Tajik Musings...

Rach and I have now scarpered out of the beautiful but difficult country of Tajikistan. For the last phase we made it to Khojand and into the arms of our saviour Neckshoh, son of our host in Penjikent, and his wife Martina (pictured above). Here we sought refuge for a couple of days, wandering the city briefly but mainly revelling in true Tajik hospitality.
We've seen a really schizophrenic side to this country; from the attitude of the border guards on entry, the greed of anybody with transport or the blank looks when asking directions or assistance; to the warm hospitality of Nyasov and his family and the free breakfast from a random Chaikhana owner in Istaravshan! Indeed, the best reception we received was on exiting the country at Kanibadam, where we were plied with vodka and melon by some blokes in a Chaikhana, then spent 10 minutes chatting to the Tajik border guards describing our journey, miming swimming in Iskander Kul and showing off our photos!

So in summary, here are a few of our distilled impressions of Tajikistan:

Loved..
Black grapes, Green chay, Plov, kebabs and fresh nan bread.
Being in cool mountain locations.
Nyasov and his extended family across Tajikistan, where it seems a bed always awaited us!
Kanibadam border guards.

Loathed..
Getting to the cool mountain locations on hair-raising roads in Lada deathtraps.
Russian telly; kitsch western wannabes and copy-cat programmes which don't quite work...
Penjikent border guards.
Tajik hotels; filthy or ex Soviet, none of it's good babe!
The Lonely Planet guide to Central Asia; have they ever been here?

Thanks to Neckshoh and Martina, good luck with the studies and the baby and maybe see you when we come to the Pamirs!

I'm an independent traveller, get me out of here!!...

Right, Tajikistan. Where do I start? Well, firstly we almost didn't get into the country at all. In the tradition of rubbish countries that no-one wants to go to, the border guards were crazed with suspicion and a love of bureaucracy. I had made the fatal error of declaring that I had 150 dollars more than I actually had when ordered to turn out my pockets. After a tense few minutes while the guy tried to guilt us into bribing him (unsuccessfully - we're spending enough money as it is) he finally relented. We were then stuck at the border, in the middle of nowhere about 10k from Penjikent, searching for transport to the nearest town when a dapper local man turned up and invited us to have lunch and stay the night at his house.
Never one to turn down a free lunch, we made him our best mate. A wise move... Penjikent and Tajikistan in general are poorly lacking in both public transport and hotels. We spent a lovely afternoon with Niyazov and his family and three Russian mountain guides, one of whom, Fyodor is ex Russian military and hard as nails. He has kindly invited us to stay with him in Tashkent and we are definitely going to take him up on his offer. He's like no-one else I've ever met.... the three Russians slept outdoors on a charpoy (a sort of bed/bench) with the crappiest mountain kit ever, and it was freezing.
The next morning Niyazov's daughter accompanied us to the local bus station. We were headed for Iskander Kul, Alexander the Great's Lake, supposedly a stunning turquoise lake deep in the Fan Mountains. The bus was the oldest boneshaker in Tajikistan, but at least it was cheap. We spent seven hours travelling through the passes of the Fan Mountains with a motley selection of locals, including two brothers who were fascinated to see our books, guide book and diaries. They were really friendly and shared their sweets an apples with us. My apple was delicious but half a dozen ants crawled out of it while I was eating it. I had to flick them off and try to finish it off...
The bus delivered us as far as a village called Djijik. We were told it was a mere 6 kilometres to Iskander Kul. The lake had become a Holy Grail - to be reached at all costs, using every form of transport.... A friend from the bus (wearing a suit and startling winkle pickers) was heading in the same direction - he asked around for a lift but none was forthcoming. We started to walk. An hour later, it was getting dark and we'd heard reports from the villagers that the lake was everything from 6 to 24 kilometres away. We were having to set a cracking pace and I was going a bit red in the face. Andy was positively glowing with the possibility of a hike in the pitch black, with the possibility of being stuck on the mountain with only his wits and his bloody flint and steel for survival. His idea of bliss... Thank heavens a car screeched to a halt just as it started to get seriously dark, and the three of us piled in. A twenty minute drive over the mountain later and I was really worrying what would have happened had our lift not turned up...
The guest house at the lake was - and I exaggerate not - like something out of a Stephen King novel. Pitch dark, deserted except for 4 Russian men (Government cartographers no less) and three staff. The accomodation was in filthy concrete cabins, called dachas, which had four bedrooms each with two broken single beds with drab grey sheets. It looked like an Auschwitz lager - an impression reinforced on inspection of the communal bathroom block which stank, was crawling with insects and had communal "showers" which were simply holes in a piece of piping stretched across the ceiling. We decided to have a qick glance at the lake in the morning and then high tail it out of there.
Come the morning, we found ourselves staring at an exquisite, desolate, stunning turquoise lake. I should add freezing cold, as reported by Andy who, in his own unique tradition, simply had to go for a swim.
I took the pictures... There really was something special about being the only tourists (and even the only people) within miles and miles. The owner was nowhere to be seen, which was a pity as we had counted on him for a lift back to the village. We decided to start walking and hitchhike.

