Kellen Smetana
“Ok Kellen,” said Theo as we sat analyzing maps in Khiva, “we just hauled our butts off from Tashkent, putting in 150km days over road construction and through sickness and extreme heat.  Now, it’s 1150km from here to the Caspian Sea over some of the worst roads and most inhospitable terrain on the planet.  How fast do you think we can make it?”

“Hmmm, 8 days...  I think we can do it.”

“Ha! 8 days, I’m not so sure, but I’m in.  If we make it in 8 days, we’re heroes.”

Eight days later we were sitting on a bench in Aktau, Kazakhstan on the Caspian Sea reminiscing on this conversation.  But we were no glamorous dragon-slaying heroes; we were more like Rocky Balboa, just able to sustain an absolute beatdown for a very, very long period of time.  Taken as a whole, the segment from Tashkent to Aktau was definitely the most difficult section of the trip.  If I were to plot this difficulty level on a graph, it would look like a half-parabola that skyrockets the closer we got to the Caspian.  It was tough.  Those of you keener readers out there know that the blog is a bit delayed and you will now see why we dropped off the grid for a couple weeks because frankly, in most of these places, there is no grid.

In his post, Cory wrote about the difficulty of the ride to Samarkand, where, I found out later, we pushed him to the point of tunnel-vision.  Instead of throwing anger at his brother for encouraging him up “the last hill” and “the last hill” and then “the last hill” before Samarkand, he chose to direct it at his body for not being able to keep up.  He’s a tough cookie, that one.  Theo and I pushed him hard because we thought he could handle it and he needed to, as it didn’t get any easier.  He did.

The ride to Bukhara and then Khiva was laden with 200km of construction, sand-dune covered roads, extreme heat, incessant flies, and sickness.

We motored along under our mantra “GO GO G’Ozbekistan,” a play on the Uzbek spelling of their country.  To avoid the heat we were usually riding by 6am and we would sleep through the heat of the day at a chaikhana (teahouse/restaurant) where we had just eaten lunch.  The worst part was not the lack of air-conditioning but rather the swarm of flies that painted us like we were new roadkill.  To avoid the heat we sometimes rode by moonlight as well.  At 10:30 one particular night we chose to lay out our sleeping bags right on the road (blocked new construction) as we would be off by 5am the next day.

From Khiva it was a rough 175km day against the wind to Nukus, the last town between us and the serious Karakalpak and Kyzylkum Deserts.  Beyond Nukus only two towns lay between us and the Caspian coast 1000 kilometers away: Qongirat, 100km from Nukus, and Beyneu, 400km after that.  Between them, almost nothing: sand, power lines, railroad tracks, and a few camels.  Fortunately there were three villages en route with chaikhanas next to the road that doubled as truck-stops and proved to be true saviors for us.  We planned our route chaikhana to chaikhana (often over 150kms between) to ensure access to food and water.  As it was we were carrying 8-12 liters of water each; the first day we ran out 40km from the chaikhana – “never again,” was a lesson spoken quickly through cracked lips.

As we always arrived at these chaikhanas starving, downtrodden, and dehydrated, I did not fully appreciate their singularity until after the fact.  They are the only oases for hundreds of miles in the desert and consequently serve as true 21st century caravanserais, mixing local camel herders, Russian truckers, gypsy families, and touring cyclists.  It’s difficult to appreciate when you’re patching flat tires, dripping in sweat, and leaning over yet another plate of tough-as-gum lamb, but they have settled in my memory as some fascinating out-of-this world places.

I thought the desert may give me some time to do some deep introspective thinking; instead I found my thoughts quickly directed to the many beneficial qualities of Gatorade, the best smoothie flavors, winter, and back to Gatorade.  Substitute in Fanta for Theo, and all three of our thoughts were exactly the same.  This is what the human conscious resorts to in the desert – now proven by experiment.  Sadly, the chaikhanas had no Walmart-stocked refrigerators; we were lucky to get a fraction of the already limited Central Asian menu: shashlyk (lamb skewers), kebab (beef skewers), miasa (lamb on a plate, with onions), cutleti (kebab on a plate), salad (tomatoes and cucumbers), bread, Cola, Fanta, and water (without gas if we were lucky) and juice (if we were really lucky).  We would arrive for a late dinner, sleep anywhere we found room, and be up again at 4am to beat the heat.  The roadside chaikhanas gave us the energy and hydration we needed to bust through the Kyzylkum.

