The Nightmare before Christmas - Taraz to Baku

20th of December 2019, Day 128 - 5,065kmish (+340km car, 1780km train, and a ferry across the Caspian Sea)

Day 112: A bit of sight-seeing in Registan square before jumping ship

All journeys this long are bound to go through low points. Life can't be wonderful all the time, and it was inevitable that I'd eventually run into people who aren't so helpful. I just didn't expect it to be basically everyone in an entire country.

Uzbekistan has been a real trough in my mental state on this trip. When you're having a bad time and the only barometer you have is your psyche , you start turning on yourself. Maybe the reason things aren't going great is because I'm not approaching it right. Am I in a bad mood because my social interactions are all going sour? Or is it my bad mood that's doing all the souring. Whats that saying - If you meet one asshole you're unlucky. But if everyone you meet is an asshole, the common denominator is you. If everywhere stinks of dogshit, check the soles of your shoes.

Day 103: Real pizza in Shymkent!

It seems to me that most of our anger and resentment comes from not understanding. When things don't seem fair, our big question is "But why?" , louder and louder until we're so full of the question we can't hear any answers. Then we explode and lash out and double down on misunderstanding until everyone else is hurting too.

We don't have too much control over our emotions (well, I certainly don't) but we do have control over our response. I've tried striking out in anger. That never solves anything though, and always got me sat outside the principle's office wishing I'd kept a cool head. Instead I'm trying to understand why things happened the way they did, both from my side and theirs. And when you really understand, the pain goes away. Forgiveness and understanding go hand in hand.

Winter Wonder why-I-ever-thought-this-was-a-good-idea Land

Some of the blame has to lay on Kazakhstan, where the people have been so lovely and helpful that they gave me unreasonably high expectations. Day 102, I wake up and it's stopped snowing. It's still below zero outside, but I've had enough of sitting around in a hostel so figure it's time to make my great escape.

Sometimes you have to close your eyes, say a little prayer, and make a blind leap of faith. And sometimes you are greeted on the other side by a brick wall. Or in this case an impenetrable wall of falling snow. In the city the roads have been cleared a little, so I manage just fine, but outside of the city it's a different story. Black ice and snow banks force me onto the road, with the cars whizzing by, spraying me with slush. Then it starts snowing again, but not the wispy desert snow of China. Instead big cold clumps wafting down from the lofty heights of the Tien Shan mountain range.

I get 10km in 2 hours, then stop for lunch at the first place I'd seen since leaving the city. 60 more to go till Shymkent (shim kent), with two mountain passes to somehow wade through. I make the very sensible decision of retreating back to Taraz and looking for a different way of getting south.

Day 102: Darkan and the gang

My leap of faith does eventually get rewarded though. The universe always seems to jump out to catch me, this time in the guise of Darkhan and his English-speaking daughter. They had actually seen me riding out and commented how odd it was to see a cyclist in this weather, then saw me again riding back into Taraz and figured I needed some help. It only took a second for them to decide they were taking me under their wing. He only had a sedan, but insisted we'd be fine having the front wheel and handle bar hanging out the back, trussed up with my handy-dandy roof rack straps that I've been using to tie my luggage onto the back of my bike.

We head back to their house for second lunch, then start strategy planning. The train is a no-go, as the small commuter trains that stop here won't let me take a bike on. We we go round the buses, mini vans, and taxi services all looking for someone who could take both me and my wheels at a reasonable price. In the end, he finds me a lift on a ride-share app popular here called inDriver. My lift wasn't leaving till 9, so we all pile back into Darkhams car and go to the local bazaar, where they insist on buying me some camel socks.

Now Darkhan is not someone with a lot of free time, a dentist looking after a son, two daughters and a toddler, but he dropped everything and dedicated his whole afternoon to sorting me out. We are now facebook friends. He doesn't quite understand how it works, so keeps posting on my public wall in Russian, checking up on me to make sure I'm still going OK. All I can say is, thank you. People are good. Humanity is tender and giving. Give peace a chance, and all that jazz.

Guardian Angels

I arrive in Shymkent and it turns out to be even colder. It's bizzare being in glorious sunshine and simultaneously shivering due to the -5°C weather. Clearly I can't bike out, but no one seems able to take me.

In desperation, I go to the train station. After waiting in line for over an hour, I get to the one open ticket desk only to be greeted by an exhausted older lady who doesn't speak English and has no idea what to do with me. Thankfully, guardian angel number two steps in to save the day. Azamat is a Kazakh scientist on a tour around the country to research the national garbage disposal process. Spoiler, at 4pm every village in Kazakhstan is enshrouded in smoke as they start burning their trash. That's what happens when you make people pay to have their garbage taken away.

