On the Pamir Highway to China
The rest of the ride through Uzbekistan passed without any particular events. Most of it was through shadeless desert, except for the occasional caikhana. But once in a caikhana, I couldn’t really enjoy it. As soon as I arrived at place, I was besieged by curious locals. The problem with them wasn’t their curiosity in the first place, but rather that everybody approached me individually with the same set of questions, making me feel like an answering machine. So. Most of the time I got fed up with it and preferred the heat of the desert of the shade…
Samarqand: after I had killed almost a week’s time, I headed for the Tajik border. Before I came to Samarqand I had already been to the ancient Silk Road towns of Chiva and Bukhara, which I altogether found a bit disappointing. Regarding tourism, Uzbekistan is fully developed, with the respective price differential and the corresponding attitude local people tend to develop towards big buck spending package tourists: the foreigner is looked upon as something like a travelling purse.
To give an example what I’m talking about: in Bukhara I happened to have the luck of a grocery store conveniently located next to my guesthouse, which itself was located fairly central. The particular feature of this grocery store was that price tags were used, something rather unusual in this part of the world. So when I went in there for the first time, I was asked about 1/3 more than what I had calculated. “Hey hold on pal, I had calculated a different price…” – so we went through the prices of every single item with a calculator, and: “Oh sorry, sorry, mister…” did he excuse himself and charged me the correct amount. OK, no big deal so far. The next day I went to the shop again, same game, different cashier, same story. OK, probably they all lack a bit of education, no worries. But when the same game started the third time as well, so I began to wonder if they were doing this on purpose… Another example. Me, a girl from the US and a guy from Argentina went to restaurant in Samarqand. They ordered a good deal of meat, I wasn’t very hungry and ordered something cheap. Then when we asked for the bill, the bill was significantly higher than what we had calculated according to the menu.
When we asked the waiter where the difference came from, he told us, it would be the loaf of bread that we had ordered a little later (without asking for the price). Well, that was probably the most expensive loaf of bread each of us ever had! Well although it was a bit of an ego-thing, I had learnt another lesson. But, it would also be a bit unfair to blame people for acting without giving it any thought. Apart from tourism, there is almost no work available since the collapse of the USSR, on the other hand most tourists are also responsible for provoking this behaviour. Most of them come here with their western attitude and concept of morality, throwing around big bucks, which often goes without the slightest relation to the average local income. No wonder that the impression builds up that all tourists are rich and don’t care getting ripped off.
Departing Uzbekistan then was quite exciting. Let’s think back for a second: on entry I didn’t declare most of my cash and now I had to convince the customs officials that I lived from ten Dollars the last month. That didn’t sound very realistic to me, so I had made up the idea to give a reasonable amount and explain it with the story that I had some money withdrawn from a teller in Tashkent, but the machine would not have given me a receipt.
I had written off the money for the worst case, but was hoping that they would not search me and my stuff and find the rest. After I had filled in the form I queued for the counter, thinking of something nice to calm myself down a bit. Finally it was my turn. The customs official checked the forms and of course did he find the irregularities. I tried to explain, but he just mentioned something in Russian along with some gestures which I interpreted as: “fill in the same amount as stated on the other form.” Quite nervous, I went back to the desk, filled in another form and after he had checked it again, he filed the two sheets and allowed me to advance to obtain the exit-stamp. Fair enough, but I only made it half way yet, because my Tajik visa did not entitle me to enter the country before the next day. I still wanted to give it a try – I had to anyway, and I counted on the fact that border guards in such countries do not like it much to have foreign witnesses lingering around. The Tajik border post looked something like a mixture of a scrap yard and a bazaar.
