Uncle Travelling Matt

Book 2: Master Potter does Fine China

Book 3: Steppe to the Left, Steppe to the Right…

24th August, 2002 – nr. Kyzylorda, Kazakhstan

Arising at a reasonable hour, the fatigues of the previous night had almost entirely abated. The windows revealed a harsh, stony landscape outside, dishearteningly identical to the one's that we'd come from in Uzbekistan, despite rumbling away through the night at a speed that in Central Asian terms could almost certainly be termed 'express'. The map however, told a much more encouraging tale. We stopped at a station named Kyzylorda, a town well inside Kazakhstan. How far it was from the border in kilometres I know not, but it was a distance of at least three centimetres on the map, and three centimetres on a map of Central Asia is a distance not to be trifled with.

A Kazakh station

I retired to the dining car with my Friend from the Flats, but alas my new-found jollity seemed not to have rubbed off onto him. Losing any game that we played in that increasingly crowded carriage didn't help his countenance either, and it wasn't long before he ventured back to our melon-filled hole for some more shut-eye. I decided to stay on however, enjoy the fayre and concentrate on Mark Twain's excellent The Innocent's Abroad, (which I'd started to read two days previously); a hilarious and insightful account of an 1869 voyage by some American pilgrims to Europe and the Holy Land. The churches of Italy and temples of Greece were just what I needed to take my mind away from the unbelievably boring, monotonous land outside that was not even green enough to be proper steppe.

In such a fashion we journeyed on towards Moscow, which was fast becoming our eternal city, through the desolate towns of Leninsk, Kazaly and Aralsk. In the book they sounded quite interesting: Leninsk, only a few kilometres distant from the renowned Baykonur Cosmodrome where the Soviets launched their sputniks into space, and Aralsk, once a busy port, though nowadays without its source of life, the Aral Sea having largely dried up due to Khrushchev's not-so-farsighted 'Virgin Lands' irrigation programme. But with the water and the Soviets gone, there is virtually nothing to commend these towns these days, except that they looked marginally better off than their counterparts in Uzbekistan. 'Marginally' I must stress, being the important word.

One feature of interest in that vast world outside however, were the local arrangements for the deceased. Every so often, on the horizon, next to the never ending iron road and telegraph wires, we'd come across what appeared to be some lost city from an ancient Islamic kingdom, a riot of domes and buildings. Upon closer inspection however, those buildings turned out to be too small to hold any standing figures, and in fact were elaborate mini-Samarkand style tombs, with the name of the dearly departed emblazoned above the entrance. Such resting places for the dead were amongst the finest that I've ever come across and all the more surprising considering who had built them. The Kazakhs, who formerly lived in yurts and nowadays largely reside in small one-storey houses or drab apartment blocks obviously believe that the finest residences should be reserved for those who are in no position to appreciate them.

Kazakh Cemetery

With the Lowlander gone, I naturally acquired several other companions at my table who were wholly unremarkable except for the fact that they were ethnic Kazakhs and thus had a more Asiatic look about them. And that they all subscribed to that most awful of fashions that plagues the former Soviet Union: Gold teeth.

Bad teeth are a fact the globe over, and these parts seemed worse than most. However, even a mouth full of decaying and chipped knashers and grinders is in my humble opinion far preferable to a Glittering Grin of Gold. A lady of uncertain age opposite me, who would have been rather attractive completely spoiled any erotic appeal she might have had every time that she opened her mouth by presenting me with a view of the interior of Fort Knox. And alas, she was not alone! In fact, it was I who stood out, the only one with teeth whiter than my tea on the whole coach. In the end I could stand the Men with the Golden Grins no longer and headed back to Melonland.

My companions in the buffet

The Lowlander's mood had not improved, and with good reason too. Our friend, the Melon Man was continually entering our tiny and fruit-filled compartment and moving stuff about. Firstly he commanded Sinbad out of his bed and onto his brother's. Then a large swarthy man took his place, only for him to be moved and a Korean lady with her ten-year old son to occupy the birth. Thus our compartment, built to hold four, was occupied by four fully-grown adults, a kid, approximately fifty large oval fruits, baggage and a black and white rat. Things finally came to a head when the Melon Man tried to move me onto an upper berth. It was clear that he was running a ticket racket as well as a melon market on this trip, and lower berths got better prices. Needless to say, he didn't get what he wanted that time and the barrage of English, Dutch and Russian curses that greeted him ensured that he didn't come in again for some time afterwards.

The scenery outside had now changed somewhat. The vast undulating grasslands that spread out on either side of the track were the true steppe that the Kazakhs are famous for. They were strangely beautiful in their loneliness and monotony. It was like the Lord, when creating His world, had got bored towards the end and left these vast tracts undone. There was absolutely nothing there, and yet it wasn't even entirely flat; He hadn't even bothered to iron it all out, and so the railway line had to wind its way constantly through the wilderness. It was more akin to a Highland Moor than anything else, except that Highland Moors, large and desolate though they are, do not occupy an area the size of Western Europe.

Kazakh Steppe

We played cards for some time and afterwards I read Samuel Clements, transporting me far away from this boundless steppe, to the far more intimate and familiar Holy Land that he was touring along with some hard-core admirers of the Bible. His account was interesting and for one who has been to those parts, I can vouch that little seems to have changed in a hundred and fifty years, that I can be fairly certain of.

One thing that I can be wholly certain of however, is that North-West Kazakhstan has changed far less, and will doubtless stay much the same for the next hundred and fifty years and more too. And that is a reassuring thought.

As it means that you don't need to see it twice.

Kazakhstan!

25th August, 2002 – Orenburg, Russia

Russia, the greatest country on Earth, Land of the Tsars, Tolstoy, Tchaikovsky and Faberge Eggs. Heart of the Soviet Union and the Promised Land.

Wait a min, the Promised Land? Where the hell did that come from? Surely the Promised Land lies somewhere on the banks of the River Jordan? Well, maybe if you're an Israelite or a Creator of Heaven and Earth it does, but if you happen not to be and happen to be me instead, then the Promised Land is Russia and none other. Throughout my whole life she was there, a vague, vast mass to the east that threatened to blow the world up with her countless nuclear weapons and supplied all the baddies for the Bond films. She was large and she was mysterious. At school we learnt that although we fought Hitler with all our might during the war, for every hundred British or American soldiers engaged in battle, there were over three hundred Russians. Ok, so they were actually Soviet, but to us the Soviet Union and Russia, well it was the same thing wasn't it? Even my Stanley Gibbons stamp album had mistakenly headed the USSR page with a word beginning with 'R'.