Day 103: Azamat is top boy

He spoke amazing English, and quickly took it upon himself to save me in my hour of need. We went and spoke to the train luggage guys, who all said no. The local trains are too small to take a bike. Unfortunately he had to go, but he added me on facebook, then spent the afternoon organising me a lift to the Uzbek border, and even booked me a hotel. Then, to outdo everyone, Azamat stayed up till 1am and rang the driver to make sure we'd arrived OK. I do not deserve these people.

Day 103: The lift turns out to be in a big lorry carrying food to the border

The Border Crossing

So really, its unfair on Uzbekistan to come right after that. I mean the Kazakhs really are insane. Who goes that far out of their way for a bedraggled unshaven heathen, who has no idea whats going on, can't even speak their language, and looks like he's one meal away from begging on the streets? If the reverse were true and a big hairy unwashed Kazakh guy showed up mumbling something about trains in Russian, I imagine the villagers of Healing, lovely as they are, would be more likely to call the police than bring him in for tea.

Day  107: Selling melons and pumpkins on the side of the road. Gave me a free taster

The fun starts at right at the border. I pull up to the most chaotic passport check I've ever seen. A foreshadowing of the general Uzbek experience. No one is able to speak English, and there doesn't appear to be any recognisable order to the free-for-all before me. Usually they let me go through with the cars and it's rather calm, but here they tell me to go in with the foot traffic, bike in tow. It's an absolute mess. In Uzbekistan they don't queue, they mob in a giant crowd, all pilling in behind and around me. A guard even plants me sideways as an impromptu blockade to stop people pouring through, before disappearing off as if his job was done. Everyone still keeps pushing round the sides, making the people stuck behind me all the more aggravated.

After about 30 minutes of this with no hope of moving forward, I just start whistling at the top of my lungs. Eventually a customs guy comes over to ask what the hell I'm doing, but he sees my ridiculous position and gestures for me to push on through. Except no one will move out of the way, so I'm shoving people out the way, using my bike as a battering ram. The customs guys realises I'm in an even worse predicament than before, so gets me to pull my bike out to the side, before putting me at the front of the "queue". The joys of having a white face.

This is all before the baggage check, where they make me unload the entire bike and go through everything, all the while holding up another irate gang of Uzbeks who are seconds away from starting a riot.

Day 104: Smiling to mask the pain

I finally clear the border, to be greeted by a sprawling metropolis which continues all the way to Tashkent. Every driver seems positively offended I'm on the road, but there is absolutely no hard-shoulder, so almost die at least twice on the way into the city. Thankfully the only other guest at the Hostel is Frank, a German guy, so we share an elicit beer and I have a big moan. He's quickly sympathetic. Seems no one is getting a particularly warm reception in Uzbekistan.
(Alcohol is not illegal in Uzbekistan, but as a fairly devout Sunni country they only sell it in certain shops and tut judgmentally at people where you can buy some.)

Trust

From there it all just kept going downhill. For one, the weather was generally unpleasant. Foggy so you can't see the sun, and just cold enough that you can't feel your toes at the end of the day, despite my new camel socks.

Day 108: Through the mist

On each street corner there are groups of men who either eye you warily, or start yelling something random at you in Uzbek before turning and laughing to their friends. The tour-cyclist version of catcalling. When you are treated with suspicion, it breeds it in you too. People who don't trust you are difficult to trust in return.

It is also near impossible to get good directions or help finding a hotel from anyone. Women generally won't speak to you at all. The education level isn't all that high either, so despite learning it in school, most men can't read Russian (and as discussed before, I can find no offline translator anywhere that can do Kazakh or Kyrgis or Uzbek. Thanks Google.)

Day 108: Climbed above the mist to the highlands outside of Samarkand

It all came to head on my first day riding out of Tashkent. As I was stopping at a corner store to ask about any hotels nearby, three guys crowded round me and started openly mocking me when they realised I didn't speak Uzbek or Russian.  Admittedly, my Uzbek is non-existent, but when I gave Russian a go, they started looking at me as if farts had just come out my mouth, then burst out laughing. Fantastic. One insisted I shake his hand, but wouldn't let go, smiling menacingly into my face. I'm really hoping I misjudged the whole thing, but it was the first time I've felt truly unsafe on the whole trip.

But Why?

