The Five Stans
(and a bit of Afghanistan)
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June 7, 2015 to July 15, 2015
JUNE 7, 2015 to JUNE 10, 2015 Kazakstan
ALMATY, KAZAKHSTAN
We are here only to get visas for some of the other countries on the trip.
Marat picks us and our bleary eyes at the airport after a night flight from Turkey, drops us off at the hotel, then disappears. Travel buddy Luis, and Nicole, untested travel buddy from Colombia, are here already. Breakfast is starchy, then pinkish, then fatty. Beds are better. Nicole is bright, and good company. She found us because of our inquiries about Central Asia on Trip Advisor. Adding a fourth cut expenses, she is well-traveled, and seems flexible.
An afternoon walk reveals a lovely city with mountains,
snow-tipped up high, spring like down here.
On our second morning we skip pinkish fat things and head for
Endoro, a restaurant hyped in Lonely Planet. The food is delicious. Urbane,
sophisticated Yeldos chats us up, treats us to breakfast. He adopts us, piles
us into his Range Rover and swoops us up into the snows, our first in many
years. Only much later do we figure out
he is the owner of Endoro.
She is a bit of a diva. We rotate between sitting in the roomy front
seat and being ‘cosier’ in the rear seat. Today she shrieks ‘Yesterday, I never
got to sit up front’. She’s right, but then: ‘and today I demand to sit up
there’. She just about stamps her feet. Message appreciated, method? Not. We
agree to rotate on a strict watch-driven schedule. Her turn goes first, as it
should.
JUNE 11, 2015 TO JUNE 17, 2015
- KYRGYZSTAN
AZAMAT, OUR DRIVER AND GUIDE FROM KAZAKSTEN THROUGH KYRGYZSTAN
Handsome Azamat pulls out of our parking spot in front of the
hotel turns slightly and is immediately whistled to stop by the local
gendarmerie. The front of the car is
heading the wrong way on this one-way street. There are no signs, of course,
just predatory police. Duty paid, Azamat shrubs, and off we go., heading the
right way.
The landscape quickly becomes dry and wrenched geology at Jeti
Oguz and Skosska Canyon. A young Kazakh, trying out his English for the first
time, is puppy-dog friendly. He shows us pictures of his identical twin sons. A
thumbs up seems appropriate.
Then…
The camouflaged
Refrigerator...
... walks slowly down the road towards us, military boots
scaring up dust. This guy is huge, square and not smiling. Behind him a very
large wolf-like thing makes immense sounds and strains its chain in our
direction.
We are in a no man's land in Central Asia, precisely on the
border between Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan. If this were a map we'd be stuck on
the black line between the 2 countries. Our driver, the unflappable, low-key,
(and handsome) Azamat, has been sucked into the border patrol station to get
permission for us to leave Kazakhstan. With him are our passports.
It's just us, the dust, the Hound of the Baskervilles, and
the looming refrigerator.
He's at least six feet four, both north and south and east
and west, easily the commercial double door model, this one with a sculpted
Central Asian face and flawless skin. I change my opinion. He is refrigerator
only on his mother's side. His father is Ghenghis Khan, aka Scourge of Asia,
not known in these parts for his sense of humor or warm fuzzy welcomes.
On the right side of his yard- wide chest is a scramble of
Russian letters. His name? The Russian
word for Refrigerator is apparently much shorter than the English word. Perhaps
the letters stand for GE? I go with that: Ghengiz the Enormous. A yard away on
the other side of his chest are the symbols A and Rh+, his blood type. Oh
goodie, says I, blood will be involved. Should transfusions be on the schedule
it would be a one-way drain ....my Type O blood into his and apologies in the
other direction. Things are not looking up.
He looms close and high, features frozen, and whips out a
cellphone, aiming it at us. Any Facebook indiscretions in the house? What we
see is an image that makes no sense, below it a dozen English letters and 8
empty boxes. Do we need to sign our names? Clearly not. Francescone is too
long. The others are too short. And none of the letters match. Clueless, we opt
for blank, but hopeful, faces. Disappointed, he whips out a pen and paper and
carefully draws an object that, not to put as fine a point on it as he does,
any knife wielding rabbi would recognize. GE...'Generously Endowed'?
So, here we are in the wilds of Kazakhstan-Uzbekistan with no
passports, no local currency for 'private arrangements' (aka bribes, ransoms,
....), essentially up the proverbial creek, with the Hound of the Baskervilles
howling and lunging at us, and with a sober-faced, possibly vampiric, non-
English speaking giant refrigerator-cum-border guard who draws pornographic
pictures as a calling card. Even for us, with hundreds of border crossings
among us, this is a new one.
We stare at the screen, then the drawing, then the scramble
of letters. It hits us: he's showing us
a word game! He wants us to arrange
letters in the boxes to identify the image hidden in the pixilated mess at the
top of the screen. An intelligence test
is required to leave Kazakhstan? Can this possibly get any weirder? Oh well,
When in Rome....
