Category: Six Stans in six weeks

I awoke today to an unfamiliar sight, rain! A steady drizzle and grey sky that I last saw over 3 weeks ago in an antipodean little town called Melbourne. I cursed inwardlay as I have paid a hefty $200 US for a day trip to Alexander Lake (Iskander Kul).

92% of Tajikistan is mountain and the northern Fan Mountains are not on the itinerary for my adventure up the Pamir Hwy hence the effort to get here now that I have a day spare here. It is a 3 hour drive from the capitol Dushanbe and the mountains intrude some 20km out. We drive by the palatial president’s holiday house and the road narrows and there are more frequent concrete tunnels to protect the road from avalanche and snow. Some 2 hours out we reach what our driver euphemistically calls “bad tunnel” an 18 minute drive through a pitch black hole that seems to lead into the very core of the planet. The road surface is grossly pitted and corrugated so the only way through is to drive in a sinuous serpentine fashion playing chicken with the oncoming traffic. This is not an adventure for the claustrophobic. Some of the craters are veritable lakes and I wonder at the sense of having a nice white Mercedes as our vehicle rather than a 4 WD.

Iskander Falls

Snake Lake

This thought becomes even more sensible as after the tunnel the road descends down vertiginous hairpin bends before turning int a narrow dirty potholed dirt track. Somehow are car negotiates all of this with a minimum of fuss and we are at the stunning turqoise blue lake. We have time to walk down to the waterfall and up to snake lake before our trip home through the “bad tunnel”.

In a couple of hours I pick up Anthony for our 11 day tour up the Pamir Hwy to Osh in Kyrgyzstan. This trip is in a 4 WD and involves high altitude trekking, homestays and yurt stays. I would be surprised if there is any internet at all along the way so this may be a bit of a hiatus. Stay tuned, I will be back in about 2 weeks from Kazakhstan. (Home of Borat!)

Well, the Uzbek border officials certainly didn’t disappoint! The drive from Samarkand to the border is down as 5-6 hours. For some reason it took us 8 hours and it was 5:30 pm by the time we arrived at the border. The sun was low in the sky and the border closes at 6pm. I hasten in and complete my declaration form quickly having had some practise already. I know that the Uzbeks are dynamite on the currency declaration and I have my US dollars addded up to perfection and am ready to go. I hit a snag. My last entry into Uzbekistan was my day trip from Afghanistan. I only took $200 across and back. I am leaving the country with $1700 how is this possible? I explain it over and again through an attractive female customs officer who speaks some English. There is lots of head shaking and grimacing as they wave me to one side and take my passport away. More questions and I explain that I did declare over $2000 USD on my first entry so they go off somewhere to download a copy. Amazingly they do eventually find one and after a cursory search I am allowed through an hour later.

It is now after 6pm and as I walk through no mans land past the trucks stranded there I wonder if I will have to sleep out on the ground. At least I have my sleeping bag but no food or water it will be a long night. The door is still open on the Tajik side but it looks deserted inside. I wander through until I find an occupied office. The nice Tajik man happily hands me the forms to fill out and I am through immigration and customs in 5 minutes! Next hassle is what is at the other side. I am mentally prepared for having to hitch as the nearest town is 12 km away. My luck is still in for there is one car left and after some taxi negiotiating argy bargy I am on my way in the darkness for the last 66 km of my journey to the capitol of Tajikistan, Dushanbe. This journey is supposed to take 45 minutes. It takes us over 2 hours along road that is more dirty corrugated, construction zone potholes than main road. I am oh so grateful to arrive late at night at my guest house.

Dushanbe is actually quite a pleasant leafy, green capitol. The main avenue, Rudaki Street stretches for kilometres with well established elm trees lining the way providing ample shade from the late summer heat. There is nothing historic here and up until a few years ago nothing of modern significance to see either. This has changed with the changes to the Bag i Rudaki parkland that is a magnificent green oasis literally gushing with kilometres of fountains and as its backdrop the new Presidential Palace which cost more to construct than the annual national health budget of this nation of 7 million. A pleasant day is had seeing as much as possible of this pleasant green central Asian city.