One day before my Uzbek visa expired and two days before Theo’s, we made it to the Kazakh border (one of those border crossings that is truly in the middle of nowhere).  Beaten down by heat and the exhaustion of our torrid pace we thought, “Alright, Go Go G’Ozbekistan is done, now let’s just cruise into Aktau.”  This is where the parabola spiked.

Thirty seconds into Kazakhstan the road completely disintegrated and stayed that way for the next 400 kilometers.  Possibly always dirt, possibly once paved by the Soviets, either way it was all busted rock and dirt now and clearly unmaintained for the last 20 years.  At just over 10km/hr we were riding sometimes 14 hours per day just to continue to hit our 150km/day pace; it doesn’t take a lot of imagination to judge how our butts felt after that many hours over washboard tracks.  The road was so bad that many trucks chose to simply ride 100 meters off into the desert as it was probably less stress on their suspension.

We chose instead to thread the foot-wide road/desert boundary.  Aside from the still-present fist-sized rocks and washboard swell, one of the biggest problems here is that an occasional small dune has built up into the road and riding through it brought our bikes to a complete halt as if we had entered a pit of quicksand.  For our bodies, Newton’s First Law translated to many spills, rolls, and tumbles off the bikes.  In one instance Theo deftly maneuvered his way through a series of rocks and pits by riding way off the road.  He turned to wave and celebrate his skills, only to be thrown from the bike a second later by a patch of sand.  We had a good laugh about that one; equally humorous was the day I had six spills every which way, making up for my zero pre-Uzbekistan.

At times, the riding really, really sucked.  Early into the desert, Theo quoted his country’s old leader Winston Churchill: “If you’re going through Hell, keep going!”  We did.  And we found many ways to deal with the desert and “road.”  We swapped iPods (where Theo rediscovered Waka Waka by Shakira, AC/DC, and the D-Devils), came up with witty quotes and jokes about the road, and sometimes we tuned everything out to just battle the road, mano a mano.  Three of the days I was off in my own little world listening to A Tale of Two Cities, sometimes falling way behind Cory and Theo when Dicken’s got a little intense.  We managed and we made it through, and it was a great test of our reserve; that’s more than I can say of the bikes.

With our weight, our bags, and all that water, you can only have nightmares of the pounding our bikes took in Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan.  All told, Theo had one flat and frequent problems with his chain, which came off four times and needed to be fixed on the road (plus he lost waterbottles off his back rack like they were candy at a parade).  I had four flats, swapped in a new tire, broke the bike pump, and on the last day broke a front rack support that later needed to be welded.  Cory’s brand new bike was a different story altogether; it’s a good bike and has since proven so, but it was clearly not made with the Karakalpak Desert in mind.  He broke the back rack, both rear pannier supports, two spokes (both needing wheel re-alignments), wore through a tire, and had more flat tires than we can even count (at one point we had nine patches on one of his three tubes).  At first we managed fine, getting equally adept at fixing flats by moonlight as in the 115 degree heat of the day – we were regular roving mechanics.

But then on the second to last day, 50km before the start of the pavement and 250km from Aktau, Cory, who had somehow willed his bike across hundreds of kilometers of the world’s worst roads, had yet another flat and we had run out of patches to fix it.  We had to hitch him (and his bike) a ride into Aktau.  We hailed the first car; they pulled over, only to find they too had just gotten a flat tire.  While I tried to help them fix this, Theo and Cory tried the next few vehicles.  A truck soon pulled over and I found that it was the same driver I had stopped to chat with the night before when I was in my own little audiobook-listening world.  His name was Alexander and he offered to take Cory and his bike all the way to Aktau.  In and settled, we were all moving west again.  Theo and I rode until the sun went down and set up camp, vowing that we were going to make to Aktau the next day no matter what.

By 4:30am we were on the road again.  At 6 we passed Cory and Alexander, who had stopped to sleep with a number of other trucks in a patch off the road (trucks don’t move too much faster than bikes out here).  They later passed us and Cory reached Aktau by about 2pm.  By 7am we finally, finally, finally crossed onto pavement; we had been waiting for this moment for days.  With the exception of three half-hour food breaks during the day, we rode straight through to 10pm, first over rolling hills and then against massive headwinds as we neared the sea.  We made it: 224km racked up on the day and completely drained of energy, we pulled into the hotel in Aktau.