The language barrier is of course a big part of it. Last time I faced such a tall one was in China, and I'd studied Chinese for half a year before tackling that one. Here I was going in completely unprepared. In big cities you can find English speakers, but out on the road there's no one round to save you.

But I didn't really understand the why until I retroactively did a bit of research. All the 'stans' are very young nations and still finding their feet. As young as me in fact, as they only became independent in 1991 with the break up of the Soviet Federation. The others have their problems too, but Uzbekistan has clearly had a real tough time of it. Their modern history is grim reading.

Day 112: The ceiling of the beautiful Mosque in Registan Square

Hyper inflation of 1000% a year in the early 90's has left their currency feeling like monopoly money. We are talking 10,000 com for a loaf of bread. I briefly became a millionaire when I got money out to buy a train ticket.

Day 111: 1,000,000 som (£80)

The quality of the healthcare is terrible too, with the highest maternal and infant morbidity, and mortality rates in the former Soviet countries. A situation that is only getting worse due to depletion of water sources. The once mighty Aral sea, has shrunk to 10% of its original size since 1960, and rampant insecticide use is turning into a full blown ecological disaster, poisoning the remaining water sources.

Their human rights record is the most shocking part though. We are talking arrests of religious and political opponents, torture, a complete lack of religious freedom. Compulsory sterilization. I mean come on.

And that's all before we mention the state-run slavery. Cotton is the main cash crop here, and there are 1.2 million people who are forced by the government to pick it every year at no pay. Insane. I actually cycled right past the cotton fields on the way to Samarkand with no idea how insidious they were.

Day 108: The breath-taking mountain pass on the way from Jizzax to Samarkand

I'm not writing all this to tar Uzbekistan with a big fat DO NOT GO HERE sign, or to say Uzbekistan is a terrible country and that's why I've had a terrible time here. Some of the scenery is truly stunning, the food is excellent, and the rare moments of kindness I've received here are so much sweeter knowing they aren't the norm. One kindhearted restaurant owner let me sleep there overnight, and gave me free breakfast in the morning.

Day 107: My bed for the night

But it's no wonder I haven't had a warm reception. When everything they've experienced in life so far is either trying to kill, oppress, or take advantage of them, its only natural to see something foreign and assume its up to no good. They're wary of my because they're wary of everything.

The Great Escape Part 2

Day 112. After a week of cycling in Uzbekistan, I decided it was time to get off this wild ride and jump on the long distance sleeper train through the desert to Beyneu, Kazakhstan. Did my best to miss the train though.

I got into the station with my bike, but with no reassurances that I'd be able to get it onto the train. At the information desk they nonchalantly told me, No worries, just take it onto the platform and put it straight on. My train wasn't until 10:30pm and they let me know it was delayed by an hour and a half, so I settle down in the departure hall for a long wait.

Day 112: Babe having a quick nap

At 10:45, a train conductor comes up to me and asks to see my ticket. Beyneu? You have to go now! It's leaving! So much for being delayed. In a mad dash, I drop what I'm doing, leaving the bag of snacks I'd been munching on, book it down two flights of stairs with my bike bashing along behind, then push it up two more flights of stairs to the other side to the platform. The train door is very high up, but I convince the Carriage Conductor to help me drag the bike up into the carriage, and as we close the door the train sets off
(I have a sneaking suspicion they were waiting for me, thank goodness.)

There's an instant antagonistic relationship between me and the Carriage Conductor, as I don't understand what he wants me to do with the bike. Sullen guy, with the deep-set eyes, like he hasn't slept in months. It's his sole job to keep order in the carriage, made difficult by that fact that the passengers are wholeheartedly committed to breaking every rule they can get away with. After a good 30 minutes arguing at each other, we find a spot for it at the other end of the carriage.

My bunkmate is a young Uzbek guy, Mahumudjon. A sheep herder heading to Russia for a better life. Now I've looked into Uzbekistan's history I can totally see why. He has a physical English-Uzbek dictionary, so we chat in slo-mo, flipping through the pages for every word. Not that there was a big rush. We wouldn't be arriving in Beyneu for another day and a half.

Day 113: That gesture was not the only thing lost in translation

The next morning I wake up to Mahumudjon, and an older Russian guy sat on the end of my bed, staring at me. We start off having a makeshift conversation, considering none of us share a common language, and the Russian decides we should be drinking vodka - at 9am. He has half a bottle which we share with some coffee and bread.

