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a quick guide

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NE EXPIRED VISA, two corpses, three Uzbekistan may be a police state slowly countries, four fugitives, eleven cities, succumbing to deserti cation, but there is seventeen days, $200 in bribes. Ive still much to see. Evan Harris recounts an just exited Uzbekistan illegally and Im eventful tour of the region he made last stranded in Jamalia, a village on the winter that culminated in an expired visa Kazakh-Uzbek border. Its 9pm and no one will landing him in a spot of bother with the take me to civilisation for less than $100. The facilitator who aided me across the border, dodgy Uzbek authorities.

EVAN HARRIS

by appearance and occupation, has left me in a windowless concrete caf, his promise of a room for the night unful lled. I ask the boy serving me eggs and sausage where my friend and his promises have gone. He motions to a pile of mats and blankets in the corner of the room. Sleep there. There is nothing to protect me from the nights deep freeze but concrete walls, and nothing whatsoever to protect me from the stream of local youths who have been visiting the caf in a steady stream, sizing me up. A fortnight of bowel loosening events should have had me well prepared, but the prospect of this night really has me on the brink of soiling myself. Fortunately my luck takes a turn for the better and I see the night out in the blessed warm house of the owner of another caf, a large motherly woman who knows a needy boy when she sees one. This is Central Asias schizoTop A rusting boat stands on a snowy sand phrenia: aggressive mercantilism, obliging hospibank near Moynaq. Many boats left high and tality. A taxi tour from Bishkek around Uzbekistan dry by the retreating Aral sea are slowly dis- taught me this much. integrating into the desert. (All photos Evan To Tashkent Harris) Rewind fteen days. On the mountain pass before Top Right Bolo-hauz Mosque, an architectural Tashkent we witnessed some extreme hitching. highlight of Bukhara, has an enormous carved With their cars marooned in the snow, stranded wooden portico into which the Imam sings his drivers and passengers were taking their only opportunity of escape by sitting or lying on the boncall to prayer. July 2009 The Spektator

nets of more powerful cars, clinging to the windscreen wipers with their blue hands. Attempting these mountain passes in the depths of winter is asking for trouble, a point graphically illustrated when we pulled up besides the aftermath of a car crash. Our taxi driver, the rst passer-by to offer any assistance, took the lead. Of the eight bloodied victims, our driver loaded two unconscious elderly ladies into our car, one laid out in the boot and the other wedged into the back seat alongside my travelling companions and I. Things didnt improve much upon arrival at the town hospital near Uzgen. Several doctors, smoking cigarettes by the entrance, were inexplicably unkeen to o er any help until eventually one of the more enterprising nurses wheeled out a trolley. After cursorily pronouncing them both dead, the nurse carted both bodies away leaving behind a bloody trail in the snow. Our morbid cargo thus dispatched, we travelled on towards the Uzbek border in silence. Tashkent to Nukus After a couple of days recuperation I left my companions and the reassuringly European Tashkent behind, boarding the train to Nukus with nothing but a book and a carriage of curious Uzbeks for company. Twenty-four hours on this rusting snake really challenged my love of trains. Oppressive heat sweated me to my hard bed while outside the window rolled endless snowy desert. A trip to the unlit toilet found me literally taking a shot in the dark. The light didnt work and all I could do was hope I wasnt pissing on my shoes. Exiting, the outside hall shed light on my marksmanship; I was standing in my own puddle. When my fellow passengers www.thespektator.co.uk

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tired of toilet target practice, crosswords and purchasing Chinese tat from the babushki who boarded the train at every stop (why oh why dont they sell useful things like water?) they gave me a grilling worthy of the KGB and ngered my passport and visas. One interrogator invited me to his home, another o ered me a lift in his car, but the authenticity of their o ers had to remain untested as I was headed for the yellowing wallpaper, dripping water, and drunk businessmen of Hotel Nukus. The receptionist gave me my key and a faceful of coy smiles and I walked the moody dark corridors of The Shining to my room. Only, its not my room, is it? The bathroom light is on, and the room smells of perfume, and theres a handbag on the bed. I wonder if the rooms are dorms rather than singles, but reason theyd never have a mixed dorm. I return to the reception desk. Is there supposed to be someone else in the room? No, there isnt Youve made a mistake, someone is already in that room Really? Yes Are you sure? All coy smiles again. Yes, theres a womans handbag on the bed. She shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly and gives me a di erent key. As I twist the key of my new room it dawns on me that it may not have been a mistake. I lock the door behind me.

A dirty drip of paint on an otherwise blank desert canvas, Moynaq is fading. Ecological catastrophe has dragged the lick of the Aral Sea waves far from this once thriving fishing port; Moynaq feels a zombie town this winter. The result of the USSRs attempt to mobilise resources to increase productivity, the Aral Sea has been reduced from a giant blue puddle on satellite images, to a tiny teardrop in the desert. The result has destroyed a productive fishing industry, created health endemics, and destabilised the local climate. My god it was cold. Stepping o the bus, a vehicle held together with ga a tape and string, I understood why the women exiting behind me were as wide as I am tall; the cold is penetrating; it grips your bones, it turns your face to raw meat and makes you wish you were back on the bus attened against the window by an enormous woman, surrounded by leather skinned men gripping old cigarettes with their golden teeth. Five-hundred meters away from Moynaqs only road I see the spectre of a ship against the white sky. Atop a crunchy white dune I spy more rusting husks. The metal ribs of one can be seen through the hull, the insides empty, picked for parts and left looking like a rotting whale. Walking back, a teenage boy eyes me suspiciously and asks for a cigarette. Craving satised he gestures to his mouth and asks for food, I apologise and hurry back to the bus. The one caf is closed, and the streets are busy with shu ing Moynaq gures. People seem to be eyeing me with a mixNukus has little to o er aside its renown collection ture of suspicion and amazement. Tottering highof Soviet art in the city gallery. Its other purpose is heeled teens giggle at me, packs of men laugh as a base for reaching Moynaq, the former Aral Sea and taunt. Halfway along the street I hear an unshing port. godly wail from one of the houses off the road. www.thespektator.co.uk