Whereas in Uzbekistan there was a proper, official looking customs building, on the Tajik side, there were only some simple rusty military containers and shanties made from corrugated tin sheets. Although there were quite a few people around, I couldn’t make out any apparent hierarchy. I was standing there having a look around to find out where to address first, when a well-nurtured Tajik bloke with precisely trimmed moustache approached me and asked me to follow him. I liked his outfit immediately: he wore a camouflage suit with corresponding cap and a pair of shiny black slippers. Immediately the proverb “Always be careful with fat men in thin countries” came to my mind. I followed him into his box. In the corridor had been some Tajik women dressed in traditional outfit. When he passed them, each one of them gave him some cash. Once in his office, he had a seat and asked me if I had filled in a customs declaration form on the other side. I said yes, and made clear that I also wanted to fill in one here. He opened the drawer, took one out and, suddenly, asked for 5 Dollars – for the “Velociped”. I replied in German that I would not speak any Russian, and why I would need to pay for the bike. He started filling in, asking me for other valuables such as a camera, and mentioned the five Dollars again.
In the meantime a friend of his had entered the room. At least one could have assumed it by the way they greeted each other. How their relationship was really like became clear to me by their firm handshake and the customs official’s right hand vanishing in his pocket for getting out the stamp. After his “friend” had left, he asked me once more for five Dollars, presenting the entry stamp in his right hand. I told him that I would not have 5 Dollars, but only 2000Som (equivalent of 1,20Dollar) left. He accepted, probably assuming that they would be Kyrgyz Som which are of higher value. Then he stamped my passport and I was in. The same day I made it to Penzikent, where I stayed for the night at the Intourist Hotel. I had chosen this one for two reasons: first, because I liked Soviet baroque, and second, because this Hotel was the only one entitled to perform registrations, which would eventually come in handy. In contrast to its neighbours where compulsory registration is nowadays handled sloppier, it’s still handled rigidly in Tajikistan. Violating the registration could mean a nice extra income for the respective official, but at least some serious trouble which could be easily avoided, or at least the chance of having to pay a fine of up to 500 Dollars could be decreased significantly by being able to present just any kind of registration form. In any way, the official rules are that one has to register initially 3 days after entry latest, and if staying in a place with an OVIR office (the respective registration authority) for more than 3 days reregistering again every time.
The initial registration normally costs 25 Dollars with each additional registration usually being free, but no rule without exceptions. Apart from the OVIR all major hotels are entitled to perform registrations, but in some places this won’t be acknowledged due to reasons given above. Anyway, the cardinal problem was that additionally to the fair distance which I could easily make within two days on average terrain, I had to cross the Anzob Pass, which had an elevation of roughly 3800m and therefore would not make it to Dushanbe within three days and there wouldn’t be any other place in between where I could get the registration done. After arrival in Dushanbe, I checked into the Hotel Dushanbe, a left-over from the prime-age of Soviet Socialism for ten Dollars a night. All other options had either been more expensive or not available. My next task was to find Iqbals office to collect the GBAO permit, which I needed to travel the Pamir Highway. I had already checked arranged it several weeks ago, so once I had found his office, it surprisingly didn’t take long.
Dushanbe itself is a rather quiet place. Which doesn’t mean it would be boring – at least not to me. Cyclists, in contrast to people travelling by public transport, usually travel in between places, so a major place like Dushanbe is always an oasis of relaxation and culinary joys. A few days later and after I had let the hotel doing the registration for me because it was a good deal cheaper and less hassle, I hit the road. One of the greatest highlights on this trip was waiting for me and I had dreamed of cycling this part of the world since I first heard of and saw pictures of it several years ago.
I took the road via Obigarm and Komsomolabad to Kalaikhum, from where the road leads through a deep gorge with spectacular views to Chorog, mostly hugging the banks of the Pyanj River, the border stream with Afghanistan. Form Chorog the road climbs up to a plateau with an elevation of 3800-4000m, with the Ak-Baital Pass at 4655m as the highest point, passing the towns of Alichur and Murghab before, Karakul and the Karakul Lake after the pass.
2 more passes had to be mastered between Karakul and the Tajik border post with some gale force winds in the valley, when me and three other cyclists whom I had met before Karakul decided to pitch tents and call it a day already in the early afternoon.