As I mentioned previously we dreaded this desert segment and it turned out to be quite the test.  We rode it because we want to ride our bikes all the way across Asia and this section is part of that route.  In the end, I am very happy that we did; it was an unbelievable experience and a good battle.  But we did not thrash along at those speeds to set any kind of record (though Theo and I are convinced we did) or give fodder to a heroic cycling tale.  We sped to Aktau to give ourselves the best chance of catching the elusive ferry that runs across the Caspian Sea from Aktau, Kazakhstan to Baku, Azerbaijan.  This “ferry” is actually a material freighter that also takes passengers but has no set schedule because it only leaves each port when full.  There’s no information online and so we just had to hope that when we arrived and went to the port, the wait would only be a few days rather than a few weeks.  When we bid adieu to Cory and Alexander, this was his one task for the day in Aktau.

At 10pm, Theo and I sat on the bench in our hotel in Aktau reminiscing on our conversation from Khiva when Cory walked in the door.

“Alright!  You guys made it!  Oh, did you hear about the ferry – it leaves at 2am.”

“2am!  That’s four hours!  Can we still buy tickets?  When does the next one leave?”

“Yeah, I know!  Well the ticket office closed at 6pm and she wouldn’t let me buy tickets earlier without your passports.  She didn’t know when the next one would leave but the last one left on July 8 [19 days earlier].  I think we ought to just head down to the port and try to bribe our way on.”

And that was it, we were up and off again – ain’t no rest for the wicked.  Within two hours we had showered, gotten money and food (as there is no restaurant on board), and fixed Cory’s bike enough to get it to the port.  We rolled away to the port; Cory rode the first three kilometers and then ran next to his bike the final three as the back tire was too flat to ride.  By 1am we arrived.  Theo spoke with some of the port guards, who noted that we could not board without tickets, but also that the boat arrived at 2am but was unlikely to leave until much later in the day.  We slept at the port.  At 8am the ticket office reopened and we secured our tickets.  By 3pm we were on the boat.  At 5pm the boat set sail south across the Caspian to Azerbaijan.

The three of us stood on deck and laughed at each other in disbelief.  Everything we just put ourselves through paid off: 21 days of racing across the desert and we had made the boat by mere hours.  One day later and we would have missed it.  I was a happy man, and now it was time to rest.

Kellen Smetana
Apart from the ever hospitable Uzbek people and the novelty of spotting more camels, I wasn’t really excited about any aspect of the route from Tashkent to the Caspian Sea except the trifecta of Silk Road cities.  Lonely Planet paints a pretty clear picture of the subject, “if Central Asia had a Hall of Fame of cities, Uzbekistan would have the top three entries: Samarkand, Bukhara, and Khiva.”  Initially I was going to pass by all three, then I thought I had better at least explore Samarkand.  With Cory on board I pulled in Bukhara.  “But you’ve got to see Khiva,” was Theo’s matter of fact point when we were looking at maps.  Fair enough.

Wow.  I can confirm in this instance Lonely Planet was spot on with their analysis; the history and grandeur of these cities is unbelievable.  Their power rose and fell with the prominence of the Silk Road.  Incredible wealth, ruthless khans, 19th century Great Game Empire maneuvering between Britain and Russia: great history reads for anyone interested.  Bukhara, 5,000 miles away from Mongolia, was once burnt to the ground by Genghis Khan himself.  Khiva was the last major Central Asian city to hold out against Soviet expansion.  Centuries earlier, Amir Timur (Tamerlane), the great Central Asian Emperor, declared Samarkand his capital.  “If you have doubts in our might and power,” he said, “look at our monuments.”  Needless to say, the photo albums from here (when I actually have time to post them), will be spectacular.

We spent a day exploring the best of each of these cities.  Samarkand was the first city we hit from Tashkent.  Highlights include massive mosques, avenues of colorful mausoleums, and a Registan square closed in by three huge madrassas.

We had heard from other travelers that it was possible to bribe policemen to let you up into a Registan minaret (the highest point in the city) to watch the sunrise over Samarkand.  That took about 90 seconds to arrange and was worth every “dirty” penny.