Day 113: The Russian

The more we drank, the less he remembered I didn't speak Russian, so just starts monologue-ing at me. He'd clearly already had half the bottle to himself, and the last few shots put him over the edge. The whole train is non-smoking, but he casually starts lighting up a cigarette right there in the middle of the train. Moments later the the indignant Carriage Conductor comes rushing down to us, and forces the Russian out onto the gap outside which connects our carriage to the next. And so began a 36 hour long game of cat-and-mouse, where everyone tried to sneak a cigarette without getting caught.

Back in Kazakhstan

I arrive in Beyneu at 5:30am, Day 116, and decide I may as well keep going to the port in Aktau. The ferries across the Caspian Sea are famously irregular, and I'd hate to be stuck on the wrong side of it when my parents get to Baku.

The Uzbek train was 90% not-so-well-off blokes leaving home in a desperate attempt to get work. Compared to that slightly grim mood, the train to Aktau is absolutely teeming with life and movement. Far more families and women, train stuffed to full capacity.

Day 114: Best conversation I'd had in weeks

I share my compartment with two grandparents and their grandchild, who was clearly going stir-crazy being stuck on a train for so long. No older than 2 or 3. I pull some funny faces at him, and we quickly become friends. Now back in Kazakhstan, the trust has returned. His exhausted elders take a well deserved nap as I take over daycare duties. He even shares my pomegranate with me, throwing a thumbs up after popping each seed into his mouth. Adorable.

The Ferry from Not-Aktau

I arrive in Aktau sleep deprived but feeling good. 8 days to get across the Caspian Sea to Azerbaijan. Surely that's enough time. How could it not be? But things are never so simple.

There are often fierce winds and storms, so the timetable is extremely unpredictable. Or rather, there is no timetable. With only one boat operating for foot passengers, you just have to keep calling and calling until the day the boat arrives. And even then they often wait some more until they have enough passengers to make the crossing worthwhile. I've heard horror stories of cyclists trapped for two weeks or more before getting across.

Day 117: Aktau. Do not be tricked into thinking the Aktau ferry goes from Aktau like I was.

Day 117, I go to ticket office and it is closed for the weekend. The sympathetic lady who runs the hostel rings the port for me. Maybe it will go in two days time. No one is really sure. I decide I'll go down the next day in person and see what I can get done.

Day 118, I start chatting over breakfast with an Azeri guy who has a bit of experience with the ferry. Turns out in 2018 they moved the passenger ferry 90km south. It's already 11:00am, and I've hardly cycled all week, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna miss the ferry by a day, so quickly pack up my bags and get on my way.

Out on the road, there is nothing. Absolutely nothing. It's difficult to see why they moved the port into such an out of the way place. Apparently it was the brain-child of some politician to make a new tourist super center, but right after making the port, the politician lost his position and the whole thing was cancelled. So now everyone is stuck with the most inconveniently positioned ferry ever.

Of course it is windy, and I make very little progress. 30km in 4 hours. In desperation, I stop and start trying to hitch-hike. With a bike.

Anywhere else in the world, and this wouldn't have worked. But in central Asia there is still a very live culture of sharing rides. Outside of every village, you will see a group of people with their hands out waiting for an empty space. Everyone does it, whether they be small children going to school, or sweet wizened babushkas on their way back from the bazaars.

Day 118: Guardian Angel number 3. I swear I'm trying to smile

A couple of people drive by, shrugging as if to say "what can I do? that bike is huge", but eventually someone stops and I make it to the port. What a guy, refused to let me pay him. Not pictured is his mother in the back half smothered to death by all my bags pilled up on her in the back seat.

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Day 119: Marcus got off the ferry as I got on. What a champ, he's cycled from London to Baku in 100 days, averaging 125km a day. Clearly he's travelling lighter than me, but definitely has inspired me to push it a little harder.

Turns out there was no rush. The port is... lacking to say the least. Still no one knows when a boat will arrive. I end up waiting 3 days at a hotel with bare bones facilities, until the ferry finally shows up. Even then, it was supposed to go at 11pm, but doesn't arrive till 3am, and doesn't end up leaving till 5. But on Day 120, I finally arrive (to my suprise, in Alat, 70km south of Baku) then cycle into the city.

Day 120: The ferry isn't really for tourists. It is basically a cargo barge that transports Turkish lorry drivers over to Azerbaijan.

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p.s I swear I will write shorter and more often from now on, but I was in no mood through Uzbekistan, and had no internet access most of the way anyway. I met my parents and we had an absolutely fantastic Pre-Christmas Christmas, but that will have to wait till next time.

Day 126: Merry Pre-Christmas Christmas from the Japan to UK tour and support team