

  “Do you think this has meat in it, Jamie?” said vegetarian Danilo on picking up an ambiguous doughy offering from a food stall at Kashgar’s colossal livestock market.

  It was a phrase I had heard often from Danilo, and was not a question that I was entirely motivated to answer truthfully; after all, whenever he made an error and purchased a product that turned out to contain animal, he always passed it my way as a result.

  “D’oh,” he would tut in disappointment on biting into something and realizing his mistake. “You will have to eat it, Jamie.”

  “Well, if you insist,” I would answer with fake reluctance.

  He was always getting it wrong. But on the upside, I got to eat well around him.

  Danilo and I had arrived at the renowned livestock market, the largest in all of Asia, by way of horse and cart, bumping our way along a muddy, churned-up lane lined with poplar trees, at the end of which appeared a throbbing sea of black in a huge open-air field. Here thousands upon thousands of men in black sheepskin hats and dark jackets haggled over fat-tailed sheep, yaks, goats, cows, dogs, and donkeys, most tethered together, facing each other head to head, in long tidy lines. Also on sale was the occasional Bactrian camel, amazing creatures that have evolved to cope with the region’s extreme desert environments by having two sets of eyelids and eyelashes, and nostrils that they can completely seal.

  The scale of the market was something else. Where there wasn’t animal trading there was the associated industry: fast-fit shoe changing for horses and donkeys, sheep shearing with nothing but a pair of scissors, knife sharpening and knife sales, countless stalls selling animal collars, and of course food—for people.

  In one spot near some tethered goats we found a man doing a roaring trade with a cut-throat razor; not dispatching the animals halal style, but, bizarrely, shaving the heads of locals, a tradition followed by many of the older men. It was an odd location for a hairdresser, plying his business from an old wooden chair next to a murky puddle, but Danilo and I took the opportunity while it presented itself and opted for a facial shave. If I was expecting something of an indulgent grooming session then was I in for a shock! First came a facial massage of such unimpeded vigour it felt like the bloke was trying to rip my checks clean off. Next came a lathering, although really it was nothing of the sort, with the bare minimum of suds applied to my now bruised face; and finally, a forthright hacking shave, much of it against the grain. It got the hair off all right, but I’d opt for a lubricated Gillette in front of the mirror any day.

  We stuck around for a long time soaking in the sights, and on the way out came upon a corner where the market took on a medieval feel, with animals not only being traded but fought. Here two pit bulls tore each other apart in front of a circled crowd of spectators, several of whom were young boys. Danilo and I browsed at the dogs for sale instead, then headed back to the old town by way of horse and cart. Our driver was quite the character. Despite having what to us appeared a rickety old wooden platform on bicycle wheels, dragged along by an unkempt shaggy-maned horse, he obviously saw his “wheels” in an altogether different light. With a superior air and a disparaging point of the thumb, he gestured to one of his competitors trundling along nearby: “Donkey!” he exclaimed with a laugh, as if to say, “Look at that pleb, can’t even afford a horse.” It wasn’t like he was driving a Range Rover himself. But then I guess to him, he was.

  We spent the rest of the day wandering in another century, and in the evening met up with Manon and Etienne at a night market just off the main square, where such culinary treats as boiled sheep’s head and feet were offered. We opted instead for a civilized hot chocolate at a nearby café.

  I said my goodbyes here while I could. Tomorrow I would be setting off early.

  * * *

  “All Uyghurs want to be independent!” exclaimed the Uyghur passenger sitting next to me on the seat of a battered old farming truck that lurched from side to side along the potholed road to Kyrgyzstan.

  His English was reasonable, the result of several years study in Europe, so I asked him about the political situation in Xinjiang. One of these he translated for the truck’s driver. It didn’t go down well. Jumping on the brakes, he brought us to a halt on the outskirts of an oasis village, and told me to get out.

  “I am sorry,” explained the passenger. “But he thinks your questions will make political problem for him.”

  There was no changing his mind. The ride lasted only minutes.