And after I met my first Russian, the curiosity had only intensified. That was at a party on a kibbutz in the Negev Desert when a young man by the name of Pavel Serebryakov engaged me in a conversation in broken English about the Beatles and introduced me to his favourite band, DDT. At that gathering of over thirty, I was one of only two from the capitalist side of the Iron Curtain present. Strangely enough, the other was the man now sleeping in the same compartment as I on this journey.

Since that date I'd thirsted for knowledge. I'd studied Russian and Soviet Politics at university, had read most of the major works of Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Solzhenitsyn, Goncharov, Pushkin, Chekov and Gorky, befriended Russians in Israel and Japan, gained a basic understanding of the tongue from the latter and a few vodka-induced headaches from the former, sat through Geoffrey Hoskin's long and laborious History of the Soviet Union and countless films from the works of that mastermind of cinema, Eisenstein, to a Mills and Boonsy version of Catherine the Great's life starring Catherine Zeta Jones.

Oh yes, and I'd also acquired most of the CDs of the rather good DDT and even memorised the words to one of the songs.

Not bad, not bad at all, but nonetheless I'd never actually been there. Near yes. To two of her former satellite states in Europe's East, but near is not there. Of all the countries in the world, Mother Russia was the one that I longed to visit and for me all roads led to Moscow.

Well, now I was here. In the early morning, in a half-awake state, we crossed over the border where a friendly customs official helped us complete our declaration forms. That was a good start. Question was, would the rest of the country live up to my high expectation?

The first glimpses through the window revealed a landscape whole different from the harsh steppe of the previous day. A landscape in fact that would be best described by that famous phrase, 'A Green and Pleasant Land', for although it was not England, it looked pretty similar, with green fields, lush trees and undulating hills; an intimate countryside reminiscent of the Shires. The relief for us travellers who had seen no real greenery since Beijing over a month ago, was unbelievable. Not only were we now in Russia, but we were also undoubtedly back in Europe too and for a pair of tired Euro rail riders that meant a lot indeed.

But with all good news comes bad news and this time it was no exception. Mid-morning we pulled into the aged and elegant city of Orenburg. The town beyond the railway station looked inviting and intriguing with its steeples and cross-topped onion domes, but its sight was not a welcome one for us. Orenburg was only just over the border! How were we expected to reach Moscow in a little over six hours when she lay at the other extremity of the guidebook's very large-scale map? The answer was of course an obvious one and very soon confirmed. We had misheard before. Yes, we were to reach the capital at three in the afternoon, but tomorrow, not today. And that meant another day of riding, reading, gaming and melons.

Thankfully though, the melons departed at Orenburg, but at another station soon afterwards our compartment filled up once again, this time with some new travelling companions, a young Korean lady and her two small daughters, and their luggage.

Perhaps now is a good time to mention the Koreans who were one of the more unexpected elements in Uzbekistan, (and I presume all former Soviet), society that we encountered. They moved to the country after the Second World War, presumably from the area that now comprises North Korea, (as that was the area that the Soviets initially administered), and settled into Soviet life with apparent ease. Azis's father couldn't praise them enough, pointing out that despite their radically different culturally and racial heritage, they have never caused problems in Uzbekistan, whilst the Muslim Turks, supposedly brothers, frequently riot.

Whatever the case may be, the Koreans now form approximately five percent of Tashkent's population and seem to be doing very well too. Almost half the staff in the Western Union office where we received our money were Korean and they were also the half who understood English and the importance of good manners, two lessons that both their Russian and Uzbeki brethren would be wise to learn.

What takes some getting used to however, is how completely Russified, (or Sovietised), these people have become. None seemed to understand a word of Korean nor knew anything about what was once their homeland. What's more, all seem to have adopted Slavic names. The pretty girl who served us at Western Union was named Tatiana Tsoi and the two young relatives of our new travelling companions introduced themselves as Dima and Misha when I played cards with them. Of course, there is no reason why a Korean should not be named Vladimir or Tsvetlina, but it seems strange nonetheless. Mind you, should it? After all, we don't find the names of Lucy Liu or Vanessa Mae unexpected. Perhaps we would be wise to remember that it is not only Western Europe and the New World and Australasian colonies that are bastions of multiculturalism. Russia for example, has almost two hundred nationalities living within her borders. The Soviet Union had more.

With the Koreans

And so on we rumbled for another day, through the small villages and towns of the Volga Region, each looking like the setting for a Chekov play or Tolstoy novel. We gamed, slept and read. I'd finished Mark Twain the previous evening and so I once more attacked The Walled Kingdom, (a history of China), reaching Sun Yat Sen's revolution before I could bear not a single Oriental fact more and swapped it for Dumas's The Man in the Iron Mask, which proved an interesting read, if completely different in plot to any of the many films that it has spurned.

In the afternoon we got chatting with our roommates who it turned out were men of the circus. Their mother lived in Tashkent which explained their trip, but they were now glad to be back firmly in Russia. The older, an acrobat, showed us his photos whilst the younger, a clown, complained about the corruption and police in Uzbekistan, (and assuring us that Russia was completely different), before moving onto tales of circus life in which it seemed that they had travelled all over Russia, even to remote Kamchatka where their sister now lived, having many adventures on the way.

The Lowlander joins the circus!

Later on we also got acquainted with the mischievous Dima and Misha, the ten-year old Korean boys from down the coach who liked to play cards, thumb wars and hit each other on a regular basis. They proved a welcome addition to the compartment as they were well-behaved and cheery. Later on, they took an interest in my electric shaver and even cleaned it for free.

I went to sleep early that evening, having received little the night before due to the activities of the customs officers of Kazakhstan and Russia, and besides, I wanted to be as fresh as possible for our arrival in the capital!