One evening there Cory and Theo had just turned in to bed.  I was finishing up on the computer when I heard what sounded like a percussion parade marching through the street.  The guesthouse owner told me it was an Uzbek wedding and motioned to join in.  A few of us from the guesthouse joined the march until we reached the groom’s home.  He got out of the car and carried his bride upstairs amidst the uproar of the crowd, then immediately came back to the street to join the massive dance party that had erupted.  Kids continued to filter into the street, we spent some time “chatting” (taking shots) with the Uzbek men, and I even managed to get my mug center frame in the wedding video as I joined the dance.  It was tons of fun and the party continued long after I left.

The next stop on our route was Bukhara.  As you read from Cory’s post we had the ill-fortune of food sickness along the way and so it was not as pleasant a visit.  Even so, Bukhara was another wonderful city: towering minarets, central pools, more madrassas, and an old central city with a warren of winding streets and alleys that hasn’t changed much in a hundred years.

Here too we found you could bribe guards for access to hilltop ruins behind one of the old forts that offered a stunning panorama of the city.

Travelers we met in Samarkand (where it was 95-100 degrees everyday) exclaimed how cold it was there compared to Bukhara and Khiva.  We stayed at a lovely guesthouse in Bukhara and joined our hosts sleeping on the roof, as it was much cooler than any of the rooms.  I tried to gain some extra sleep in the mornings to combat the food illness, but by 5am the sun started creeping above the shadows of the buildings like a slow-moving lava flow.  By 6:30 we were all curled up and sweaty, hiding under the two foot shadow offered by the few bricks on the roof.  There will be plenty more about riding a bicycle in these conditions next post.

The craziest thing we saw in Bukhara was not from any Uzbeks but rather from a group of French tourists.  We were exploring the streets when we stopped by the grand Kalon Minaret to catch some of the French tour guide’s explanation of its history.  A few minutes later we heard a hair-raising scream from one of the women, who we realized had just been bitten on her toe by a fly.  “Oh, no cause for alarm,” I thought, as this had happened to us literally 100 times in the last two days; the guide even offered up some cold water to cool the sting.  But her husband proved to be the quickest and smartest on hand.  He knew that the best remedy was to light a cigarette and put it out on her toe…  This he proceeded to do, with actually less yelping from the woman than the initial fly bite.  Her toe swelled up like it had been smashed with a hammer and I had to turn my back to the group to hide my laughter.  Some old wives tales die hard.

Our last of the trifecta was the great city of Khiva.  I wasn’t expecting much as I had heard it called a museum-city and had read that sometime in the near past it was completely deserted.  I thought we would ride through the desert to find some half-surviving walls of an old town covered with sand dunes.  This was not the case.  People live in Khiva again and the “museum-city,” the walled old city, is an amazingly well-preserved complex of palaces, madrassas, and old mosques.  It was awesome exploring this city and its bazaars; there was no bribery here, though we did manage to haggle the entrance ticket down from $21 to $4.

The trifecta of Silk Road cities were wonderful to see, places I would have never thought to visit before embarking on this trip.  And as you will see in the next post, they proved to be our only respite from weeks riding through the brutal Uzbek desert.

Cory Smetana
Yes, you read that name correctly.

“The package is in the open.”  A famous line we quoted from Mission Impossible, although our package was Kellen’s new handlebar bag and we needed it in order to depart from Tashkent.  It was exactly one week since I had arrived and I was anxious to start riding.

By 4pm that day Kellen and Theo walked in the courtyard of our hotel twirling their hands telling me to pack up because we’re leaving in 10 minutes.  I had been waiting around all day and had a feeling this would happen…  They had not retrieved the package, but had rerouted it to Bukhara, the third major city we would visit.  We all said our goodbyes to Ben and were on our way.

The first day of riding was a short 40 kilometers because of our late start, but I was excited to get my first taste of riding and camping that night.  After taking a break at a drink vendor alongside the road we realized it was getting dark.  We had asked the vendor (who was selling drinks in her front yard) if we could set up camp in their driveway.  She agreed but pointed across the street to an abandoned shelter that would be an even better campsite.  We set up camp and ate dinner, and I was even able to get some use out of my newly purchased head torch, sleeping pad and silk sleep liner!  Although the tent proved to be some tight sleeping quarters for Kellen and me, we got some decent rest as it cooled off into the thick of the night.  It was a great start to our many nights we would spend on the road.