  Other lifts came and went, taking me in staggered steps towards Kyrgyzstan.

  I’d seen some dramatic scenery so far on my trip, but the journey to the border, known as the Irkeshtam Pass, was right up there with the best of it. Great gorges flanked by vertical cliffs appeared triumphantly then perished against the ranges. Veil-like clouds capped many of the highest peaks, rising from their snow-clad forms before dissipating into the sky like the holy departed drifting from an earthly plain up into heaven. The snow was undecided here: enveloping one moment, receding the next. At once a flaming rocky landscape would become exposed, saturating the foreground with sanguine hues of red, orange, and pink that mingled like glowing embers in a wider backdrop of browns and grays; and then the world was white again, all but for the clearest of deep blue skies, awash with light but bereft of any warmth. Horses and camels drifted in and out of picture. Meadows concealed beneath a drape of silken pearl rolled on towards the mighty Pamir mountains. China was fading out now, and a new frontier lay ahead. I pondered a saying attributed to a group of nomadic reindeer herders from Siberia, the Evenk: “The best thing in life is moving on to the next place.” It was indeed. By the time I reached the border I was on a high.

  There was a backlog of trucks but none seemed to be moving, so I said goodbye to the chain-smoking, old truck driver who brought me here and headed to the Chinese customs building on foot. During Soviet times the border with Xinjiang was all but closed, but today I slipped through without issue, and in good time too, taking minutes to clear the main checkpoint. A long walk of roughly three miles stretched ahead to reach the Kyrgyz side, but not a minute down the road, several ferocious guard dogs charged towards me from the scruffy yard of a run-down building that backed onto the road. I ran back in the direction of the customs post, praying the dogs would lose interest. They did, but their continued barks and snarls convinced me to wait for a vehicle. They clearly weren’t accustomed to strangers passing by on foot.

  As luck would have it, a scrap metal truck came through a minute later and responded to my gestures for a ride. I clambered in but no sooner had we cleared the dogs, than the truck broke down. With a reluctant wave I bade the driver farewell, and set off again on foot, marveling at the snowy mountain scenery as I went, which included a frozen river, bulging in form like a mini glacier. Eventually I reached a little booth on the far reaches of the Chinese side. Emblazoned on the hill opposite was a huge depiction of the map of China, with the country’s red and yellow-starred flag in the center. An official here with his head buried in a book spotted me at the last minute, and waved me over with a grunt.

  “Why have you come to China?” he barked in an obstinate manner.

  “I haven’t,” I replied, correcting him with an element of challenge, “I’m leaving!”

  The main border section had already given
me an exit stamp so there was nothing I needed from him; he could, to put it bluntly, shove his sanctimonious attitude up his arse.

  “Err, why have you been to China?” he grunted instead.

  I had never been questioned like this on exit, so decided to mix things up a bit.

  “To bring down the totalitarian state for its egregious atrocities against the subjugated Falun Gong,” I replied.

  He looked at me, perplexed.

  “Tourist,” I stated simply, as if in summation.

  He waved me through.

  I stepped into Kyrgyzstan.

  From here the road took a steep downhill turn, twisting its way towards some official Kyrgyz buildings at the bottom. When approaching them it happened again: a handful of vicious wolf-like guard dogs came rushing out from the buildings’ surroundings, charging along the road in a frenzy towards me. I scrambled up onto a crumbly hillside, sending a mini avalanche of rocks below, and began hurling stones and yelling abuse at my pursuers. It did the job and they remained below, but their furious barking alerted a uniformed military official to my presence—entering his country high up on the hill, shouting like a deranged mad man while throwing rocks all over the place, and only feet away from trampling disrespectfully over a map of Kyrgyzstan, which was emblazoned on the hillside. It wasn’t the sort of first impression I would have chosen to make.