Four hours later, we had scaled the mountain, fully laden (see picture for route), and were back in the village. We had no water with us (a silly mistake) and had drunk from waterfalls which we occasionally came across on their way to crashing into the Iskander river below us. We ate biscuits which I happened to have in my backpack. Survival on our wits alone! The uphill was really hard but actually the downhill bit was very enjoyable - a relaxing tramp through incredible mountainous countryside albeit with a pack weighing 18 kilos. Ok I know you army people do it all the time, but it was hard! Andy was a pig in the proverbial....
To cut a long story short, after a couple of hours in the village looking for lifts, and two successful hitches, we found ourselves in Ayni, full of hope that our long day would end at our eventual destination in the north, Istaravshan. We found a taxi which was prepared to take us on the 3 hour journey and set off. Unfortunately I had ignored my Golden Rule of taxi drivers (always go with the old guy - they don't drive fast and you can beat them up if they get fresh) and our driver was a 16 year old punk. His wing man appeared to be his little brother. Within minutes of setting off up the mountain road he had veered dangerously close to the precipitous edge whilst taking his hands off the wheel to put his jacket on. I screamed and gave him a piece of my mind. Over the next hour, the road wound up and up, our driver drove like a lunatic and Andy and I had screamed and shouted several times, each time resulted in a full thirty seconds of slower driving before he took off again. We were travelling through the Fan Mountains over the Ayni Pass, which is over 3300 metres high. On one side of the road rose the sheer cliff face, on the other, a sheer drop with no verge, falling down around 600 to 700 metres. The road was full of potholes and our driver swerved all over the road to avoid them. By the time we stopped at the landslide, which was blocking the road, I'm not ashamed to admit I was crying with terror. Landslide shifted, I spent the entire way down the other side (by this time its pitch black) with eyes screwed shut and I-pod blasting soothing music into my ears to try and take my mind off the road ahead.
Despite our driver's best efforts to the contrary, we finally reached our destination in one piece. After inspecting and rejecting the Lonely Planet recommendation (I swear the author has never even been to Tajikistan) as a filthy bordello we settled on an only slightly cleaner guesthouse. At least there was a hot shower - after carefully taking off the brown stained bedding we settled down to sleep. Only to be woken by a man attempting to barrel through the door at three in morning. I won't tell you what I yelled at him from my bed, but Andy was impressed that they were the first words which came to mind, despite having been in a deep sleep only seconds before. We later realised he was trying to rouse us for Ramadan. We proved ourselves true infidels.
Our peace was only to last another three hours. At six, someone started hammering on the door, to the usual response. He went. He came back. We carried on yelling and swearing through the door, refusing to open it. He came back with reinforcements. Andy answered the door - the lad had come to return our passports. Thanks, but do you realise its six in the morning? Blank stare, boy leaves. Back to bed. Five minutes later, hammering begins anew. More swearing. More knocking. Yelling. Man leaves. Man comes back. Repeat ad nauseam. Turns out he wants his money for the room. Andy opens the door just enough to throw 20 Somani at him, the agreed price. All staff should by now be fully conversant in English swear words and should also have got the message that we don't like to be disturbed in the middle of the GODDAMN night. We go back to bed. Men return. Want more money. This time I get up, ready to kill. Two men confronted with the sight of Rachel, wearing a small towel, hair like a madwoman, screaming in her best Memsahib. Older man tries to talk round her to Andy - gets a shove and more screaming for his trouble, "you speak to ME!". Eventually I seem to scare them enough that they actually leave when I slam the door in their faces (this had not previously worked). Sleep. Nine o'clock, hammering begins again. More money required. This time we get up, dress, pack, have a final argument with the hotel owners and leave for Khojand, thankfully.
Next year, Tuscany. Anyone up for it?