Four pairs of eyes stare at the screen anew. And, the correct
answer hidden in the jumble of letters, hinted at in the drawing, is
...MUSHROOM! We fill it in. A huge smile ripples across his face, grows
huge. Our Refrigerator isn't Genghiz the
Enormous, pervert, after all! Bad artist? Yes. Dirty young man? Far from it.
Genghiz flees over the steppes of our first impressions, and in his place is
the Dalai Lama, in all his beaming beneficence. GE...'Gentle Eminence'?
We play the game for half an hour, screen after screen,
demonstrating some intelligence. Beaming
encouragement like an avuncular game show host, GE gives us action or sound
clues to the images. We fill in the boxes.
More beams. His clues for grasshopper, chicken, and especially
butterfly, are endearingly goofy. That's a lot of Mongol Muscle to flutter, but
flutter he does. GE....'Goofily Endearing'? It works for me.
He is so proud of us he gives us all chocolates. The smile is
broad and non-stop, sweet, gentle, and innocent. The experience? Surreal.
Azamat returns with our passports,
approved to lead us from the Kazakhstan side of the black line. Smiles and
handshakes abound. We stop short of hugs. It would take two of us to
circumnavigate GE. We leave Kazakhstan,
walk into Kyrgyzstan, get our stamps of approval. GE watches, waves...then
releases the Hound of the Baskervilles. It's clearly crazy...about him. It squeals
and leaps and yelps. He squats to pick up a rock. Hound licks his face and does
that doggy, head down, rump up, I'm ready to play, thing all dogs learn in
Puppy Cute School. Our last sight of Kazakhstan is the smiling Dalai Lama
playing go fetch with a wiggle-bottomed Lassie, scattering first impressions
into the dust.
June 12, 2015 - Getting felt up in
Kyrgyzstan…
…is very different from getting felt
up, in, say, the Tokyo or New York subway. Different, though not as much fun,
and a hell of a lot more interesting. It involves sheep, a round house, and
some flapping. I give the experience a million-star rating. Details on demand in
person.
We pass through six feet of snow and
we sleep in a yurt.
June 13, 2015 - Chychkan and Osun
There’s a wedding going on and a buxom young lady is singing
her heart out over the accordion of her besotted accompanist. All around us the
mountain weeps torrents that rush around the tiny peninsula hanging over the
swirling iced water. Pink trout, freshly leaped from glacial water to our plates
via a truly gifted kitchen is sublime. Azamat offers me fermented mare’s milk.
Think thin yoghurt. Do not think about the horse. Thickened and rolled into
ping pong balls, it is also a munchie of choice to go with local beer. It
works.
AZAMAT, LUIS AND WE ENJOYED FRESH TROUT FROM THAT GLACIAL RIVER FOR SUPPER THIS EVENING
The
landscape is stunning, a geology textbook. Seer, sharp, steely, snow covered
mountains loom over ochre canyons, blue crystal lakes and green velvet valleys.
Fantasies of Shangri-La drive our camera-clicking fingers.
.
June 14, 2015
We’re on our own in this lovely city, our last with Azamat. There are no other obvious tourists.
Bubble gum ice cream is about what we think it will be: an experience not likely to be repeated. But the café is neat, friendly, and we need to rest our feet.
Lenin pontificates dramatically in bronze over Lenin square. A boy on his bicycle rides by, his arms flying upwards in the classic ‘Look, Ma, no hands’ gesture, the statue too big, and, like Lenin, too remote.
A super-friendly guy serves us coffee from his kiosk, the Soviet days, like Lenin, remote.
The day, already stuffed with color, and lives, and textures,
holds even bigger thrills. Azamat, no longer our driver/guide, comes by the
hotel, grabs us, and hauls us off to a Kyrgyz wedding. He doesn’t know the
bride, or the groom, or anyone in the wedding, but has crashed it, and takes a
cab across the city to grab us and brings us along on his vodka-fueled
coattails. We are guests of honor,
dragged up to give toasts –in English—to an audience that speaks only Kyrgyz,
and Russian, and ein
bischen Deutsch. No matter! We add to the hoopla and memories to this day and
that’s what counts…to all of us.
The bride and groom are
stunningly beautiful and handsome, with the sweet open faces of the Kyrgyz. We
get totally blitzed. On food and liquid fire. Anything else would be rude. This
gets us a thumbs up from Azamat.
TAJIKISTAN
JUNE 16, 2015 to JUNE 26, 2015
Our driver is Ashraf.
We meet Eric, a French guy riding his motorcycle from Europe,
and re much impressed with the eat. Then we see some guys riding their bicycles
from Europe…and meet Matchi, who is hitching rides from Poland to China. The
Polish guy who needed ride.
June 17
At 15,000 feet we cross the highest
pass on our trip, and a statue of a white horse.
June 18
From Murgab
The salt lake is very deep, and stuck
up here at 4300 meters.
JUNE 19 - Langar
We stay in a village, humbled by the immensity of the Hindu
Kush. The family baby gives Dennis candy, but isn’t too sure about me. Our
shower helps that, I think.
A truck rumbles by, then into the compound, delivering goods
down the gravel road from faraway Dushanbe.