Crossing the Volga

26th August, 2002 – nr. Moscow, Russia

Unlike Beijing, Lanzhou, Tashkent or indeed any of the cities that we'd passed through since leaving Korea, Moscow does not spring up on you all of a sudden. It is big. Not just over ten million people big, but also over twenty miles across big, and it creeps up on you gradually; firstly scattered houses, then the outer ring road, the first suburbs, high-rise blocks, commuter trains running alongside our express, and commuter stations crammed with Muscovites, factories, higher high-rise blocks, highways, a glimpse of a star-topped Stalinist skyscraper and then slowly pulling into the vast Kazanskaya terminal. And I saw it all, hanging out of the window with Dima and Misha, the young Koreans as excited as I was shouting 'Moskva! Moskva!' at the tops of their voices to the passing trains. I wanted to join them of course, but the fact that I was twenty-four, not ten stopped me. After all, what would people think?

We got our luggage together and alighted from the train, the last to do so in our coach, and walked slowly down the platform to the great terminal building. There we changed money and phoned our travel agent, making arrangements to meet by the Novokuznetskaya metro station in the centre of town.

Journey’s end: Moscow Kazanskaya

The Moscow Metro is famous, world famous, and rightly so. One of the largest and busiest in the world, carrying nine million passengers per day, (apparently more than the Tube and the New York system combined), it is however, far more than just a transport system. The older parts were built deep underground so as to double as air raid shelters during the war, and many of the stations are ornate 'Palaces of the Proletariat', as prescribed by Mr. V. I. Lenin himself. Now admittedly we'd been given a taste of what to expect with the magnificent Tashkent system, but nonetheless, we were still awed by the bronze statues of working people and intricate mosaics of tractor plants, BOAC era airliners and the mighty machines of the Red Army. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. No one beats the Communists for style and where better to display your nation's artistic talent than on the oft gazed at walls and ceilings of a metro system?

Our travel agent turned out to be a very amiable young man called Yevgeny. He took us to his office, organised all the payments for the hotel and visa support letters in a manner so professional that all our Uzbekistan-induced bureaucracy fears simply melted away. They may have been one country a mere eleven years ago, but Moscow and Tashkent are worlds apart now.

“I can't believe that you just came from Tashkent,” said Yevgeny. “What made you want to go there?”

The Lowlander and I looked at each other. After the event we were far from sure.

“You're the first that we've ever had I think, that have come here by train from Uzbekistan,” continued our new friend.

I spied some foreign banknotes kept as souvenirs on a shelf behind him. “Here, have some sum,” I said, extracting a five hundred note from our still-thick bundle.

Driving to our hotel, Yevgeny told us the basics of getting around the Russian capital, what to avoid, what not to, and how corrupt the authorities could be. We however, were unphased. The offences that he mentioned seemed nothing compared to those of their comrades in Turkestan. And besides, how could we listen when there was so much to feast our eyes upon? Stunning architecture representing every period of the city's long history from the star-topped Seven Sisters, to Tsarist apartments to mediaeval churches and brand-new riverside office blocks.

Our hotel turned out to be the largest in Europe, the Ismailovo. It consisted of three great slabs of concrete by the famous Ismailovskii Park constructed for the Moscow Olympics of 1980. We were allocated a room on the fifteenth floor which commanded a fine view of the park, a place so huge that London's Hyde Park looks like a mere lawn in comparison. Yet looking at the map, one can clearly see that the Ismailovskii is by far not the biggest in the city. Both the Botanical Gardens and Sokolniki are of a similar size and the gargantuan Losiny Ostrov Park is at least fifteen times bigger! I have no figures at hand, but I doubt not that Moscow is one of the world's greenest capitals, if not the greenest.

We hungrily showered the grime of four days of rail travel off our bodies before heading into the centre for something to eat, alighting at the only metro station that we knew, (Novokuznetskaya). We dined at an exceptionally tacky yet tasty country cottage themed restaurant named Yolka Polka where the staff wore peasant smocks, (what more could one ask for?), and once our borsch and beer were safely in our bellies, we strolled over the Moskva River to that sight of sights, the more-than-famous Red Square with the onion domed St. Basil's, red granite Lenin Mausoleum and countless cobbles. In the early evening it was a sight to behold and by the time that we crawled into our fifteenth floor beds all the stress, annoyance and anxiety that had built up over the last three weeks was just a memory, and my only thoughts were of exploring the fine city before us and meeting the only sibling that I'd ever been gifted with.

Next part: 3k: Moscow (I)

Technorati Tags: uncle travelling matt,matt pointon,lowlander,tom van den ouden,railways,ussr,soviet union,trains,steppe,kazakhstan,kazakh,uzbekistan,melons,russia,korean,circus,aralsk,kyzylorda,orenburg,volga,moscow,moskva kazanskaya,ismailovo hotel,moscow metro

Friday, 4 October 2013

Across Asia With A Lowlander: 3i: Tashkent (II)

Greetings!

And once again, apologies for the late arrival of a post! I’ve been having further computer issues, this time my mouse proceeded to pack up and so I was out of internet action for a week since all the computer shops are only open when I am at work… grr!! However, all good now (fingers crossed…), and so it’s on with Across Asia With A Lowlander, this time taking a short haul flight on that greatest of air carriers, Uzbekistan Airways back to Tashkent where they unload your luggage straight off a truck onto the waiting tarmac and the best hotels are in the dodgy part of town…

Keep travelling!

Uncle Travelling Matt

Links to all parts of the travelogue

Book 1: Embarking Upon A New Korea

Book 2: Master Potter does Fine China

Book 3: Steppe to the Left, Steppe to the Right…

22nd August, 2002 – nr. Urgench, Uzbekistan

We awoke at a reasonable hour that day and breakfasted on the terrace on small dumplings akin to Chinese gyoza that are apparently a local delicacy, before enjoying several more hours of the waiting game and then climbing into the Lada and heading to Urgench Airport.

Urgench the town, looked uninspiring and tatty and we were glad that we were only passing through. The airport on the other hand, was a different story entirely. A new terminal, (in the national colours of white, green and blue), glittered in the sunshine. So, there was some money in Uzbekistan.