Tales from Tajikistan

Samarqand the Golden?!

We travel not for trafficking alone
By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned
For lust of knowing what should not be known
We take the Golden Road to Samarkand

Well said Mr Flecker and within a day of being in this city here are a few of the things which should not be known:

1. There are no hotels or restaurants in Samarqand. Despite being the name on the lips of anyone who’s contemplated the Silk Road, the source of much romance and poetry from the likes of the fop quoted above, this city doesn't think tourists eat or sleep. The penalties for trying are our traipse across the city on arrival, forced to ignore the huge Registan (pictured) and lug our bags from hovel to hovel. Our first feast in the city was some crisps, a dodgy bounty and something called Choco Pie, the dessicated inbred country cousin of a wagon wheel. An attempt at drinking an Uzbek draught beer in the sole food emporium resulted in your correspondent spending his first night here vomiting away all traces of this city to date...and therefore spending his second day contemplating the ceiling of the hotel room. Although this did give Rach the chance to be adopted by local old Tajik men over a pot or 2 of chai.
2. We’ve kind of had enough of blue-tiled mosques minarets and madrassas. And for paying to see them. And on discovering that inside the beautiful calm courtyards of said historical gems, 15 Uuzbek women await with their little souvenir concessions; “Just look, madam”. And of aged ignorant French tour groups with their air-conned coaches.
3. The Russians have had a real go at this place. Once away from the immediate muslim delights of mausoleum and madrassah, the soft subtle blue tiling morphs into block concrete constructions which remind you of downtown Stalingrad. The new city is a mess of soviet built universities and office blocks although the monstrous Russian monolith Hotel Samarkand is closed and our attempt at changing money there resulted in us being shouted at in a torrent of Uzbek through a plate glass window by a man with a gob full of gold teeth.

That said, tomorrow we forego the relative comfort of Uzbekistan and try and make it to the Fan Mountains of neighbouring Tajikistan. As far as we can glean, there are even fewer hotels and travel will be trickier so we may not be in contact for around a week...but stand by for tales of history's quickest dash through the country !

Tried to think of a joke about a yurt but....

Before heading to Samarkand, we took a detour north into the Kyzylkum Desert to stay the night in a yurt. We were accompanied by a french couple that we have spent a couple of days with, called Marie and Christophe (see photo).
Our taxi man had a few issues finding the yurt, not surprising really, in the middle of the desert. He stopped to ask a Kazakh guy (we were pretty near the Kazakh border), who, smiling, attempted to get into the back of the taxi with Marie, Christophe and I. Slightly problematic as he was about 6 foot 5, 18 stone and dressed in a flowing kazakh coat. After Andy had thankfully let him get in the front, we shot off across the desert on the yurt-hunt.
Eventually we arrived, to a warm welcome from the friendly Russian hostess. She had prepared us a slap up lunch of three courses. After copious amounts of chai and loads of food, a squat Russian guy came into the yurt and asked us where we were all from, using plenty of gesticulations. After establishing that we were English and French, speaking no Russian or Uzbek, he proceeded to explain something very complicated to us in extremely fast unbroken Russian. We all stared blankly until we picked up on the word "camel", at which we all nodded vigourously, repeating "camel, camel". The fact that less than an hour later the four of us were astride four miserable looking camels seems a miracle of non-verbal communication.