These are the Wakhan people, handsome
even among he truly handsome people of Tajikistan. Photos are inevitable…as if
the kid who trots out his English to ask me what my name is.
JUNE 19 - Langar
Two miles above me ....and across the Pamir River...the 4-mile
high glacier tipped fingernails of the lower Hindu Kush (Killers of Hindus),
searingly white against the blue canopy, scratch towards the stratosphere.
Behind me, even the lower monoliths of Tajikistan challenge the clouds. Weeping
great torrents of melted snow and ice and tiny sparkles of sediment, they water
and fertilize the wheat fields and fruit trees
of the valley before sinking downward to join rivers and eventually drop dusty
memories of the peaks into the sea. In the roar of water are the whispers of
mountains to be.
We are in the Wakhan Corridor, a narrow strip of colonial era
British and Russian arrogance that separates Tajikistan and Afghanistan. A five
minute walk and 2 minute frigid dip in the Pamir River would put me in that
country, 'Killer of Empires', unconquered. Beyond Afghanistan is Pakistan and
the East. The West ends here. This is as far as Alexander got in his ego driven
march from Greece 2300 years ago. Its beauty may have stunned even him.
We have spent the night at a homestay in the village of
Langar, perhaps one of the most prodigiously beautiful spots on earth.
This morning the others have opted for a climb up another
thousand feet to see Bronze Age petroglyphs. Knees and lungs overrule the brain
and I stay behind to wander through the village.
Layered down the steep slope to the river, the village is not
architecture but something more fundamental, grown out of nature, and like all
great human solutions, inevitable. This is the way the houses in this place
should be, of the mountains (stones) and earth (mud bricks). They are flat
roofed and undemonstrative, humbled by the Hindu Kush.
I walk down paths between the mud and stone walls, the dust
tamed by dew. Unshorn hummocks of wild roses sweeten the cool air. Water,
captured from the mountain torrents, is everywhere, flowing, flooding. Narrow
irrigation channels carry the massaging sibilants of the running water. This is
the sound that my memory tags onto these villages and all of Tajikistan.
An irrigation channel edges my path. A teenager plops a stone
into the flow. It diverts under a fence to nourish his wheat field. He notices
me with a smile and a nod. Like most of the people in the valley, he is
exotically handsome. (As Luis says 'Even
Sophia Loren would be ordinary here'.) One strand of the fabled Silk Road ran
through here. Millennia of traders, travelers, invaders have left their genes.
His handsome face is the happy result, a distillation, the best of humankind.
His smile and gentle right-arm-over-his-heart gesture are pure Pamiri.
Returning his smile and greeting, I step across the flow to
look at his field and mountains beyond. My footsteps release waves of wild sage.
Later, I wait for the others at the 'village store'. It's a
row of colorful dresses and somber trousers hanging on a clothesline behind a
narrow wooden bench. Huge trees provide
a roof and shade. Running water is the soundtrack.
'My name is Ruslan' says the 12 year old manager.
Need gum, candy, electric tape, socks (thin, from China or
thick, colorful and hand knit in the village), batteries, phone cards, a string
of sausages (of a lurid and toxic shade of pink)? Come to Ruslan. Many do in
the hour I sit there in the shade. Some take their change in bubble gum or
candy.
Two miles above me new waters start their journey.
The border guard takes our passports...
...and stuffs them into a pocket in his camouflage uniform.
Maybe 20, he tries to look official and stern, but his handsome peach-fuzzed
and guileless face defeats him. He almost smiles as he gestures for us to
continue. We trust him with our passports, turn and cross out of Tajikistan
and, like Alexander 2300 years ago, cross the Oxus River and enter
Trans-Oxiana. The names have changed. The Oxus River Is now the Panj.
TransOxiana is now Afghanistan.
In the 44 years since my last trip here (though that was way
to the south and east beyond the Hindu Kush) Afghanistan has been at war. The
Russians invaded, the Afghans defended, the US supplied the rebels with weapons
to fight the Russians. After a decade of death and destruction, the Russians,
like every invader before them left, defeated. The rebels became the Taliban
and created a repressive extremist fundamentalist Islamic state that enslaved women.
The US invaded. The Taliban fought back with the same weapons the US had given
them to fight the Russians. The Taliban are driven out of Kabul, the capital. A
hazy government claims control of the country. And so it goes, as it has for
millennia. Afghanistan has never been totally defeated.
The Hindu Kush protected the lands to the south in the past.
It protected this northern valley from the violence of the last several
decades. It's a safe place to travel and also perhaps among the most
traditional parts of the country. Oriz says 'It looks just like
Tajikistan...but 500 to a thousand years ago. There are no roads, only paths
and no cars, only camels'. Who could resist crossing that bridge?
This river valley, whatever its name, was for thousands of
years one of the strands in the complex braid of trade routes we in the west
called the Silk Road, linking China and Europe and thousands of villages and
cities in between. Here it was simply the road from this village to the next
one for traders carrying the stuff of life.