The second day from Tashkent we had an early start that allowed us to make up some ground.   I quickly learned that 135 kilometers of riding is a lot of riding and not an easy task.  I was excited, but a bit nervous for the rolling hills we could see and would have to face the next day.  By sunset we stumbled upon an aqueduct that ran perpendicular to the road.  While walking down the dirt road that hugged the aqueduct we ran into a few farmers on their land.  My brother taught me that by this time in the day it would be stupid not to ask if we could set up camp nearby and after a few magic words from Theo we were setting up our sleeping bags on their “tapchan” (a popular Central Asian bed/dinner table).

After bathing in the flowing aqueduct, getting comfortable and pulling out the food for dinner (an exciting bread and kielbasa) we were surprised to find out they had invited us to dinner.  Fish, bread, salad, soup, beer, a few rounds of Uzbek vodka was more than enough to fill our guts (or chiseled out cycling stomachs).  We met the whole family, shared a few laughs and made out what we could from hand gestures and Theo’s translation.  The family was even generous enough to cover the bill.  This night immediately moved to the top of my list and this Uzbek family provided outstanding hospitality and made a big impression on my views of this foreign country.

The next day of riding I will put on my list of top five most physically demanding feats I have accomplished in my life.  In total we traveled 135 kilometers, including many brutal uphill sections and couldn’t seem to find any shade besides our lunch break.  At 125 kilometers we had reached the sign for Samarkand, our destination.  Every muscle in my body was cramping and I was breathing heavy.  I thought, “this isn’t how an athletic kid like me should feel on just the third day of riding,” but my body was not used to the riding yet.  Kellen and Theo had been riding for months.  The most riding I had done back home in one day was on the cusp of 90 kilometers, and I had accomplished nearly 270 in two days!  Now it made sense why my body hated me.  So after saying no to a taxi ride, I managed to use the fumes I had left in order to make it to the guesthouse.  When we arrived we were “rewarded” with some cold water and melon.  I think getting to rest the following day made me go the extra 10 kilometers…

Soon after leaving Tashkent I started to become acclimated with this nomadic lifestyle.  I had great experiences so far, but I was quick to learn that not every night would be so “perfect.”  We were only a few days in and we knocked out 160 kilometers on this particular day of riding.  We felt good.  I was feeling more confident on the bike and we were making great time.  Near sunset we found a shop just off the road where we had loaded up on shashlyk (skewers), soup, bread, watermelon, and some juice – a very hearty meal.  While eating we met the man who owned the shop where we had purchased our food.  Similar to the second night he had invited us to stay in the courtyard of his home.  The night was off to a great start.

At his home, I brushed my teeth, sat on the tapchan, and suddenly felt my stomach turn.  A few seconds later and I was bent over the railing.  Let’s just say the food was much better coming in than going out.  I glanced over to Kellen, who was curled up and mentioned he didn’t feel well as he witnessed my scene.  He spent his night sitting in the courtyard, occasionally chatting with our host and occasionally duplicating my scene.  We were struck with my first bout of food poisoning (Theo had been sick at the restaurant as well).  On top of feeling ill, our sleep, or lack thereof, was short-lived by the 2:30am calling of roosters and other courtyard animals and incessant swatting of mosquitoes (Kellen was eaten alive and looked hilarious the next day).  It was a rough night to say the least, but we survived and made it to Bukhara the next day mostly thanks to Theo dragging the two of us along.  This is supposed to be a fun trip right?!  I chalked that one up to part of the experience and learned that life on the road is much better on a settled stomach.

So far the days of riding have been exhausting, eventful, exciting, and fun!  Every day thus far is full of new faces, new foods, new sights, and new sounds (I can see why Kellen dislikes honking).  We’re hoping for new pavement and well-cooked food as we continue west.  I look forward to the rest of my trip and of course spending some quality time with my brother and our new teammate Theo.

Kellen Smetana
They blow in Tashkent.  The British are leaving… the Americans are coming?  And the British are coming!?