When we arrived back from our camel trek we were confronted by the unlikely sight of 40 Japanese and French tourists swarming over the camp. It seemed our desert yurt stay was not to be as isolated as we thought.
The japanese tour group were hilarious, and wasted no time getting stuck into the vodka which they had thoughtfully brought with them, later to be joined by the foul tasting Uzbek vodka which we were given with dinner. Their enthusiasm for the vodka was matched only by their enthusiasm for the buffet dinner, where the French (first at the table) were almost knocked flat by shouts of "Banzai!!". We wisely left them to it until we realised there may not be any food left, and were then forced to join the fray.

After dinner we all retired to the campfire - of immense proportions due to massive deforestation of the surrounding area by the japanese's Uzbek "fixer". He was evetually restrained by our russian friend. A "sing off" rapidly developed between the french and jap contigents - won by the french despite the fact that they were bloody rubbish. The japs just couldn't shut them up long enough to get a tune in. Andy and I narrowly avoided being forced to "sing Beatles, sing Beatles" by the old japanese guys....
After a lovely evening under the stars we retired to our yurt - luckily we'd brought lots of warm sleep gear as the night was absolutely Baltic. So, it was adyurt from him and adyurt from me.... (thought of one!).

Bukhara the Noble...

Next leg on the silk road saw us hurtling East from Khiva, following the Oxus in a cramped minibus and passing acre upon acre of cotton field. This thirsty crop, the agricultural mainstay of Uzbekistan which remains the Worlds second biggest producer, is the cause of the irrigation projects that have drained the Aral Sea and caused huge environemntal problems in the country. Our immediate problems however were staying alive long enough to see our destination, as the drivers took turns weaving around potholes, overtaking on single lanes with oncoming traffic, nearly mowing down plywood "traffic calming" policemen and nursing their knackered engine with syringes of meths...all this and praying every 5 minutes at the wheel!

Arrive we did in Bukhara, most religious city of the whole of central Asia. Our interest lay in its Great Game history, for it is here that Colonel Stoddart, the very man who coined the phrase, was beheaded in the main square outside the fortress (pictured above) with his companion Capt Connolly after spending 3 years in the city's dungeons, to the outrage of Victorian England.
Rach and I have had a bit of a meander of the main sights and back streets (point taken about mosques, we'll concentrate on us us us from now) but thought you would like the answer to the riddle "how many sofas can you get on a Lada?"
The main cultural centre is a big pool in the centre called Lyabi Hauz, traditionally for washing and chat now surrounded by touristy cafes and the only place you can eat...we had been warned that people have fallen ill after eating there, but what can you do? Typically, therefore, Rach is feeling a bit fragile today, so limited sightseeing is on the menu. A couple of days will see us right here and then we'll off on Flecker's Golden Road to...

Mystical Khiva

Today we have had a leisurely day taking in the sights of Khiva, in the far north west corner of Uzbekistan. Khiva has a long history of being a bit of a magical out-of-the-way place and was known for many years for the cruelty of its Khan. If you managed to actually reach the city over the desert liberally sprinkled with hordes of marauding tribespeople, the Khan usually cut you to bits as soon as you arrived in the city....

As you can see from the pictures the architecture is pretty impressive with lots of mosques and medressas. Unfortunately the soviets have squeezed much of the life out of the old town by dedicating it a "museum city". This means it has all been well preserved (well, actually most of it seems to have been rebuilt in the 1970s) but there is no hustle and bustle of a living city, and most of the squalor has been scrubbed away.
So, we have done a lot of aimless wandering, bought our first souvies (I negotiated like an old pro....) and drunk lots of coke in the shade. Actually, another thing I am pleasantly surprised by is the temperature. Hot at noon, but otherwise lovely and fresh and balmy. Mmmm makes a difference from usually hitting places when they are experiencing the hottest part of their summer!
Oh, for all you over 50s, I think Saga has an offer on at the moment you ought to check out. Every other tourist here is a coffin-dodger, being led by the nose in packs of 20....