Gardens

Presidential palace

I arrive at Samarkand to find it barricaded up with security officers closing down the inner city for the visit to the classic monuments here by the Chinese President and the Uzbek President. The resourceful Iranian businessman who is my companion for the day speaks the language and somehow we get a cab to take us up the bck routes to his hotel. The Iranian also negotiates a price for me aand suddenly the 4 star room is a steal at $55 rather than the normal rate of $100! I head off in the late afternoon and get most of the way into town by cab and walk the last kilometre along lovely green shaded boulevards which ar a balm to my eyes that have had almost 3 weeks of desert and shades of yellow.

Samarkand is Uzbekistan’s most glorious city! With a history that stretches back to 5 BC it became yet another key post on the silk road. In a familair plot it was obliterated by Genghis Khan in the 13th century before becoming the capitol of Timur’s empire in 1370. At its zenith this empire stretched from Kazakhstan in the north to China in the east and down to Delhi, Iran and all of Turkey to the Bosperus. His capitol became a centre of learning and culture in the Middle East. Ultimately it declined as the neighbouring Bukhara became more powerful.

The monuments here are on a truly grand scale and the centrepiece is the 3 massive blue tiled, mosaiced medressas set around a large square called the Registan. Early morning and I beat the tour groups and the ticket office and have the best of the light. I am surprised to find that all is open and by the time someone badgers me to pay I have already seen all I want to. At my next venue, the Bib Khanym mosque I utilise a trick that worked here at a mausoleum yesterday. I wander in amongst the middle of a large tour group and again I don’t have to pay. It is not something I will make a habit of but it was the challenge to see if I could get away with it. I did!

Gur e Amir mausoleum

Gur e Amir Mausoleum

This place is the closes to the capitol Tashkent and I have seen as many tour groups here as I have for the last 2 weeks but it is still easy enough to wander around between groups and get good pictures. Despite the tour groups the locals are truly friendly. Last night at dinner at a local restaurant I find I am being eyed off by a corpulent elderly Uzbek lady dresssed up to the nines. Finally she speaks up loadly and says “You tourist?” When I nodded she roars “I love tourists, I love you!” much to my embarrassment. Today walking near the Registan I am set upon by 8 teenage girls who all want to be photographed with me. It was a good five minutes before this celebrity managed to extricate himself from the poses and phone photos with the girls.

Registan

Ulugbek medressa

This is my last day in Uzbekistan. I am not looking forward to tomorrow’s border crossing into Tajikistan. The Uzbeks at my last departure point were particularly officious and intrusive and there was a big language barrier. No matter I wil prevail and tomorrow it is from the capitol, Dushanbe.

The holiest central Asian city in the Muslim world, Bukhara’s history in so many ways parallels that of Khiva. A thriving oasis in the desert and a key city on the famous Silk road it was destroyed in the 13th century by, you guessed it, Genghis Khan. Rebuilt it became one of the three main city states that ultimately served as an almost unconquerable buffer between the Russians in the north and the English in India in the south. This jostling that occurred over almost 3 centuries came to be known as “The Great Game” and cost countless thousands of lives both of the local people and Russians and British. In the end Bukhara was the penultimate khanate to succumb to the Russians.

 Medressa

The earliest buildings here date from the 9th century and this is a city where the restoration work has been sensitively managed leaving the tourist with a more authentic appreciation of the history. This is less “theme park” and more original. As a holy city it was a centre of learning in the muslim world and there are no fewer than 100 medressas (Islamic schools) here, many beautifully ornate. This is a beautiful ancient city that rewards wandering through the bazaars and alleyways.

Bazaar with mosque domes and minaret in background

 Kalon mosque

The architectural gem here is the Kalon mosque. Built in the 16th centuries its bright blue tiled domes are exquisite. Out front is the Kalon minaret which, built in 1127 was the tallest building in central Asia. 47 metres tall it was at that time the tallest building in central Asia and when Genghis saw it he was so dumbfounded that he ordered that it be spared.