  He ordered me down and rounded up the dogs, securing them inside the compound. Smoothing things over proved easier than expected, helped tremendously when the official discovered my nationality. He spoke no English but enthusiastically began dropping names of English soccer teams. We were mates now, and to show it he drove me down the road in his ultra square-lined, un-aerodynamic Lada—the sort of car a three-year-old might draw in 2D—to the battered little outpost of Irkeshtam. The place was a right hovel made up of rusting old trailer homes and a few weathered buildings with rickety tins roofs, surrounded by aged Russian scrap-metal trucks and decrepit-looking containers. The customs and passport control was a little better, but not much. Once again the process proved painless, and soon I was marching down the road again, skirting the edges of a vast and desolate valley.

  A couple of miles of walking, during which time no vehicles passed, and I approached a little checkpoint on the road. Just beyond were three green military-style metal huts, each with a small chimney, the furthest issuing a wispy trail of white smoke into the air. I could almost sense the warmth emanating from them. By now it was late afternoon, and the temperature had dropped markedly, so when a squat young man in a puffy camouflage jacket stuck his head out from one and gestured for me to join him, I accepted without hesitation. Inside sat his older colleague, nursing a cup of tea at a little table covered with a kitschy cloth. He poured a cup for me from a flower-patterned teapot. Neither spoke any English, so I handed them a note I had acquired from a Kyrgyz couchsurfer, explaining what I was up to. They read it with intrigue and before I knew it had offered me the hut as accommodation for the night—for free. It was a tempting offer. Although tiny, the hut was super warm and cozy, with a glowing coal-burning stove and a comfy-looking bed that came in the form of a long bench with a roll-out mattress. If I didn’t get a ride then it was the perfect place to crash. In fact, it was the perfect place to wait for a ride too. I could take it easy inside, remaining nice and warm, and only brave the cold when drivers came to a halt at the checkpoint. It took some doing, but after a bit of miming I managed to convey to them that I accepted their offer of accommodation for the night, but with the proviso that if I managed to get a ride, then I would push on further instead.

  Kyrgyzstan was reportedly going to be a challenge. When I had first met Danilo, Manon, and Etienne in Urumqi, they had all expressed surprise bordering on concern when I told them that I planned to hitchhike through Kyrgyzstan. Not from a safety point of view—although the British Foreign Office was currently advising against all but essential travel to the country due to several violent uprisings—but from a feasibility standpoint. According to the transport section of their guidebooks, hitchhiking in Kyrgyzstan was impossible. It was, supposedly, a common sight to see people standing by the side of the road asking for a ride, but they were always expected to pay for the privilege.

  I wasn’t convinced.

  Given that the note I’d handed to drivers through China had worked so well, I was confident a Kyrgyz one would do likewise. However, my responses from couchsurfers in Kyrgyzstan weren’t that optimistic:

  . . . your plans are great but in Kyrgyzstan it’s impossible. I am here since 6 years but never seen drivers help a stranger without money.

  Greetings from Kyrgyzstan, its soundz very exciting that u r travelling from Australia to London hitchin! Unfortunately . . . if there is a driver who interested in talking wt a foreigner, he would only do it for pay.

  Despite these naysayers, I received several translations of my note both in Kyrgyz and Russian—apparently, people in rural areas knew primarily only Kyrgyz, whereas in urban areas Russian was the most widely understood. In addition to the translations, I received an offer of accommodation from a young American guy called Charlie who was currently living and working in the country’s capital, Bishkek.

  After forty-five minutes I got to put my note to the test. A medium-sized truck pulled up at the checkpoint. Sitting inside were two guys in their thirties. Handing the driver a note, I scanned his reactions as he read its contents, trying to work out his decision before he gave it. With a nod of approval he gestured me on board. I double-checked that he understood I was asking for a free ride, then clambered in, perching myself on the bed behind the two occupied front seats—so much for hitchhiking being impossible in Kyrgyzstan. With a heartfelt wave, I bade goodbye to the guys at the checkpoint and began my journey westward.