From Asia with love

Country one and day one as we land in Tashkent, Tamerlane's capital (see photo!) to be pleasantly surprised by a civilised, spacious and green city with none of the expected (even by Lonely Planet standards) scrums at the airport or in markets. The buildings are very grand, in the Soviet style and there are parks and fountains everywhere. By and large the Uzbek people seem friendly, but not at all pushy. They come in every shape and size from skimpily clad, flame haired russian ladies to Chinese and gypsy looking dark complexions. A real melting pot.
After a precious 4 hours of sleep we were to be found queuing at the Tajik Embassy for our visas to allow us to wander freely in and around the 2 countries...2 hours later we were no further forward, but eventually the nice man told us to come back a day later and all would be well. It was then a hop and skip to buy air tickets West to Urgench, gateway to the infamous Khiva and the first real stage of our journey through Great Game country.
After a good night's sleep last night, we treated ourselves to a couple of Kebabs, a look at the capital of Central Asia and a dekko at the renowned Chorzu market on the superbly decorated Tashkent metro. I only got us lost twice! Next leg then across the River Oxus to Khiva where the famous architecture and culture of this region really kick in...
Thought of the day from Rachel - can't believe we have landed in Khiva safe and well on the 60 year old death-shuttle Uzbekistan Airways plane. The seats folded up like Guess Who cards and the whole thing looked like something out of an early Bond movie.

We're finally going!!!

We can't quite believe that this day has finally arrived, but today we have departed from Manchester airport, via Heathrow, to Tashkent in Uzbekistan. The flight will take 9 hours with a stop in Tblisi (ten points for anyone who knows where that is...!). We are due to land at 03.40 on Wednesday morning so I'm anticipating a slightly emotional arrival - fingers crossed that everything goes smoothly.
So, the next time you hear from us we will be somewhere exotic - bye!!

Rich and Lucinda's Wedding

Today we have driven back all the way from sunny Hertfordshire after attending the wedding of our good friends Rich and Sid (not a civil partnership!!). It was a splendid military affair, including guard of honour, with all the army boys in full regalia, and very smart they looked too. It was Andy's last time in uniform so he made the most of it, resisting demands from his friends to donate various accoutrements.

The reception was held at Coltsfoot near Datchworth and we stayed at the reception venue in a lovely oak beamed room after partying the night away. We were lucky to have merely a short stumble of about 5 yards from marquee to room. This event represents our last night with friends before we leave on our trip, and gave us a chance to say our goodbyes.

Almost ready to go...

Well, I have everything I (we) need... This time next week we'll be packed and ready to get our flight to Tashkent. My enforced idleness over the last few weeks has meant that I've had far too much time on my hands to plan and organise - I can be a pathological planner and organiser! I just get so excited, I have to be doing something... So we have all our money, our tickets, passports and visas, duly photocopied in case of crazed muggers. I have managed to limit the amount of "Lifeventure" unnecessary but cute little travel items and have simply bought Dry Wash (indispensible) and vacuum pack clothes bags, which I haven't come across before but I think will save a lot of space. I have dug out my trusty money belt, universal plug and washing line and have been collecting rubber bands and safety pins, on the basis that you can never have too many. Ditto with varying sizes of plastic bags. As for clothes, I have 4 t-shirts, 2 pairs of trousers, 2 sarongs and a fleece for nearly 7 months of travelling. Ample!
The main thing limiting the amount I can take is that my backpack isn't very big, and got even smaller when I put it in the washing machine (just about managed to jam it in there) last year and it shrank. Not a problem, it simply means I don't give myself back issues trying to carry lots of stuff that likely as not I won't even need. Oh and as I'm taking Andy this year, he can carry the stuff I can't fit in. Perfect!