For me, though, having studied the Great Game, the highlight here was the Khan’ s palace, known as the Ark and the prison there known as the Zindon. The rulers of medieval Bukhara were every bit as brutal as at Khiva. The ruler with the worst reputation was Nasrullah Khan. There is a portrait of him in the museum here and as I gaze into his large cruel eyes the Uzbek lady watching the room says “Butcher”. To ascend to the throne he had to kill no fewer than 28 members of his own family who were either ahead of him in lineage or who may have taken issue with his rule. Known even to his own people as “The Butcher” he was expert at playing Russian off against British. In 1838 a British envoy, soldier Charles Stoddart rode into Bukhara. Nasrulla arrested him for not dismounting his horse in the city and failing to bring gifts for him. He put him into jail in a 6.5 metre deep well. The only way in or out was by a 6 metre long rope and the prison guards refreshed what was know as the “bug pit” daily with scorpions, bugs and rats. A year later the British sent Arthur Connolly to negotiate his rescue and he joined Stoddart in the bug pit. Four years after Stoddart’s arrest the two were brought out to the courtyard outside the ark. They dug their own graves before being beheaded. While the graves are unmarked all of the rest of the history is here, visible and palpable. Despite the appearance of multiple European tour groups for the first time in my travels I am able to connect with the history of this beautiful and unique place.

Bug pit

Prison

Registan, in front of the Ark, where Connolly and Stoddart were beheaded.

Strolling over the friendship bridge in no man’s land between Uzbekistan and Afghanistan I reflect back to the Russian invasion in the 1980s. They built this almost 1 km long bridge over the Amu Darya River in 1985. How many Russian tanks rumbled across this bridge? How many US tanks rumbled across from Uzbekistan to liberate Mazar e Sharif from the Taliban in 2001? I gaze across to Afghanistan and the bizarre US army spy blimp that floats across the border village of Hairattan.

I have with me on the long hot walk a Kazakh of Afghan extraction who I met on my long wait at the Uzbek border controls. He speaks a little English but he does speak Uzbek and, bonus, Afghan. He cruises through the border formalities before me but waits in the heat on the other side and he is the key to the smooth running of my time in Afghanistan.

The bridge is in good whitewashed nick until we cross the red line painted halfway along marking our passage into Afghanistan. Beyond this the paintwork has been unkempt and rust is breaking through. Nonetheless I am feeling mildly euphoric to actually be here as the anxieties and apprehensions leading up to this day have disappeared. The two Afghan flags at the end of the bridge are small and fraying in contrarst to the race of sparkling new Uzbek flags behind me.

Veering right off the bridge I am stratled by the sight of two American soldiers, bullet proof vests carrying machine guns. I can,t resist to say hi and ask where they are from. In a broad southern drawl one repies “I’m from Texas” It is pleasant to hear a western voice. He continues with a hint of sarcasm says “Now you enjoy your touring through Afghanistan!” I retort that I will be back and out of here this very afternoon after I have taken a few pictures and he breaks out a broad grin. I then pick my way through three parked US tanks, engines running manned with soldiers stationed with machine guns at the ready on the top.

By comparison with the Uzbek side customs takes only 10 minutes and my minder, Bashir, finds an Afghan official who speaks perfect English. I promise I will see him later this afternoon. We jump into a Taxi and Bashir does the rest.

It is a 45 minute drive from the border to Mazar e Sharif through desert. Mountains loom on the southern horizon. We pass by a US military base and I am intrigued to see the same anti suicide bomb protections on the outside that I have seen in recent Hollywood movies. The little villages along the way are few and far between but look much the same as any subcontinental road stops. The women in burkhas evoke images of dark blue ghosts.

Mazar itself is a surprise. It is Afghanistan,s 4th largest city and there is lots of sprawl and traffic. In the centre we reach my destination the shrine of Hazrat Ali and my new friend Bashir leaves me but not before paying for the taxi ride himself in a typical show of Afghan hospitality. Not only that he sets me up with the driver for the rest of my day. The driver follows me around the shrine as my “minder” and drives me the long 45 minutes back all for $20 US. It is such a godsend I do not haggle and accept immediately.

The shrine of Hazrat Ali marks the burial place of the son in law of the prophet Mohammed. The present construction dates back to the 15 th century and it is absolutely sublime! The mosque is huge and clad in stunning blue mosaics. The surrounds are all brilliant white marble and the effect is dazzling. I am so glad that I pushed through all the negative vibe and came here. The photographs promise to be absolutely stunning albeit the harsh midday sunlight will not fully do it justice.  I take time to sit on the white tile ground and take pictures of the people parade passing by. Men, women and children all captured with ease. In fact the kids went out of their way to pose for me and asking some of the bearded older men they nodded and posed for me. I was refused entry into the mosque but not because I was a foreigner, the attendant asked me if I was Muslim. Tempted to lie, I don’t think I could have effectively convinced them if I was to have to perform any prayers or devotions inside.