After the Tajik border post the road dropped down into a wide valley towards the Kyrgyz border post and on to Sary-Tash with great views on Pik Lenin. The strain of high altitude cycling and the shortage of decent food made me ache to reach Kashgar. Perhaps to every cyclist who is cycling this part of the world Kashgar is something like the land of plenty. An oasis it indeed is and a bustling place with a variety of fresh and tasty food available as a break from the ole instant noodle diet. 3 days later I had made it and together with some fellow cyclists we enjoyed it for a couple of days doing nothing but eating 5 meals and several snacks of ice cream sundaes a day …
Through the Karakum desert
Aqtau, the next morning. I had to find a cheap room. If looked at closely, Aqtau is quite a bizarre place. The town doesn’t have a well or any other water supply except for a desalination plant, powered by a nuclear power plant which also supplies the town with electricity. Apart from that, Aqtau holds next to nothing of interest for the average tourist. There are few hotels relicts of the old soviet days, which is perhaps an explanation for the astronomical prices. Finally, with some local assistance I found a place. It was located in a communist-style, prefabricated concrete block, where one had left the flat-structure intact, simply the locks to the rooms inside the flats had been individualized. Good for me, so I had the benefit of a fridge and a nice balcony overlooking the promenade. Next task was to find the Irish Pub. Not to have an overpriced Guinness, but to get a map of the Mangystau Peninsula from the book store next door. There was a dense grid of roads and tracks around Aqtau mostly to reach the industrial sites, so it would come in handy when leaving Aqtau.
Once I would be on the right track to Beyneu there won’t be much need for it, except for comforting oneself. After I had found a suitable one, I headed for the supermarket to get some supplies. After I had allowed myself another day for mental adjustment as a preparation for the leg lying ahead of me, I hit the road. 9 o’clock in the morning and it was already quite warm. At noon I felt like I was cycling in a baking oven, with the sun burning mercilessly and the hot headwind drying me out. A long break in the shade would have been nice, unfortunately there was none. There was nothing but treeless steppe around me, with occasional caikhanas, Truckstops which I shall learn to appreciate soon. 3 days later, I reached Say-Utes in the morning, a place which marks the beginning of a 100km stretch of bad road and without water supply. In spring, with bearable temperatures and therefore the amount of water needed far less, now in summer it is quite a logistic challenge to carry 15L of it. But apart from being the last place before this stretch, Say-Utes also has a haunting side.
Back in the old days of the cold war, there was a nuclear test site not far from here, which is up to the present day considered to be problematic especially because of the careless handling of nuclear waste. After taking a few pictures with some guests of the caikhana, I took off. My strategy was to go slow and steadily, trying to sweat as less as possible besides that, there was not much I could do. 2 hours later, when struggling to cycle on the very right edge of the road, I saw a car passing me on the right off the road. It seemed that there were rideable secondary roads! I had to check them out – and was surprised that I made far better progress than on the main road! Despite this I still didn’t make it to the next roadhouse until the next morning, literally on the last drop of water. From here, distances between roadhouses wouldn’t be that big any more, and in 50kms there would even be tarmac again.
From Beyneu, I had planned to head for Uzbekistan. I had heard of a minor border crossing which I reached in the late afternoon after a desperately needed rest day in Beyneu. There were young blokes wearing camouflage seemingly bored all over the place, and somehow it was not straight forward who the emigration process was taking place. I stood there a bit disoriented, when I guy in uniform called me to come to his place, whereupon another guy mentioned to him something like to mind his own business, and to me, to follow him. I received my stamp, then he wanted to take my bike for a test ride. I approved it, and after he was done the toll-gate opened. In front of the Uzbekan checkpoint was a long queue of trucks waiting. It seemed like I had arrived outside the service hours or this was a method of extorting baksheesh. I pushed my bike up to the toll-gate, and called for attention. I don’t know the reason why, but they processed me.