The sound of agony echoes around the town and no one flinches. The only bus has left, but a man is waiting for another passenger to take to Kungrad. I join his car, relieved to be leaving this sad eerie town. Khiva and Bukhara The cold recedes little in Khiva, the reconstructed desert city and slave trade hub of yore. The weather is no obstacle for Uzbek marriages. The only life in these reconstructed streets is the groups of marriage parties dancing their way to Khivas holy shrines. The men seemed well protected in their leather suits, but the brides blushed blue under their heavy makeup, naked to the cold in their modern white dresses. Its a popular time of year to get married, the guesthouse owner tells me over tea, jam and chess thrashings, it brings good luck. Here, in my guesthouse, hides the elusive Central Asian hospitality. A warm house, fresh tea, bread and jam any time I need a break from the cold (every hour), and free washing when my host realised I was running low on cash. Once, he explained, he welcomed a European cyclist who had been robbed of all but his clothes. Having fed him for several days, the luckless traveller said goodbye, paying only with a moral IOU. A month later a German tour group leader knocked on his door and presented the cyclists money. A modern parable right here in the desert. Bordering Turkmenistan, Khiva had a rough reputation in its heyday. Its fitting then that I left in the company of scoundrels. Two brothers and a father hemmed me into a taxi, all their worthy possessions with them, including a TV in the boot and a bag on my lap. July 2009 The Spektator

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Above Would you marry this mans daughter? Vodka and pottery in Samarkand old town.

Visibly hammered they appeared in a celebratory mood, the sonswretched faces contorting into toothless smiles as we cruised the desert. They checked that I didnt speak Tajik early on, so they could yell at each other without my comprehension. They seemed unsure of where they were going, but my ears picked out the names of Andijon and Termiz regularly. At one military checkpoint one of the sons handed over his passport instead of bribing the grunt, and once out of view of the hut the family descended into a st ght, handsome wiry father asserting himself as alpha male. After theyd taken great interest in my passport and visa their heads dropped and began to snore in unison, cartoon drunks all three. Ignoring the smell of dirty hair from the head slumped on my shoulder I fantasised about their story. What were they running from? Who would they bother next? Our adventures parted ways in Bukhara, and I felt glad that mine was only a cameo in their tale. Bukharas sweeping squares and crumbling narrow lanes o er a charming place to lose a few days. Inside empty madrassas and mosques I was free to sneak up stairs that felt o limits and stand among the doves atop the roofs of buildings. Two peculiar architectural wonders stand out in this city. The rst, Bolo-hauz Mosque, opposite the citadel, has an enormous carved wooden portico which sets it apart from golden-stoned entrances of other mosques. The Imam sings his call to prayer into the portico, using its acoustics as an enormous amplifying dish. Nearby, the Soviet constructed water tower deserves a climb. Its lattice-work skeleton cuts a unique silhouette, and the roof allows a romantic view of the domes and minarets of the city. Whether for the views or the safety from conservative elders granted by challenging stairs, many towers I climbed were occupied by teenage couples enjoying their rst lust.

Samarkand As the most famous city in Central Asia, Samarkand threatens anticlimax. Though the dimensions of the Registan and the nearby mosques do not disappoint, the citys highlight was to be found in the company of three old men. Between my guesthouse and the Registan I stumbled upon a courtyard of rickety craftstudios. As the rst day of the New Year, it appeared deserted and I took advantage of the sunlight streaming through dusty windows illuminating fabric masterpieces and took photos. One pottery studio was occupied by three men, and the master potter beckoned me inside and insisted I lunch with them. Soon the small dark room was lled with the buzz of rich turkey stew and a bottle of vodka was fetched from a kiosk. The room was strewn with half nished pottery like clay scabs hanging to some old beast, like the half baked commentary on money, politics and women that circulated the room that afternoon. Once the bottle of vodka was nished and the o ers of their daughters became too insistent I left them to their pink elephants and spent the afternoon rolling around the magni cent architecture in a drunken haze. The rest was but fairytale madness. Getting on the wrong bus, cancelled trains, embassy incompetency, being sent to the wrong border, pushing a Lada up a snowy hill, closed border, hotel refusing to let me stay, expired visa, staying at my taxi drivers wife-beating brothers house, money transfers, more embassy incompetence, and nally threats of prison or a $1000 ne. Two hundred dollars in bribes later Im treading frozen grass past an armed Uzbek guard 500m to the left of the o cial border passage. The guard nods his head at my escort, a man whose daily job is facilitating people across the border. Halfway to the Kazakh border we pass a man on a donkey cart laden with goods. I bet he didnt have to pay $200. www.thespektator.co.uk

July 2009 The Spektator