I bought lunch for myself and my driver and we sat down to a bowl of chips, bread and some sort of vegetarian pakoras seated at an impromptu table in the shade. A beer would have gone down very nicely in the heat. Couldn’t find one so an apple juice sufficed. As I sat and relaxed I reflected on how surreal this was. The people were lovely and friendly. Unsurprisingly I was the only foreigner there.

Back at Afghan customs, my English speaking friend wanted to see my photos before stamping my passport perfunctorily. Even the Uzbek side was quick this time and as I exited the Uzbek side a local bus pulled up as if at my bidding and it is back to Termiz.

Sitting here now and looking at my people pix I cannot but wonder. All foreign troops will be out next year. If, as many analysts and Afghan history suggests the country descends into tribal violence again how many of these people will still be alive in a year or two? For the happy kids playing andd posing for my camera today the future is truly clouded.

Khiva is a name that evokes images of desert sands, camels and caravanserais. A vital stop on the legendary silk road it has the same cachet as other forbidden cities such as Lhasa, Kashgar, Zanzibar and Timbuktu.

In the 16th and 17th centuries it became the centre of the Khorezm empire and ruled by successive Khans it achieved notoriety as the centre of the central Asian slave trade. Turkomen nomads would ambush caravans, stealing their contents and selling the traders to Khivans. The cruelty and treachery of its Khan was legendary and executions for trivial offences were the norm. Torture was commonplace as were novel approaches to killing such as being thrown off the tops of minarets, being placed in a bag filled with feral cats. How’s this for size, throw a baby up in the air for it to land on a sword and be cut in half!

A Russian force was sent in 1717 responding to the Khan’s request for Russian help to control marauding local tribes. By the time a Russian force of 400 arrived the Khan had changed his mind. Nonetheless he welcomed them and put them up for the night. They were massacred while asleep and the Russian leader, Count Bekovitch had his head sent to the neighbouring emir of Bukhara. His body was put on display in the Khiva marketplace. Ultimately Khiva was the last of the central Asian khanates to surrender to the Russians in1873.

Modern Khiva reflects extensive reconstruction since that time. It is all a bit reminiscent of a Hollywood set for Sinbad or Arabian nights.  While there are no truly ancient buildings here it is nonetheless atmospheric and very worthy of a stopover to wander the winding alleyways within the crenellated city walls.

The Aral Sea was, in the middle part of the 20th century the world’s 4th largest inland sea. Apart from being a haven for bird life it supported a large fishing industry with the fleet and cannery based in Moynaq.

The drive to Moynaq, some 210 km from here takes 2 and a half hours generally through barren scrub. Just out of Nukus a wide bridge takes us over the Amu Darya River which is the water lifeline for central Asia. Known to the European explorers as the Oxus it arises in the Tajikistan Pamir mountains, hugs the northern borders of Afghanistan and Turkmenistan before turning north to empty into the Aral sea. Yesterday I crossed the Amu Darya some  200 km upstream, it was an impressive navigable waterway. Downstream where the flow should be greater it is reduced to a trickle.

In the 1950s when tyrant Stalin ruled over the USSR and central Asia he decided to expand cotton production here in Uzbekistan to meet his growing needs. Cotton is a thirsty crop and these are arid lands. The solution, divert the waters of the Amu Darya and the Syr Darya rivers the only inflows to the Aral Sea through a series of irrigation channels. As a result between 1954 and 1985 almost no water flowed into the Aral Sea. Now neither river joins the Aral.

A bright and cheery sign still greets visitors to moynaq with the logo of a fish in water. This despite the fact that where once the Aral sea lapped against buildings in the main street now it is over 100 km away. The sea has lost 70% of its size in the last 30 years leaving behind a white sand desert strewn with seashells. The town itself is eerily quiet and a small museum retells the poignant tale of environmental vandalism.

I walk down onto the sand that was once a sea bed and stroll through the rusted hulks that comprise the ship’s graveyard. Once this was the lifeblood of the local community. I stare at the horizon and words fail me as I contemplate human folly.