Kolya would not enter the airport with us. “Police everywhere,” he said by way of explanation. So, it wasn't just the tourists that they harassed then. We felt sorry for the citizens of a country that are afraid of their own police force so obviously. Perhaps it's the same in China and Korea too, (I know that the Japanese are none too fond of theirs), I don't know, but what hit both the Lowlander and I was how blatant and open it all was here. Anyway, we understood, and it was with a twinge of sadness that we bade our goodbyes to the man who had started off as the annoying train drunkard and finished by providing us, (well, me at least, I never asked the Lowlander about it), with the highlight of the entire trip. Kolya Babamanov, we thank you!

Our plane was not for some hours, so we settled down and drank tea in the pristine cafeteria. Sparkling and swish though the terminal was, the Lowlander was far from impressed and if anything it even lowered, (if that was possible), his opinion of the country that built it.

“It's propaganda, that's all!” snorted he. “The whole country's a dump and they just build this to fool the tourists and diplomats that all's well.”

“But we're tourists and we're not fooled!” protested I.

“Yes, but we arrived on foot over the border and have then travelled everywhere by train. That's what it's really like. Most tourists however, fly in on some 'Marco Polo' package deal to this place, stay in a posh hotel, look at the old city and then fly out again. Nice hotel, nice airport, beautiful old buildings and none of the police shit. 'Oh yeah guys, that Uzbekistan doing bad, don't you believe, we went and it's all like new!' What would you believe?”

He was right. Virtually all the other tourists that we'd met, (and considering the attractions on offer, they weren't many), had come in on a package deal like the one that my Dutch comrade had just described. And who could blame them? As we were fast finding out, independent travel in Uzbekistan was little more than one big stressful, (and not all that cheap), headache.

“And then there was that shit at the entrance,” added the fuming Dutchman, who by now had (I also) quite a lot that he wished to get off his chest. “The poor guy was too scared even to come in and see us off because of those bastards!” He pointed at the police down in the foyer below. Away from the oasis of tranquility that Kolya's home had provided for us, Uzbekistan was once more starting to get us down.

Trying to divert my attentions towards something more uplifting, I fixed my gaze upon a group of pretty girls all clad in their becoming national costume, sat at a nearby table. It was nice to see people wearing traditional dress, as we'd seen nothing before of it, the men generally donning shirts and trousers and the women, loose, long floral dresses that were singularly unappealing. This group were a welcome exception, a gaggle of girls wearing their national garb out of choice, perhaps waiting to attend a wedding or some other special occasion.

Then to my surprise, they all got up and headed down the stairs to the foyer. Puzzled, my eye followed them. No plane was due to depart for hours. I soon found out the reason though. No planes were departing, but there was one arriving, and these young ladies were employed to welcome the hordes of tourists that were inside it. The traditional girls, like the airport, were alas, but a sham for the foreigners.

The journey on the Uzbekistan Airways flight to Tashkent was as uneventful as any flight. It was fast, clean and on time, and that was it. But was that really a problem? Initially we'd been a little disappointed with ourselves at having broken our pledge of travelling by land and sea alone, but looking down on the vast, featureless wilderness below, I was glad. I was sick of Uzbekistan with its corruption and hassles, and sick of dry, desolate Central Asia, and the train out to Moscow was forever in my mind.

Urgench's airport may have been state-of -the-art but touristless Tashkent's was a trip straight back to the Soviet Union and far more in keeping with the city that it served. We alighted from the plane onto the tarmac and walked across to the exit which turned out not to be through a terminal building but a mere gate onto the street. 'But where's the baggage reclamation?' thought we, puzzled. The answer to that question soon came in the shape of a pick-up laden with suitcases. We grabbed our rucksacks from the pile and hailed a taxi to the centre of town where the Western Union office, and our money, lay.

The Western Union office however, was closed. This was perhaps understandable since it was by now five in the afternoon, but it nothing for our mood. And thus with naught else to do, and little money to do it with, we decided to head for a hotel.

Now you may remember from before that we'd had a slight problem with our first choice hotel in the shape of it being half demolished, so this time we had to look further down the none-too-big list provided by our guidebook. And looking down that said list we hit upon a Hotel Baht, situated near to the Khamsa metro station in the suburbs. So, we took the metro and then a taxi to our abode for the night.

Or so we thought.

Hotel Baht however, when we got there, wasn't there. Or something like that anyway. 'It used to be here,' said the lady, 'but it isn't now.' She then added that she could tell us about another place nearby.

“Ok then.” So she told us and so there we went, to a crumbling apartment block with Hotel Baht scribed on the entrance. Strange. There are two of them. Or at least one where it shouldn't be. Hmm... Nonetheless, we gratefully unloaded and then presented ourselves at the reception desk.

“Nyet!” said the lady.

“What do you mean, 'Nyet'?” asked I.

“Nyet!” Yet another example of the joys of post-Soviet service.

Thankfully, a fair maiden came to the rescue of the gallant knights from afar. “Foreigners are not allowed to stay here, I'm sorry,” said the pretty raven-haired wench who was sat in the hallway.

“Why's that?” I asked.

“Government regulations.”

“Oh.”

“But I do know of another hotel where you may stay.”

“You do?”

Oh yes, she did, and not only that, but she hailed us a taxi and gave the driver the necessary instructions.

Our Lady's hotel of choice turned out to be the Tara. It was on the very edge of town and shouted post-Soviet decay. We looked up at the gloomy grey apartment block with 'Tara' written on the side in blue bathroom tiles (classy, eh?) and wondered. But what choice did we have?

Hotel Tara: Proletarian Luxury

The door was opened by a scary-looking lady with bleached blonde hair who incidentally, also smacked of post-Soviet decay. She escorted us through the hallway which stank of paint, and into an office.

“We're redecorating for the Independence Day celebrations,” she explained.

'You'd be better knocking it down and starting again,' thought I, unsure if I was just referring to the hotel, or instead the country that was celebrating independence.

Awful as Hotel Tara was, it was also ridiculously cheap, (I suspect that on our last night, we'd actually finally entered an establishment that charged Uzbeki prices), and the staff, though looking like they'd just come from the red-light district, were the friendliest that we'd come across so far. I was reminded of just how deceptive appearances can be.