The trading pattern endures. One day a week, at the few spots
along the river where there are bridges, the border between Tajikistan and
Afghanistan disappears. Culture, history, and need trump politics. A huge market takes over the Afghan shore of
the Oxus/Panj. The goods are primarily essentials: pots, pans, soap, towels,
the western style clothing of the young. Much, if not most, of it is ugly and
poor quality effluvia of China's vast industries, flowing down the valley from
Afghanistan's narrow connection with far southwestern China at the eastern end
of the Wakhan Corridor. Sublime silks (more valuable in Rome than gold back
then), exquisite porcelains, furs, knowledge have been replaced by sleazy
synthetics, plastic buckets, cheap 'hoodies', and really short-living cell
phone batteries. It's what these people want and can afford.
There are some flat topped felt Afghan hats and sheepskin
vests, (fleece intact) piled on the ground. Oriz, our guide, buys one of each
for a few dollars, as gifts. Large rectangles of low quality but bright red and
patterned wool carpets from Iran patchwork a field next to the covered market.
Tajiks use them on the large platforms that serve as dining rooms and beds in
homes and restaurants. We've eaten on them, sitting cross legged.
A thousand years ago traders carried ethereal scrolls of
brush and ink landscapes on paper or silk. Today, a flat-hatted cajoler drapes
a huge image of a pine tree over his shoulder. It's one end of a forest printed
on plastic 'cloth', a cash and carry landscape of whatever length that fits.
We've drunk tea and slept under these shiny murals in the guest houses.
Tourist trinkets are few. The Tajik don't need them and very
few foreigners get here. Nicole, the sole woman of us four, finds two rings
that fit her slender fingers. We pass.
The Afghan traders, mostly men, are dressed traditionally in
tunics and trousers under woolen vests and topped by flat wool caps. Are only
the handsome ones given market permits? '90% of the men here are drop- dead
gorgeous' drools Nicole. 'I think I should move to Afghanistan'.
I think it’s more like 95 percent. A quartet, tall, ruggedly
handsome, strides by. Two have eyes of ice blue. While brown eyes, straight
dark hair and bronze skin are the handsome rule, the rule breakers are heart
breakers: eyes from grey to golden to hazel to ice blue to my favorite...and
the rarest...jade green...smolder below thick dark eyebrows and long lashes and
out of faces, creamy to caramel, some framed in long soft ringlets. These are faces, all strong and memorable.
It has taken thousands of years for our human DNA, crossing and recrossing
barriers, to produce this glory. Is this what we'll all look like in the far
future when DNA has been given its full run?
We wander in the crowd. The languages, Tajik, Afghan, Russian
(the lingua franca of the former Soviet Republics north of the river) are
impenetrable background noise, though we get the gist: See this! Good price!
Take a look! This is not meant for us. We
are largely ignored, not likely to be customers. But, a few guys want to pose with us.
Then, out of the din: 'Welcome. Where are you from?' He's a
middle-aged man, bearded, and distinguished in his traditional tunic, trousers,
vest and flat hat. He us a teacher of literature. His English is serviceable. What
he wants to tell us is clear: 'The Taliban very bad. They do not let women go
to work or school.' And shakes his head. There is great sadness in his face.
What can I say to someone who has lived through that horror and who knows it
exists still? He says goodbye gently, with that sweet hand over heart gesture
that so moves us. It seems to me he may be holding his heart from breaking.
I take few pictures after that and none that support my impressions. It feels intrusive. Nicole has a major zoom and promises to send me some of her photos. I can photo shop through her drool.
Three hours after surrendering our passports to our border
guard we cross back out of Afghanistan. He's still there at the Tajik side of
the bridge. Smiling slightly, he retrieves our passports from the same pocket,
nods, and waves us into Tajikistan.
'We will go back again, you know', whispers Luis in my ear.
'How about Spring 2016'?
Later, in the Lal Hotel we watch the
owner’s pigeons fluff and bluff one another, feathery whispers below the roar
of the glacial stream outside.
JUNE 21
The botanical garden is lush in this wet valley. We sit by
the river, much less of a rush than it is, and sip tea.
Ashraf, driver extraordinaire,
Harrison Ford lookalike, Is sick. We told him: “Do NOT eat those sausages.”
JUNE 22 KHOROG MARKET
Our new driver, taking over from sick Ashraf is Dema. He looks
about 18
We stop for lunch by the side of the road in a narrow gorge.
The owner/waiter is staggeringly handsome. We are impressed. Nicole drools.
All around us, water is rushing
June 23 Kala Khum village
This is a lovely place on a rumbling tributary. Mountains
catch sunlight waaay above us, filter it down gently over the prosperous town,
silently. The village has the feel and
look of a showplace. But a nice place to break the long trip to the capital. Flowers—mostly
roses--- are everywhere, lining the main street and climbing up and over two women
hauling water and washing the steps of a neat, squared away house. Like many of
the women they wear multi flowered and colored muumuus with trousers. A man and
woman add day lilies to the mix.
There are lots of monuments, a tiny kiddie park, and a big
hotel in the works. Our first ATM in many days blinks across the flowers. The stoplight
is on a timer. There is no traffic, but the lone car stops anyway.