Igor Shavitsky was a Russian artist sent to photograph an archeological dig here in Karakalpakstan in the 1950s. He fell in love with the landscape and his paintings capture the harsh light and pastel tones of this untamed landscape. He never went back to Moscow. This was at a time when Soviet art had to reflect the ruling party’s ideals and society so approved art at that time featured scenes such as peasants working, factories and the military. All other art was censored. Out here Shavitsky was remote enough to stay under the radar. He went further and started an art collection that now numbers over 4000 works that were painted by other Soviet artists but banned by the government. A small proportion of these are exquisitely displayed in the impressive museum here in a physical not just cultural desert at Nukus. This must be the most remote fine art gallery on the planet. It is interesting to reflect that the same inasane repressive political system can lead to such a sublime uplifting experience albeit unintentionally. What a contrast to the Aral debacle!

Arriving in the city of Urgench in Uzbekistan at 11:30 am I need to get to the far west city of Nukus, the capitol of the province of Karakalpakstan. Try saying that after a couple of vodkas! Soit is the usualbackpacker argy bargy at the bus and shared taxi stand. None of the drivers speaks English and at first I am tempted to jump on a bus, but the lack of local currency and my need for speed to get me out there has me back with the jostling cabbies I write down $20 US on a bit of paper. There is some argy bargy but I know it is well over the odds and eventually I get my cab and for a 2 hour trip across the open roads it is actually good value and gets me here in good time. The guide book’s preferred hotel, Jipek Joli now sports a Tripadvisor logo on the door and wifi! The basic room is $40 US and it looks great! There is free internet on a home computer and large courtyard for dining. The vibe is comfortable backpacker. The satff even speak passable English. I hate to say it but it is a pleasant change from Turkmenistan where any independent travel is extremely difficult.

Over lunch I note that they do tours here and I scamper back to the desk to ask about Aral Sea tours. The answer is yes and they already have 2 people going tomorrow. What a stroke of luck as the cost is $450 per vehicle and is holds 3 people! I have scored myself the trip at $150, bargain. It is a real bonus as I had only intended a day trip to Moynaq 2 hours drive up from here figuring that I would not get onto an Aral sea tour which goes a further 3 hours along and has us camping by the shrinking Aral sea.

I finish my lunch, its my first dose of the Uzbek national dish called plov. Surprisingly it is actually quite tasty a large plate of lightly fried rice and carrot strips with some roasted mutton chunks on the top. It is better than it sounds!

My last task for the day is to get some local currency. The Uzbek currency is the som and the official exchange rate is $1US is 1400 som. Now the black market rate is 2600 som and everyone uses the black market it is standard here so I head off as instructed by the receptionist to the local bazaar. I wander through for about 10 minutes and try to look like a tourist who wants to change money illegally. Unlike anywhere else in the world noone approaches me at all. I wander into a slightly seedy little shop with 3 guys in it and say change dollars? No response. Standing well away for a quick getaway I wave a US dollar note at them and they say “Oh money change, one minute”. One of them races off and brings back the money changer. It is now I discover that the maximum note is 1000 som and my $100 gets me 265 bills! I am handed a brick that is 200 notes and he quickly counts 65 more and he is gone. Bewildered I figure that I had better just stuff my “stash” into my camera bag and then move on.

Unfortunately my luck changes as the Malaysian couple who were to be my companions for the 2 day trip to the Aral Sea pay me a visit to tell me they have decided not to do it. As that adds $300 to the cost of the trip I decided to just share transport with them to Moynaq which was my original travel plan anyway. Such is life!

My final 24 hours in Turkmenistan begins with a visit to Konye Urgench, the final and the prettiest of this country’s archeo;ogical sites/ In the north of the country this was the centre of the Khorezm kingdom in the 12th century. In a familiar story it was sacked by the Mongols in the 13th century. Rebuilt soon after it was once again destroyed this time by Timur from Samarkand in the 16th century/ The buildings here are especially pretty for the ornate blue tiling which was the precursor for the magnificent buildings subsequently built in Samarkand.