So cheap was the Tara in fact, that we booked a room of four beds just so we didn't have to share. Despite ordering twice as many beds as usual, we were still paying less than a quarter of the Bukhara prices which showed that someone somewhere had definitely been ripping us off. Hmm...

I put my bags down and asked the Lowlander if he wanted to go out for a bite to eat, but he refused.

“I'm sick!” said he. He never explained however, of what exactly. I expect that it was Uzbekistan. After all, I was suffering a slightly less-serious bout of that myself.

I took a tram to the nearest metro station and grabbed myself some native fayre at a cafe nearby in a small bazaar area. Sat there, reading in peace, I was brought back to the real world with a bang and an example of something that the former USSR is famous for and luckily (Kolya aside) we had so far eluded.

Vodka Terrorism!

“Hello! Where are you from?”

“Great Britain.”

“I am from Uzbekistan. Want to drink vodka?”

“No thank you.”

“Let's be friends! Drink! Nostorovya!”

“No thank you.”

“What's 'Nostorovya' in English? I know, 'Cheers!' Cheers!”

“Cheers!” I raise teacup.

“No friend, no tea! Vodka! Cheers! Nostorovya!”

I escaped as soon as I could and headed down into the metro station, a tired and stressed man.

“Halt!”

Not again, surely...

“Passport! Visa!”

“Here you are.”

“Hmm... Please come to our office.”

''A-ha!' thought I, 'I know you game.' This was looking remarkably similar to the way that Brian had got robbed in Almaty. Still, I had nothing on me bar a few thousand sum, so you can search me all you like.

And so they did. Very amiably, but exactly like Brian had described. Officer One takes wallet and checks. He then starts making idle chit-chat with you whilst the wallet is passed around officers Two, Three and Four who all finger it thoroughly. Then, the wallet is returned to you, and only later do you find out that you're considerably poorer than you were previously.

But not me, because in my wallet there was nothing to steal. At the end they waved a cheery goodbye accompanied with an 'Enjoy Uzbekistan!'

'Oh I will,” thought I. 'Since I know that I'm leaving the damned place tomorrow! You however, are stuck here.'

And with that cheery thought in mind, I rode into town and had a jolly good time checking my email before returning to the Tara by taxi and thus not encountering one single member of the Uzbeki Police Force.

23rd August, 2002 – Tashkent, Uzbekistan

Neither of us has expected this, but there again, things seldom turn out as we'd expect them to. If you'd have asked us before the start of our trip what we were most looking forwards to on our travels, well my Dutch friend would have probably said Dunhuang and I, perhaps Korea's DMZ, but both of us, without doubt would have agreed on Central Asia. That was the purpose of the expedition, to go where the tourists do not go, to get stamps in our passports of countries that people don't know exist, to see what Colin Thubron terms the 'Lost Heart of Asia'. Ok, so it sounds a bit stupid, crazy, well, so what? I always knew that I was a bit of a screwball anyway, and as for the Lowlander...

No, we'd expected to enthusiastically tour Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan, to revel in the post-Soviet decay, be fascinated by the Islamic heritage and only leave when we had to, when our visas finally ran out, and then look back on our days in the Stans with love and affection.

Yet here we were, rising early to get our money, get our tickets and then get out! And with days to spare on the visas. And not to stop until the train pulled into the Moscow terminus. We were tired, stressed and sick to the back teeth of the Stans, and that's the sad reality. We'd have left earlier if it were possible. The countries that we'd looked forward with so much expectation, had alas more than disappointed us. They'd in fact beaten us, and that was not a nice feeling.

But before we could leave, we had another day of hassle ahead. On paper it would be simple. We'd go to the Western Union office, get our money in the twenty minutes that the adverts stated, head to the ticket office, two tickets for a hundred and fifty euros please, (I'd checked the prices the night before), then drink tea, buy junk and send postcards until our train out in the evening.

But of course, things don't always pan out as they should. Or at least, not in Uzbekistan.

We decided to take a taxi to the Western Union office as we didn't want to risk encountering any over-zealous police officers on the metro since today we actually had some money on us, and so it was, we were driven through the streets of Central Asia's foremost metropolis and deposited at the Western Union door just in time for opening.

Money transfers such as this were an unknown experience to both the Lowlander and I, and we knew not what way to go about it all. That wasn't helped by the fact that we spoke not one word of Uzbek and only basic Russian. Thankfully however, we had help.

Tatiana Tsoi spoke English. Not only that, but she was polite, friendly, exceedingly beautiful and Korean. She was not something that I would expect to find in most places, least of all Uzbekistan. I was smitten. What's more, I was not alone. Little did the charming and diminutive Ms. Tsoi realise, but she'd just accquired admirers from both sides of the North Sea. “Please fill in these forms, sir,” she asked of the Lowlander. Fill them in he did. I however, kept myself busy drinking the free mineral water on offer and watching Uzbekistan's greatest attraction.

Even the presence of a Korean beauty with more manners than the rest of the country combined however, could not prevent another outbreak of the worrisome Uzbekistan Syndrome. The promised twenty minutes passed and no money appeared. Another twenty went by. “I'm sorry,” said the tantalising Tatiana, “but they seem to have sent it somewhere else by accident.”

That somewhere else turned out to be somewhere in the USA, (America, Uzbekistan, easy mistake), and an hour later we finally walked out of the building, our good mood severely dampened and only beautiful thoughts of fair Asian ladies keeping us sane.

Next up it was the tickets. The time was now coming up to twelve and in our eternal wisdom we reckoned that the office would probably shut for lunch twelve to one, so we decided to eat first and book later. We made our way across the park to the outdoor market which was lined with eating houses, at one of which we stopped and enjoyed the ubiquitous shashlik and tea served by a rather pretty and friendly dark-haired Russian girl. And thus it was that at half past one we rolled up at the ticket office for Uzbekistan National Railways.

Only to be confronted with an 'Out to Lunch 1-2' sign.

So we waited, played the five dice game and waited some more. And at half past two the lady rolled into work, (and no one seemed to mind about the lost half hour), and we got our tickets.

318 euros was the price that she quoted.

“But I thought that it was half that?!” protested I.

“That's for Uzbekis. You are a foreigner. Foreigners pay more.”