There is no sign for the guesthouse. We turn left just before
bridge into small side street/alley. On the right is a ramp leading downwards. We
follow it into the house. The hot shower is spotless, in its own space from the
toilets. Each room has several beds. The owner has very little English to
offer, but he doesn’t need it. The guest house hangs over the torrent. He
serves great food: soup , stuffed peppers, great french fries….and Baltic beer.
We 3 drink 3 bottles, get semi-looped. We recover by breakfast to slurp down great
fried eggs and cream.
Ashraf decides his dietary indiscretion is a thing of the
past and wants to drive. Dema rides along as insurance.
We leave the Pamirs, the Hindu Kush, Wakhan and Afghanistan
and turn towards Dushanbe...and into the heat.
Much later, I'm eating chicken "chachicatore' in an
Irish pub in Dushambe, Tajikistan, Central Asia. The music is Dixieland. Desert
is chocolate cheesecake with whipped cream. Life is good...strange...but good.
June 24 and 25 – Dushanbe
We wander in this lovely tree-filled city, drink beer, sing a silent aria in front of the opera house, and miss the wilds of the preceding days.
JUNE 26, 2015 to JUNE 30, 2015
June 26 UZBEKISTAN
My Life on The Black Line, Part One:
The brawny, bald border guard....
...leads me into a tiny room, clicks the door shut, turns,
and gestures with one very large hand towards the high, body length, (paper
covered?) padded table (like the one in your favorite doctor's office).
'Mister', he beams, and walks towards me, long fingers and powerful arms
leading the way....
Today is another trek across a border, the one between
Tajikistan and Uzbekistan. Not the friendliest of former siblings in the Soviet
Union, they've drawn a very wide black line between themselves on the world
map, a real No Man's Land. We will be dropped by our driver and guide on the
Tajik side. We have to cross it on our own. Another driver awaits in
Uzbekistan.
It's a piece of cake, we think.
Ashraf (aka the Sultan), our rangy, affable, Harrison Ford
lookalike Tajikistan driver, comes to the hotel to say goodbye. Smiles, and
good wishes, handshakes (and a quietly slipped tip) thank him. He has been a
humorous and skillful companion over many miles of bumpy road. Slight and
waif-like Dema, who drove us for a day while Ashraf recovered from a nasty belly
bug (we're betting on the very suspicious looking piece of too-long dead zombie
sheep that crept onto his plate at one of our munchy stops ), and then rode
along for another day in case the bugs did an encore, is surprised when we pass him a well-deserved tip. They'll drive for 2 days to get home. I
hope they find other travelers to drive. Is driving their only income? I never
asked.
We get a new driver to the border with Uzbekistan. He’s
another handsome gift from this ecumenical gene pool, muscular, with perfect
skin, proof that a diet heavy in red mat, starch and dairy might just have some
advantages…if the genes are right. He takes over for the hour drive to the
white barrier that we think is the end of Tajikistan. Backpacks unloaded and
accounted for, we mill a bit, not sure how to say goodbye to Oriz. He's off to
adventures in Utah and then the Grand Canyon in a few months (the Visa Gods
willing). We invite him again to visit us in Florida. It's not likely he'll
turn up in the Florida flats. Mountains and adventure are his thing.
Daypacks attached, dragging backpacks on wheels with one
hand, we slip under the barrier and enter the No Man's Land of the black line
on the map. It's 101 degrees.
I'm clutching a bag of dried fruit and nuts, goodies for the
road. And it looks like we'll need them. There are no signs. The land is flat, the road a straight arrow
to ....where? In the very far distance,
through the shimmer of 100-plus degree heat are a few bumps we hope are
Uzbekistan. Logic suggests yes. Politics screams No.
We walk and drag. And drag...through pot holes and around
barriers. The bumps become small buildings. Locked. Uzbekistan? Not. No.signs.
We go around more barriers, drag on in the heat. (Is that the theme from
Twilight Zone I hear?) Our bags now weigh at least 500 pounds, sorry, 225
kilos. 102 degrees.
Yet another gate post looms, misleading Cyrillic letters
scrawling across it. So that's how you say 'Abandon hope all ye who enter here'
in Russian. We enter. Two desks, two
differently uniformed women and two large ledgers await us. At last, we think: the border, with an
official from each country. Not a
chance. One woman manually records our passport info and ask us if we have any
money. It's not a shakedown. It's Tajikistan customs control. Or maybe she's
just nosey or bored. Not much else is going on to amuse her. We expect the
other woman to be passport control, exit stamp at the ready. Not. She waves us
out the door.
We pass another tiny building, locked. In the heat I
hallucinate that maybe I should explore importing locks into the black lines.
There's a market. The hut beyond is not locked (see, there is a market or locks),
has a sleepy guard who gestures 'thataway'.
We are the only people on the road.