Our drive then to my hotel in Dashoguz is punctuated by a stop at a cotton field where I get to see and pick cotton, its quite a weird crop when you think about it. My final photo here is as the sun is setting on Dashogus town square, the ubiquitous larger than life golden statue of the president with white marble collonade and buildings around (what else?). As I am lining up a shout from one of the workmen has me wheeling around expecting a rebuke for taking the photo. On the countraray the fellow asks “tourist”? I respond in the affirmative and he asks “American”? My response of Australian yields the standard response, yes, you guesssed it “Kangaroo”! He waves his hands broadly all round and says “Turkmenistan”? When I gush that I love Turkmenistan with a thumbs up his face lights up and we shake hands like brothers!

This morning it is off to the border for my first land crossing here. The Turkmen customs don’t want to see my back pack just all the electronic stuff. They speak no English so it turns out to be an exercise in charades, most of which was lost on them. One of them provokes my anxiety when he starts looking through my 500 photos of this trip. I am anxious because I did sneak a couple of photos of the President’s palace and the Parliament which is forbidden. Fortunately he gets bored before those pictures and inwardly I breath a sigh of relief. While the tone was friendly these searches are always intrusive.

It is an 800 metre walk through no man’s land to the Uzbek side. I am initially struck by the fact that unlike Turkmenistan they all spoke a little English. They even had English versions of the customs forms. I was told to epect that they will count every bit of money you bring in and if you have added it up and quoted on the form incorrectly they will hassle you. Amazingly customs just scribbled and stamped my forms and beamed at me and said “Welcome to Uzbekistan”.

Outside customs there is only one taxi otherwise the whole area ids deserted. I have no choice but am heartened when he quites me the same price as the guide book and everyone on the Turkmen side said was the fare namely $10 for the half hour trip. It was though too good to be true and the warnings I have had about Uzbek taxis being extortionate came true at the other end when he said he wanted $10 per bag! I snatched the $10 back from him while abusing him and waiting till he opened the boot. I was surprised to see that he did not respond aggressively and I gave him the $10 and walked off

Darvaza means gateway in Turkmen and the ex town of Darvaz was the gateway from one province to another. In 1971 a Soviet drilling team was routinely drilling for gas here. It is said that sink a pipe anywhere in Turkmenistan and you will strike natural gas. We do not know what went wrong here as the Soviets were never a wrap for transperency but the drilling here resulted in the earth collapsing and a massive crater forming. Gas was escaping through the collapsed earth in the crater so someone decided to light it, the thought being that it would burn itself out in a couple of weeks. 40 years on it is still burning and represents a unique and bizarre tourist attraction!

The road north of Ashgabat is an uneneding straight line through the desert. The countryside is monotonous scrubby desert broken by the occasional “Lawrence of Arabia” classic sand dune. The 200 odd km drive takes 4 hours with a detour to wander through a local village on the way. The turn off to Darvaza is unsignposted and the township itself is long gone a legacy of the dictator Turkmenbashi’s visit during the construction of yhe highway. He found the town to look scruffy so on a whim he sent the bulldozers in and razed it to the ground.

The crater is an 11 km desert “bush bash” and my driver tackles it as if he were doing the Paris to Dakar rally. I am relieved to get out at the crater and walk the rest of the way to our campsite.

From afar the crater looks unremarkable during the day. It appears to be the size and shape of the MCG. Up close the view is jaw dropping. The hole goes down some 30 metres and the scorched black earth is pockmarked with flames leaping through invisible pores through which the gas is escaping. Around the periphery the flames only dart up a couple of metres seemingly dancing with the breeze. In the very heart of this inferno are two large vents propelling flames a good 10 metres into the air. All around there is the smell and sensation of getting too close to a lit natural gas oven. I watch the sun slowly set before heading back for a BBQ chicken dinner and some porty tasting Turkmen wine. As the night takes hold the crater glows a bright gas flame orange. I revisit the crater in the dark and the vision of hell is complete. The demonstration of natural forces at work is truly awesome!

Back on our camp mats sipping vodka and eating melons the milky way splayed above us with a clarity that I have not seen before. Unfortunately the northern hemispheric stars are foreign to me but I am sure I spotted the constellation of scorpio on the northern horizon. An early night and off to an uncomfortable and colds night sleep in the desert. A final dawn view before it is off to leave this stunning and remarkable place.