I was about to complain using such words as 'racism', 'rip-off' and 'robbery', when I remembered. Foreigners are all immensely rich individuals with money to burn, (in fact they probably do have money-burning ceremonies in the really rich places like Switzerland, America and Norway), who travel to Uzbekistan for the sole purpose of paying exorbitant prices so that the police and high-up officials can pave their halls with marble and eat the finest of foods. How stupid was I not to have remembered that before, and how grateful was I to Uzbekistan for reminding us. The Lowlander, who'd begun the complain about the double-pricing, I chastised and reminded, and he too was grateful for being made to remember that he too was just an absolutely brainless walking wallet and we both had a drink to celebrate.

And we invited the local police to join us.

Except that they declined, saying that they had too much work to do, and besides, never accepted gifts from tourists. It was unethical.

But seriously, at least we had now tickets, and money, and a passport out of a place that whilst sunny, Soviet and satisfying on the surface, was underneath naught less than a form of purgatory. We took the metro to the cafe by the fountains that we'd liked so much on our first visit to Tashkent, and upon finding it closed, we headed to the one next-door which was equally satisfying.

Then we went to Azis's office to bid our goodbyes to the man who had saved our skins last time round, and who, (along with the veritable Kolya Babamanov), had shown us that whilst Uzbekistan's authorities do all they can to scare the visitor away, her people are as welcoming as anywhere on the globe. He was sad to see us leave and urged us to stay an extra night. “My brother got into university and we're having a party to celebrate! Please come!” But even if we'd not already got our tickets to pastures new, both the Lowlander and I could not have stomached another day of hassle and bureaucracy. We made our excuses, bade our goodbyes, and moved on.

Having much sum left, we took a taxi to the post office to waste some on mail to all and sundry, and then went onto the outdoor market near to the Presidential Palace, where we loaded up on Soviet kitsch, before roaring over to the railway station to collect our baggage and board our train.

Tashkent's railway station was in chaos. Everywhere be-baggaged people hustled and jostled with each other, eager to board the twenty-coach long train to their former capital. At one check point a bedraggled-looking man was having a full-blown argument with a female official who proceeded to shout obscenities and hit him. We wondered what he'd done to provoke such an unladylike display of anger. Then we found out. He wanted his passport back that she'd (unlawfully) taken. 'Just get me out of here!' I thought.

However, even now we discovered that things are never as simple as they should be. Our ticket said Compartment III but the attendant said Compartment V. Remembering our Samarkand to Urgench experience we rebelled. It said Compartment III and that was what we were getting! Reluctantly the attendant opened the door. We were confronted with a wall of watermelons. So that was why II was unavailable.

So we went into V, and so too, (as we'd anticipated), ten minutes did the real occupants of that compartment. An almighty row ensued. We were not moving, now were they and all blamed the moustached attendant. Several minutes later he came wheedling up, begging us to go to our rightful compartment. Return we did, only to find that whilst entry into the vestibule and sleeping on the beds was now possible, little else was. Every storage place and inch of floor space was still filled with watermelons. We were far from impressed and what's more let it be known, hollering at the Melon Man attendant and locking the door behind him. We had fast found out that niceties, attempts at understanding or compromise and manners got you nowhere round here, which is sad since in my (very British) opinion, such things are what society is built upon. Yes, we hated doing it, and yes, it was out of character, but alas, if we wanted any peace at all, then nasty bastards we had to be.

And it worked, or at least partially. Melon Man returned to let in a surly-looking Russian, his brother who resembled Sinbad the Sailor and their pet rat who were to be our travelling companions, but that was all.

I was glad to be leaving Uzbekistan. Very glad in fact. Yet why? No other country on Earth has shown me kindness on the level of that provided by Kolya Babamanov and Azis Arislanov. Plus she has so much to offer the tourist. Bukhara, Khiva and Samarkand are all world-class tourist cities, whilst Tashkent is probably the pleasantest place that the Soviets ever built. So why did I, (and the Lowlander), detest it so much? It was the corruption, the infernal passport checks and the attitude of the general populace. Foreigners are seen as big fat wallets on two legs and one has to be constantly on one’s guard against scams, the police and rip-offs. Yes, we had lots of tales to tell in the pub from our mere two weeks in the country – carrier bags of notes at the railway station, arrest on the Underground, two nights in the home of the train drunk, the friendship of the Director of the National Railway Museum – but it was all simply too much. I couldn’t cope with the pace and stress of it all. I didn’t want to get out, I needed to. For sanity’s sake.

And so, as the sun set, and the train pulled slowly out of Tashkent, embarking upon the longest single train journey of my life, I hung out of the window in glee. At last, we were leaving Uzbekistan.

Forever.

Moscow bound!

Next part: 3j: Tashkent to Moscow

Technorati Tags: uncle travelling matt,matt pointon,tom van den ouden,lowlander,uzbekistan,uzbek,urgench,uzbekistan airways,baggage,hotel baht,hotel tara,corruption,police,railways,kolya,babamanov,azis arislanov,ussr,soviet,tatiana tsoi

Saturday, 21 September 2013

Across Asia With A Lowlander 3h: Khiva

Greetings!

I’m back home now after a fantastic few days of touring with my friend Mike whom you’ve already met in the Poland 2012 travelogue. Starting on Monday, we flew into Berlin, a city which I know fairly well following my excellent trip there back in 2007. There wasn’t much new that I saw there this time, but I did manage to get into the restaurant that I failed to dine at six years ago as well as meet up with my old friend Dzhilbert who I last clinked glasses with in Budapest back in 2008.

Back in Berlin!

From Berlin we took the train east, over the Oder into Poland and the fantastic city of Poznan, home of Polish Christianity and the rather silly dance that Man City fans do whenever they win something, (sob, sob, painful memories of the 2011 F.A. Cup Final evoked here…), before then taking a train to the shrine of Our Lady of Czestochowa to deliver a very special gift before finishing up in Lodz, Polan’d 2nd ciy and as gritty and industrial as they come. As always, it was another great trip which, when written up, will be shared on this blog first.

In pretty Poznan

Until then,

Keep travelling!