(The Twilight Zone theme is getting louder.) Large painted footsteps and
an arrow cross the pavement, pointing us to the right. We follow them into yet
another small building. Officials are waiting, cautious and eagle-eyed, to read
through every page, visa, date, and stamp in our passports. Satisfied that we
have never over stayed our welcome in Zimbabwe, Peru, Costa Rica, etc., they
thump their Good Traveler cachet onto the Tajikistan visa and wave us on and
out
Stamped, we are officially no longer the business of
Tajikistan. Maybe. No one speaks English. Perhaps I have just gotten married.
They still practice marriage by abduction in remote rural areas. I look around.
Remote? Check. Rural? Check. Those ARE
camels and cows. Is some babushka topped grandma waiting ahead, my very own
Bountiful Babushka Babe, fleshy arms outstretched, platters of wedding rice
plov at the ready? Do I have enough clean underwear for a honeymoon on the
black line? Time and more over- heated steps in the dust will tell.
My Life on The Black Line, Part Two
We drag out of the building (and, presumably, Tajikistan, but
not taking any bets). No Babushka Babe in sight. We step over a supremely
comfortable and large dog, snoozing, with canine indifference, on what is
perhaps an international border. She is
fuzzily related to Lassie/Hound of the Baskervilles, Border Doggy at the
Kazakhstan/Kyrgyzstan border, though filtered through several generations of
backyard doggy indiscretions. Head down, she raises her eyes. The message is clear: Go Fetch? In this heat?
I don't think so. She thumps a fluffy
tail once and goes back to sleep, Border Collie credentials eternally
compromised.
103 degrees. We stumble on, officially no longer in
Tajikistan, our one-time entry visa used up, and not yet in Uzbekistan, a
country rather picky about who it lets in even with an expensive $160 multi
-entry visa cluttering up one of the few remaining empty pages in our
passports. I wonder again: do I have enough clean underwear for my honeymoon
here on the black line, undocumented and newly wed? (The Twilight Zone Theme
gets louder.)
Another white building ahead has official looking doors, and
they are unlocked. Inside, is the familiar passport control ambiance. I slip my
bulging passport through the wicket. And wait. And wait. Mr.Passport Control
turns every page and takes The Grand
Tour reading every visa top to bottom, looks at me. Looks at me again. Turns a
page. Reads some more. Sighs. Stares. Stamps. I am in Uzbekistan.
Oops, not quite.
On the other side of the Passport Guy's wicket is another
room. I enter. A babushka turns and smiles. Uh oh, what's the Russian for 'Your
new hubby is the other guy, the one with the charming Spanish accent'. She ignores me. Other babushkas are filling
out forms. This looks familiar and promising, must be customs forms. This I
know. Surprise! The forms are in Russian. Only. Another marriage contract?
Ticket to Siberia? This could get creative. There's an example posted of how
one Alexei Neverseenagainanov filled out his form. The answers are in Russian
but I sort of figure them out, emphasis on the sort of. That looks like a
birthdate. That looks like a passport number. That looks like another date. Entry?
Exit? Flight to Siberia? I stumble
through the Cyrillic and think I work out something that looks like 'marriage
date', but probably isn't. Still, I'm approaching this thing cautiously. It
could be 'departure date'.
A Hobbit-sized bearded smile taps me on the shoulder holds up
a form, a pen, points at his vested and ample tunic-ed chest, then to me. He
wants me to fill out his form for him. Surely he jests. I make it clear that
maybe this isn't such a good idea, but he keeps jabbing me with the form and
pen. So, I set about it, hoping I am making his reservation to one of the nicer
places in Siberia. I've just copied his name and birthdate from his passport
when False Babushka Babe comes to the rescue, smiles, takes pen, form and Bilbo
Baggins off my hands. I think she's been watching all along to see just how
deep a hole I would dig for myself and/or to get enough story to amuse the
girls back at the babushka factory. Or maybe she decides the hobbit is better
husband material than this foreign bozo the passport guy signed her up for.
Freed, I search the room and find one form in English and an
example of what a completed firm should look like. There are no Siberian cities
listed.
Now what? A half dozen folk are crowded against a door in a
windowed wall waving forms at official looking types on the other side.
The door cracks and out walks a guy who looks
like a combo of a little part bald headed Mr. Clean, (minus the earring), and a
lot of Yul Brynner as the King of Siam, (plus a shirt)...with a big Jack
Nicholson smile thrown in. I'm impressed. 'Mister', he says, 'I need two forms,
one for you one for me'. I swear I hear the King add 'Etcetera, etcetera', just
like Yul did in the movie. I point out that there is not even one etcetera
because there are no more
forms...and there are 3 more of us in passport limbo back thataway. Beaming a
cinemascope-worthy smile he leads me through the Babushka Brigade, through the
door, and into the inner sanctum of customs control, in theory my last stop
before entering Uzbekistan. This should be easy, I think. I have the King of
Siam on my side.
Not.
First, we fill out a second form, mine to keep. His English
is up to asking some questions, not quite up to understanding the answers.
Eventually we come to agreement that there are more of us out at passport
control and they'll need forms, too. Ok, Mister. He turns up the wattage,
issues orders and forms disappear through the glass door and past the Babushka
Brigade outside, tired of waiting and threatening invasion. I am inside and
clearly in good hands. Very BIG hands.