I had to fill in a customs declaration form and had been asked a set of questions. I decided to declare only the Kazakh money I had left, as I didn’t want to get out all my funds because I feared a “counting attempt”, which I was trying to avoid. But that had a downside. The downside was that every policeman in Uzbekistan was officially entitled to body-search and to confiscate all funds and valuables which had not been stated on the customs declaration form. Apart from the danger of getting body searched again and taken away money this would give me a headache when leaving the country as I had to fill in another declaration form. But for the moment I was in, and would take care of this later. In the meantime the sun had set quite a bit. 20-25km was supposed to be a town with a railway station. I had made it a personal rule to not take advantage of public transport but to cycle whenever possible. But now, there was a stretch of 400kms or at least 3-4 days of bad road with unknown means of water supply lying ahead. It was a tough decision. As it was getting dark soon and I needed a place to sleep, I decided to delay this decision and head for the town of Karakalpakiya which after a while could see in the distance. After I had come closer I couldn’t make out a road leading in town or a sign pointing in its direction.
All there was was a bunch of tracks leading nowhere. It took me about 2 hours and several attempt till I managed to make the remaining 2-3 kms in town. Apart from a bunch of teenagers, which immediately started to hassle me, the town looked extinct. I asked for the train and have been told that I just missed it by a few minutes. That was very unfortunate, as the town was only frequented by 1 train a day in each direction. That meant I had to wait for almost another 24 hours. The solution to this problem appeared right away in the form of a couple of traditionally dressed older Uzbeks with caps and white goatees, who suggested to hitch a ride with them on the freight train in front of them. This train would only go as far as the town of Kungirot, but from there it would be tarmac and more important, no shortage of water. Before I had time to think it over I found myself sitting on the floor of the wooden train carriage with 4 Uzbeks, rumbling through the night. Some time later, perhaps 2 hours had passed, the train started to slow down and the others started to became hectic. They pointed out to me that, because I couldn’t jump off with the bike, I should stay in the corner of the carriage and remain silent. Well I don’t have to mention that I didn’t like the idea to be left behind in the middle of nowhere, but what else could I’ve done? After a while I saw a spot coming towards me. Obviously the train was being checked.
I was detected and taken to the stationmaster’s office. I tried to explain myself to him when suddenly a young Uzbek guy who was with me on the train appeared and explained the situation to the stationmaster. Half-heartedly the stationmaster wrote down my passport number and mentioned that we were ok to leave. My young Uzbek friend told me to go back to the carriage and to remain there. After another few minutes I saw another spot coming towards me. This time it was the local head of the police and he didn’t seem like somebody to f@!k with. He demanded my passport, yelling a set of questions at me. In situations like this one it is best to not speak any of the languages my opponent was likely to speak, so I gave him my friendliest smile, telling him with a relaxed voice in German, that I wouldn’t speak any Russian. This made him even more angry. Then suddenly, my Uzbek friend appeared again. It seemed to me that they knew each other, but still the Policeman demanded his passport. Then it was him being yelled at. The whole situation went on for a couple of minutes until suddenly the train started to move. Still talking German, I made signs to get my bike off the train. The Policemen ordered me to stop, when I then said, ok, then I hop on the train.
Again he ordered me to stop. Obviously he didn’t know what to do. Continue interrogating me and hopefully extort some baksheesh, or, eventually finding out that I wouldn’t have anything of value on me, and having to do paperwork. He decided to let go. He handed me my passport and with a “Daweij, daweij” allowed me to leave. But he still had my new Uzbek friend’s passport and had him beg to give it back and not causing trouble to him. Then he also let him go. We ran for our carriage, jumped in and rumbled through the desert for the rest of the night until we reached Kungirot the next morning. After the train had stopped, my friend helped me to get the bike off the carriage. It was a drop of about 1,20m, not easy to lift a fully loaded bike of about 50Kgs weight off this height. We managed to leave the railway compound unseen where we parted, after he had asked me for a sip of water from my bottles. Anything else he refused. The rest of the ride through Uzbekistan led me to via Nukus and Chiva to the ancient Silk Road towns of Bukhara and Samarqand. Originally I had intended to visit the Aral Lake, but I didn’t have any Uzbek money and first had to go to Nukus to find a bank and to have a rest. To see the beached ships I was hoping to meet a tour group in Nukus which I could join. I met one indeed, but they had already been there and told me that it would have been ok, but a lot of the ships would be dismantled these days and the metal taken to China. Had I guessed that I would be sitting in Samarqand for a week waiting out the start date of my Tajik visa, I would have gone there anyway.