Uncle Travelling Matt

Links to all parts of the travelogue

Book 1: Embarking Upon A New Korea

Book 2: Master Potter does Fine China

Book 3: Steppe to the Left, Steppe to the Right…

21st August, 2002 – nr. Urgench, Uzbekistan

One difference that always strikes me about life in the developed West and those countries lagging somewhere behind, is the concept of time which seems to get less precise the poorer the country. Life for us is one thing after another; rush here, go there, finish this project, start the next. For us it's normal, but for the majority of the world's population, life involves a lot more waiting around. In fact, in many places on the globe, it could be said that life is largely a process of waiting, punctuated by sleeping, eating and bursts of activity.

And so it was at Chez Babamanov; the simple process of getting to the next town that morning involved several hours of the waiting game. This was not particularly unpleasant mind, given the sunny weather and amiable rural location, but I can imagine that such occurrences becoming a daily affair would be most irksome. Well, yet another reason not to emigrate to Uzbekistan I suppose.

The problem with getting to Khiva started with the fact that although the Babamanov family possessed two cars, only one seemed to be functional and that had been requisitioned by Son Number One for taking he and wife to Urgench. Therefore, a car was required and so Kolya disappeared off down the road in the Lada, (prior to it being loaded with son and wife and heading for Urgench), to the home of the man with the Daewoo Tico which had escorted us from the railway station the previous day.

And about an hour later that said Daewoo arrived, and we were about to enter its cramped Korean confines when a debate ensued. A problem had arisen and that problem was that we would not be travelling to Khiva alone, both Kolya and Son Number Two wished to come with us, as well as Daewoo Man too of course. And us five grown men, would clearly not fit in a Korean automobile designed for four.

And so Daewoo disappeared and half an hour later a Lada appeared from somewhere. And this being bigger (slightly) and functional, it was thus deemed suitable, and so in we piled and through the famous fields of cotton we chugged towards our third ancient Uzbeki city.

I was glad that we'd left Khiva till last. Even before we entered the old compound, we could tell that it was more complete than both Bukhara and Samarkand. The sun shining on its impressive baked mud walls was an impressive sight indeed, truly reminiscent of a Scheherezade tale.

Daewoo Man, (for he was driving the Lada too, even though it wasn't his), parked up and together our party entered through the city gate, picking up an English-speaking guide en route. Having a guide was a novel experience for us. Normally we don't bother, but Kolya, ever the perfect host, insisted. Anyway, our explainer of all things Khivan turned out to be a rather fluent yet strange young lady with an equally strange name that I forgot to jot down and alas, have since forgotten. I managed to insult her from the very beginning when she asked me how old I thought her to be. I looked her up and down. Not an unattractive lass it's true, but she was, as I said before, slightly weird looking, and what's more she also appeared, (if you'll pardon the expression), a little 'worn' with age. I guessed twenty-eight at the youngest. I said 'twenty-five'.

She was twenty.

Our 20-year old guide with the Lowlander and Kolya

Despite being unimpressed with me, she continued to lead us around whilst spouting historical facts about khans, minarets and mullahs, most of which I remember not. The city was however, an amazing place. Although the buildings were individually humbler and inferior to those of Bukhara and Samarkand, and the inevitable carpet-sellers and purveyors of tack were everywhere, overall Khiva was by far the most atmospheric of the three cities and a real Arabian Nights ambience, with its narrow alleys, shady courtyards and brown-tiled domes prevailed. One building that particularly took my fancy was the Juma Mosque complete with two hundred and eighteen wooden pillars, each one intricately carved and each one unique. Also interesting were the city gates, which were so thick that they contained a tunnel that would no doubt be a death-trap to any prospective invader.

In ancient Khiva with granddad, Son Number 2 and kolya

The walls of Khiva

In the Juma Mosque

Our time in Khiva was shorter than I'd have liked though, as Kolya was anxious to get back home for some food, so before long we set off back, following a wedding party complete with bride in a billowing white dress back to the gate and the twenty-first post-Soviet century.

Despite having seen our cities and staying in a rural smallholding with a rather rotund Uzbeki gentleman, all was not well with us two adventurers. We'd tried once more in Khiva to get money on MasterCard, and once more we were unsuccessful, and by now we were running worryingly low on sum, with no immediate prospects of replenishing that diminutive pile. What was needed was a phone call to the Netherlands, but like cars to Khiva, arranging such things is not always so easy as you'd imagine it to be. Kolya had a phone but apparently it was no good for international calls, and thus we stopped off in the village at the home of an old guy with a good connection and a room full of eager telephone conversationalists.

But alas, whilst his phone functioned, a lack of people at Huis van den Ouden made the visit a fruitless one, and so we returned still with money matters on our minds to Chez Kolya and a tasty Uzbeki meal, accompanied by a Japanese historical soap on the TV.

After the soap, our host slept, but we from siestaless cultures could not, so quietly we tiptoed out and walked through the village streets to Phone Man's residence. This time we got through, and Mr. Lowlander Snr. agreed to send us a Western Union transfer that we would pick up in Tashkent the following day. And so it was two very relieved travellers that walked back through the sunny streets towards the smallholding.

However, once again Uzbekistan displayed its remarkable ability in spoiling the best of moods. Strolling the streets, past horses and carts and slow Russian tractors, we were accosted by two members of that breed most populous in Central Asia; the policeman.

'Passport! Where are you from? Visa! Why are you here?' We were by now heartily sick of this after only a week or so in the country. It was scarcely believable too that even here, in the depths of the countryside, a village of less than a thousand souls, there was a large, fully staffed cop shop ready to pounce on unsuspecting tourists. This lot however, were obviously less used to seeing our breed than their city brethren.

“Visa!” said the guy.

I showed it to him. He looked at it uncomprehending, then turned it upside down before handing it to his comrade who looked equally puzzled.

“What's your name?” he rapped in Russian, which was obviously his mother tongue despite his Uzbek ethnicity.

“It's there,” I said, pointing at the visa.

He looked at it again. Blankly.

Then it dawned. I took back the passport and opened it up on the page where my Russian visa was stuck. “There!” I said.

“Metyu Irlam Pointon,” he said, spelling out the Cyrillic rendering. “Thank you.”

Soon after independence, Uzbekistan, (like most of the other Central Asian republics), changed its official language from Russian to something a little more native and its script from Cyrillic to Latin, in an effort to prove its new national identity. Admirable sentiment perhaps, but a bit stupid since the majority of the population can't read the Latin script and a large percentage don't even speak Uzbek.