Then The Examination begins.
Part Three
Ever beaming, Big, Bronze, Bald, and Brawny (aka Mr. Clean)
sorts through my bag. Each of my meds is x-rayed by those eyes and questioned.
We've been warned in the guidebooks: Never even hint at anything that could
mean meds for pain or the head. Lisinopril? I point to a vein in my arm.
Glucosomine? I blame the knees. Simvistatin...becomes a remedy described by
hand waving over stomach. JetZone? It's for jet lag, but I mime a plane and
upset stomach. It occurs to me that the performance could also suggest I am
pregnant, but he's smart and figures that isn't likely.
I put on my best ' l'il Ole me is pure as the driven snow'
smile forgetting that snow probably isn't a functioning concept at 105 degrees.
The way Mr. Clean keeps looking at me I suspect the smile is coming across more
as ' I've taken some serious mood elevators here and they're really
working...Dude'.
My bags pass inspection. B, B, B and B carefully repacks
them.
Now, it's Phone Time. Expert long fingers zoom over the
buttons on my mobile, stop at 'Gallery'. I have over 5000 pictures. He scans
every single picture. Curiosity dithers
over the Taiwan photos, but he moves on. Eventually. The videos, thankfully
few, come next, pass muster. Picasa albums are a puzzlement. With no internet
connection the photos are grey blanks. His eyes are not. Suspicion reigns. A
long look follows. Then a beam and a big 'Mister. OK'. I thank him, pocket the
phone, pick up my bag and turn towards Uzbekistan. 'Mister'. I turn back. He
points at a door to a room way off the Freedom Trail. Is this where Babushka
Babe awaits her new hubby?
The brawny bald border guard leads me into a tiny room,
clicks the door shut, turns, and gestures with one very large hand towards the
high, body length, (paper covered?) padded table (like the one in your favorite
doctor's office). 'Mister', he beams and walks towards me, long fingers and
powerful arms leading the way. ...and puts my bags on the table. Expert hands
then gives me a body search, a very thorough body search. It's not the Mother of
All Body Searches I had many years ago in Tehran airport during the paranoid
security days of the Shah. That one was so er, uh, 'thorough' that for a while
I considered that security guard and me to be engaged, but, he never wrote,
so....No, this one is not that thorough,
but I suspect he can tell Babushka Babe what style of undershorts I
sport.
Satisfied that, whatever I'm packing, it isn't contraband, he
beams, (do I detect a hint of a wink in there?), leads me out of the room to
the exit into Uzbekistan, mega wattage unleashed once again. It's 'Mister,
goodbye', a wave, and...it's probably just a nervous tic in that eye...
With that smile locked onto that physical presence,
professional, and courteous manner, and genuine charm, Big, Bronze, Bald, and
Brawny ought to be the poster boy for Uzbekistan customs. Maybe add the Mr.
Clean gold earring and drop the shirt.
I walk off the black line and into the 106 degree heat of
Uzbekistan. There is no Babushka Babe.
PS: our crossing out of Uzbekistan into Turkmenistan a few
days later made this crossing feel like
a fun-filled stroll. That story is best told in person. Bring drinks.
Our new driver is Rustam. We take
refuge from the heat in an excellent museum, a bar with cold beers. The traffic
police wave red batons. Where the HELL are we??
JUNE 27 To Bukhara
Uzbekistan weavings are famously beautiful. The Boysun Craft Museum
prove it.
A new driver is Bachudir. “Call me Bach, like the composer.” Where the
HELL are we?
JUNE 28 BUKHARA WALKABOUT
We get lost, but a lady in a cookie store takes pity on us
and asks her son to drive us back to the hotel.
There is a lake. And beer. All is well.
JUNE 29
We want to visit the synagogue in this Moslem country. It’s a
long walk followed by a gentle scam extorting $10 from each of us “for
admission” …after we had given a donation to the somnolent rabbi.
I finally find a effusively bright embroidered vest that
fits, all red, and whirling with embroidered design. Eileen and Marilyn get
reefer magnets, deliverable in person when we get back home.
All of Bukhara drips exquisite buildings, but the old
multi-roomed madressa stuns us. As do the people.
JUNE 3O TURKMENISTAN
JULY 1, 2015 to JULY 5, 2015
The local food reveals some historical experimentation. The
pumpkin samosas are as good as the potato knishes.
Our driver/guide is not popular with any of us. He is
arrogant and a show-off. I am, in his words “not a real Italian”…which, of
course, is true, but a truth better absorbed when delivered without a sneer. To
one of his psuedo-truthful archeological generalizations I added ‘I may not be
a real Italian, but I am a real anthropologist, and you are wrong.” I tried not
to sneer. Luis refuses to tip him at the end of the trip. He did a decent
enough job driving, so I did
There are ruins everywhere. This was
Silk Road, Marco Polo, Ghenghis Khan territory. The city of Merv didn’t survive
the latter, is still impressive in size. Luis is ecstatic, retrieves Merv into
his syllabus for his course on Islamic history.