  Neither of my new companions spoke any English but it was easy enough to ascertain their names, Benoit and Hamid, and where they were going: Osh, the country’s second largest city, near the border with Uzbekistan. Being such a small country, there was no British Embassy in Kyrgyzstan, but the British Foreign Office website had some interesting travel advice on my next destination:

  We advise against all but essential travel to. . . Osh and Jalal-Abad. An evacuation of British nationals from Osh was completed on 15 June. Any British nationals remaining in these regions should exercise extreme caution and maintain close contact with the British Embassy Office in Almaty [in neighboring Kazakhstan] and the British Embassy in Astana [also in Kazakhstan].

  I wasn’t going to be bothering with any of that nonsense, and it certainly didn’t seem reason enough to prevent me from hitchhiking to or from the place, but it did give me pause for thought. The Foreign Office assessment went on:

  Official reports suggest that nearly 300 people died during violence in Osh and Jalal-Abad Oblasts in June, but others put the figure at nearer to 2,000.

  Other advice included: “Due to the recent violent unrest in Kyrgyzstan, British nationals in Kyrgyzstan should avoid flagging down taxis;” “Wherever possible you should use main roads when travelling. . . and continue to avoid large crowds even if in a vehicle;” “Taking photos of anything that could be perceived as being of military or security interest may result in problems with the authorities;” and my favorite, especially for a hitchhiker: “Be wary of any strangers offering assistance or being over-friendly.”

  We made our way along a twisting, high altitude, deteriorating mountain road, with large tracts consisting of snow-covered gravel. If the Kyrgyz landscape has one thing, it’s mountains. Ninety-four percent of the country is mountainous, with an average elevation of slightly over nine thousand feet. Roughly forty percent is above ten thousand feet, and seventy-five percent of that, buried under a constant covering of snow and glaciers. The scenery of Kyrgyzstan is, to put it bluntly, bloody marvellous.

  Soon a clear night sky replaced a raging sunset and the world turned black outside, broken only by the blazing stars and occasional orange-glowing windo
ws of remote mountain villages. It was hard to categorize, but the houses looked distinctly different to those in China, more European perhaps, bestowing a sort of vague familiarity on the scene. I was a long way from home, but it made me feel on the home stretch for the very first time.

  Around midnight we came to a halt at a tiny backcountry truck stop. As I stepped out of the truck and looked up into the cold clear sky, I was taken aback. The stars were magnificent, the best I’d seen since sailing out of Hobart; there was a depth and complexity to the sky that was so very inspiring and uplifting, and I stood for a while transfixed. I might have been tired from a long day on the road, but I was delighted to be exactly where I was at this moment.

  Inside we settled down to a hearty meal—my first of the day—of thick pasta-like noodles served with meat and vegetables, and drank tea from dainty little porcelain cups, now coming with sugar. As we finished up, Benoit, the driver, called someone on his cell phone and handed it to me.

  “My friend would like to gift you bed for the night. No charge,” said the voice on the other end.

  I accepted and asked him to pass on my thanks.

  At 4 a.m. we arrived, pulling up outside a medium sized two-story house at the end of a dark, potholed, residential cul de sac in Osh. By now we had dropped Hamid off in another part of the city. Like cat burglars, we crept inside, making every effort to avoid waking the rest of the family as we climbed a flight of creaking stairs. Just off the landing was a small room with a roll-out mattress set up on the floor, complete with fluffy pillows and a thick duvet. Benoit waved goodnight and departed, closing the door behind him. No sooner had my head hit the pillow than I was out.

  A nearby cockerel’s crowing announced the arrival of the dawn, followed, soon after, by dusty shafts of light seeping into the room through gaps in the curtains. I desperately wanted more sleep but it wasn’t to be. Benoit stuck his head in and gestured for me to follow him next door. Here, in a small, sparsely furnished sitting room, was the rest of the family: Benoit’s wife, two young toddler sons, an elderly mother and, I think, sister. They all sat on a rug on the floor in front of a patterned tablecloth where breakfast was laid out. The old woman, or babushka, as they are known affectionately in Kyrgyzstan, indicated that I should join them. With a gracious nod and a hand on my heart I sat down to a meal of bread, thick-grained brown rice and preserved cherries with the pit still in them.