The new nationalisms of Central Asia are an interesting and (in my opinion) sad phenomenon. Everywhere we went, people were working hard to create identities for countries that had never really existed before, and for nations that are not really, well, nations I suppose.

Prior to the Soviet Era, Central Asia had been split into a series of Khanates, based around important cities, (the three biggies in Uzbekistan being Bukhara, Khiva and Kokand). In these cities the Khan was king and the people who now call themselves Uzbekis and Tadzhiks lived and worked. Outside the walls however, was the steppe or desert; a vast no-man's land peopled only by the nomads of Asia's heart; the Turkmen or the Kazakhs. The whole area was called Turkestan, but it was never a country at all in the modern sense of the word.

And then came the Russians who became the Soviets after 1922. They brought some of their own people to further complicate the ethnic cocktail and once they'd got over winning the Civil War properly, they began to organise the region along proletarian lines which meant that amongst other things, wandering herdsmen and khans were not particularly welcome.

Also unwelcome was a large entity that was Islamic in character and potentially rebellious. There was a likelihood that once the Soviets had started to 'civilise' the locals they would in fact not fully appreciate the helping hand that they were being given to reach the modern world, and instead resort to 'reactionary politics', i.e. Nationalism. Of course this would only be a passing phase, (Marx said so and if there was ever a man who knew all about historical certainties, it was he), on the inevitable road to socialism, but it was nonetheless, a phase best avoided, so in 1924 the Turkestan SSR was split into five smaller SSRs which bore little resemblance to the ethnic situations on the ground. These five new republics were given the names of the old nationalities and, (despite some border changes under Stalin), they are now, by and large, the five new countries of Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, Kirghizia and Tadzhikistan.

And so there we have it. Five countries with an identity crisis, a lack of money and power-loving ex-Communist Party Boss presidents. So what's the solution? Let's create an identity!

And the result? Well, each country is different, but there are similarities. Kazakhstan for example, has decreed that its national colours should be a disgusting combination of sky blue and yellow, and so everything, even down to the slats on the park benches have been hurriedly painted in those putrid shades. Turkmenistan has its amazing Turkmenbashi cult whilst Uzbekistan... well Uzbekistan seems to have got a bit lost somewhere along the route. Karimov decided from the outset that Islam was a very good symbol. After all, the country possesses some of the world's finest Islamic architecture and Islam is definitely neither Russian or Soviet. Islam however, also presented problems for our man at the top. For a start there was Taleban-run Afghanistan and the Iran of the Mullahs just to the south, the former in particular, eager to convert his people to their way of thinking. And then there was his position as one of the dictators that the Americans prop up to think of. And they don't like Islam.

The result? Promote Islam as an identity but suppress anyone who shows any sign of following it too seriously. And that, along with scripts that no one can read, a language that citizens don't speak and a good old electionless democracy is, as I said before, the bright new state of Uzbekistan.

Another spectacular victory for nationalism!

Naturally, this subject had been one that the Lowlander and I had discussed many times since hitting Xinjiang which in many ways can be seen as the Sixth Republic of the region, and the only one so far denied its independence. Brian Connellan, the Irishman whom we met on the train from Urumqi, was full of tales of Chinese atrocities and a fervent supporter of Uyghur independence. To be fair, he may be right; he had certainly travelled that province more and met more Uyghurs than we had, but I for one did not agree. To me, independence for them from China would be a great disaster, just as I thought that independence from the USSR had been a calamity for the other five 'Stans'. The Lowlander however, was more critical of the Chinese than I, although he too agreed that post-Soviet Central Asia was the greatest advert that an anti-independence party could be given.

Back at the house, Kolya's Son Number Two took us to where the action was in the village; the pool room. Well, pool room is perhaps a little to grand a title, since it was merely a very uneven table in someone's garage, but you get the idea. So uneven was it in fact, that the Lowlander who plays a pretty mean game of pool took over an hour to clear the table. I had no chance, so I headed next door to the local shop where I bought soft drinks and a pack of Cyrillic playing cards that was bizarrely sixteen cards short.

That evening Kolya took us in the (now returned from Urgench) Lada to a small river with a weir that was obviously one of his favourite haunts. It actually was a nice place in an unassuming way and a welcome splash of greenery after days of desert, and I enjoyed examining the tiny dam whilst Kolya talked to the guy in charge. Then it was back to the house for more food, more vodka and the daily half an hour suspension of life during the screening of Esmerelda.

And when the Mexicans left the screen, and the womenfolk returned to their chores, Son Number Two took out his kobyz, the traditional Turkic instrument that looks a little like the sitar of India, and played beautiful Uzbeki folk tunes, whilst I countered with some of the songs of Ye Olde England. And thus the sun set, more toasts to International Peace and Friendship were raised, more vodka was consumed and we settled down to sleep once more.

Son Number 2 on his kobyz

Next part: 3i: Tashkent (II)

Technorati Tags: uncle travelling matt,matt pointon,tom van den ouden,lowlander,travel,across asia with a lowlander,blog,uzbekistan,khiva,urgench,police,visa,nationalism,ussr,soviet union,lada,daewoo,minaret,mosque,Juma Mosque,tour guide

Friday, 13 September 2013

Across Asia With A Lowlander: Part 3g: Samarkand to Urgench

Greetings!

So sorry that this post is totally overdue, but my computer finally died the death after a prolonged attack by Trojans and the great guys at the Ethical Computer Company were busy salvaging what they could. Thankfully, they managed to save virtually everything and so UTM is still here and still able to post his musings, which includes this next installment of ‘Across Asia With A Lowlander’, an account which details perhaps the highlight of the entire trip, when we were invited to stay in a traditional Uzbeki home by a traditional Uzbeki family. Awesome stuff.

As for future updates, they should be on time but as I’m off to Poland next week, one can never guarantee these things. However, visitors to this site will, as always, be the first to know!

Keep travelling!

Uncle Travelling Matt

Links to all parts of the travelogue

Book 1: Embarking Upon A New Korea

Book 2: Master Potter does Fine China

Book 3: Steppe to the Left, Steppe to the Right…