JULY 1 TO ASHGABAT
We get on the road at 5am. It’s a good choice. The air
temperature is already 40 degrees Centigrade, that’s coma-induciing in Fahrenheit
numbers.
The museum is a monument to the ego
of the current President. He is shown piloting an airplane, steering a yacht,
and, yes, performing surgery.
July 2
Ashgabat is science fiction. It is all white stone, gilded
wherever possible, glistening in the heat, soulless. Nearby are the ruins of a pre-Bronze
Age city, with more life.
I get my pants re-tailored with a new
zipper in a ‘atelier’ in the ‘Russky Market’
July 3
Need a ride? Just stand on the curb and wave someone down.
Everyone knows the flat rate anywhere in the city is 5 Manat (about $1/40).
Luis and I visit the various monuments to the ego of the current president. One
looks like a toilet plunger, but the view over the white city is great.
A Turkish restaurant adds new goodies
to our encyclopedic gastronomy tour.
July 4
Our driver is
Shamurat. He braves the 44-degree heat and leads us out to the famous ‘gas
crater’, a spot where a Russian boo-boo broke into a gas line. It has been on
fire ever since. We camp with a hill between us and Hades. The temperature
reaches 50 degrees C. That’s 122 degree F. We are sure it is hotter than that
in the tents. We swim in sweat.
There are
villages out here, with yurts, and camels. Pre-roasted, no doubt.
Shamurat laughs at our snacks of nuts
and raisins. This is carnivore territory, the meat delivered on the hoof. Pre-cooked.
Our Pogo Printer spews pictures. These are a big hit.
July 5
I have no
diary texts, just ramblings
Sweet Turkmen guide for Korean Hyundai woorkers
Konya Urgency old Urgench, destroyed, then flooded then buried.
Highest minaret until 1991 minaret for Turkmen president
turkmenbashi. Urgench minaret it is 63meters
Mausoleum perhaps has Zoroastrians root
Uzbek driver SARRRDAHL
Samarkand driver is Shukrrat.
Alexander the Great is known here, Not So Great, as Alexander
Macedonski.
BACK TO UZBEKISTAN
JULY 6-JULY 14
July 6: KHIVA
Today I finally have enough of
Nicole’s Diva Attitude and wipe her and her attitude from my interactions. She
is smart, and fun enough for an evening, but an entitled brat, so unbearable on
a long haul trip where her demand for privilege is tiresome. I end it all with
‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” She emails Dennis with a ‘I will not
have anything more to do with Bob or Luis’. I am soooo fine with that. Ditto,
Luis, who has long given up on chatting with her in their native Spanish.
The
city---and all of Uzbekistan---treat our eyes and senses.
July 7-12: SAMARKAND
I just never got around to writing posts for these days. I
did make a few notes.
Tomb of Daniel of the Old Testament
We meet a Portuguese speaking pottery maker who has been to Santa
Fe and San Francisco
July 13- 15: TASHKENT
The train is a decent deal. We guys share a room. Diva has
her own, but we store her luggage with ours. I have no antipathy. I just don’t
rent any space to her attitude..
I just never got around to writing posts for these days. I
did make a few notes.
in the GULNARA hotel in IN TASHKENT
Laundry, good clean rooms with water and AC. Laundry returned
same day if sunny.Two shirts, trousers, 1 underwear, 1 pair of socks was 15000
Som...by weight approximation.
Two twin bedded Room.22.is on ground level and farthest from
central courtyard and though it’s.near shared bathroom is quiet.
Lagman House Restaurant is close by: turn left and walk to
big street. It's diagonally across the street with a big WELCOME sign. No
English but the menu has pictures and names and descriptions in miniscule
Russian and Uzbeck letters. Noodle dishes and drink are about 12000 Som. The menu is heavy on dead animals
There's a small supermarket on the corner for simple
supplies.
To get to Chozo bazaar turn right out the door, then left at
the main street. The bazaar is about a 5 minute walk. The Metro stop is inside
the market area.There is a well stocked supermarket right on the main street
before you get to the market.
Old town metro stop is far from place you want to go.
July 13
JUMANJI RESTAURANT IN TASHKENT
HUGE portions. Order soup and appetizer. Glum staff. Lovely
setting with garden.
Museum.of applied arts. Come here before looking at the crap
on sale elsewhere. Pricey but gorgeous.
July 14
Museum.of history is superb but almost too rich.
Timor museum: models of Gur-Amir and Taj. 2 of most beautiful
buildings on the planet.
Surprisingly interesting evocation of a great period in Uzbekistan
history. Something to replace Lenin
The display of exquisite embroidered robes. Is worth the trip
Entrance is a bit tricky. Enter below and to right of wide staircase that looks
like it might be the entrance, but isn’t
Debate: How much should we tip the driver?
If it's $20 a day then 20/3 = $6.67 each per day. Two
days=$13.25 each person.
48 monats=
$13,74= 1 day for 2 of us
The rest in
Uzbek SOMi 55000 som ... $13.75 at 4000
Book about girl living in village - Jamilya