Yes, it is true.  Ben has decided to fly home to London from Tashkent.  He has pedaled from Malaysia to Uzbekistan but will now be returning to England to spend more time with his family before starting university this fall.  As you have undoubtedly read, we have had some wild times together in Asia and he will surely be missed from the Revolutions for Relief adventure.  He taught me everything I know about traveling by bicycle.  I learned the benefit of a hearty meal every three hours.  I learned to understand river valleys, mountain passes, maps, and Google Earth like never before.  I started seeing lovely campsites among piles of industrial waste.  And I found that I was always faster than Ben, except when we had to pedal.  It was an amazing three months; it’s sad to see him go, but I am very happy we got to spend it together.

Alas, do not fret; I will not be pointing my two wheels westward toward the Uzbek desert alone.  As I mentioned both Americans and British are joining the team and the number of wheels has augmented from four to six (plus any spares).

First, my little brother Cory has bought bicycle and gear, secured visas and plane tickets, convinced our parents to let him dart off to the other side of the world, and made arrangements to meet me in Tashkent, all in a matter of four weeks: impressive start to the trip.  He will be joining the adventure across the five countries and one sea that lie between Tashkent, Uzbekistan and Istanbul, Turkey – the true Eurasian amalgamation.  I am very excited as this experience should take me back to our family vacations of old, though probably with a lot less fort building and many more beers consumed.  He will be posting frequently to the blog to give some of his impressions and fresh views on our journey.  Two Smetanas is always better than one, and with a little work on his beard, I’m sure he’ll fit right in to the team.

Second, another British cyclist, Theo Brun, is pairing up for this section of the adventure.  I mentioned meeting him in Bishkek and was delighted to find him ready and waiting upon our arrival in Tashkent.  After leaving his position as a lawyer in Hong Kong, he has decided to cycle home to England, crossing many of the same roads Ben and I have thus far.  We discovered our paths coincided from Uzbekistan to Georgia, where he will head north into Russia and we will dip south into Turkey.  He will prove an excellent addition to the team as he speaks Russian and has quite the sense of humor.  Theo has his own website and blog to document his adventures: www.asfaraseastisfromwest.com.  Be sure to check it out whenever you get sick of mine.  Six wheels on the team should be an interesting dynamic that I am sure will lead to no fewer adventurous tales for everyone back home.

With all these changes the week in Tashkent was a flurry of activity.  Between the bike building, airport trips, and ubiquitous embassy visits (Kazakhstan and Azerbaijan), we did manage to get some rest and have some fun.  We saw the world’s oldest Qur’an, brushed up our Uzbek history at the National Museum, feasted at bazaars and street stalls, and even paid a visit to the self-professed “best bar in Tashkent.”  It was a welcome recovery as we prepare for this particularly difficult section of road that separates us from the Caspian Sea.

Change is good.  Ben will be missed, but I am excited to see what kind of exploits I will have with my two new riding partners as we head into the Uzbek desert.

Kellen Smetana
After a wondrous week in central Kyrgyzstan, we crossed south into the Fergana Valley region of Uzbekistan.  This eastern arm of Uzbekistan is almost completely enclosed by Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan and is incredibly fertile, home to some of the longest continual civilizations in Central Asia.  The cycling and especially the people here were remarkable.

We had previously thought the only border crossing open to foreigners was just beyond the major southern Kyrgyz city of Osh, but a day before reaching this city, we found ourselves a mere 3 kilometers from a backroads border crossing and decided to try our luck.  I would not be surprised if we were the first foreigners they have encountered this decade.

On the Kyrgyz side, I had to wake up the exit officer from a mid-afternoon nap.  While processing our passports, the two guards were amazed we did not have any souvenirs (they didn’t quite understand when I explained that all our souvenirs were in our head…).  These two joined us to the Uzbek side, where the twenty minute processing of our passports allowed us to have some fun with the three Uzbek guards there.  We helped ameliorate their abysmal pronunciation from their Key English Phrasebooks, showed them our maps of the region, and tried not to laugh too hard when one of them seriously wanted to trade his bulletproof camouflage infantry helmet for my bike helmet.  The circle of us was a perfect metaphor for duck, duck, goose: camo uniform/loaded M-16… camo uniform/loaded M-16… camo uniform/loaded M-16… spandex/sunglasses!  It was by far the most fun I’ve had at a border crossing and was perfectly capped when we successfully made it across.

Even after the jovial border guards, Uzbekistan delivered us by far the warmest welcome of any country yet.  The first street corner we passed had about 30 people out at the market and nearly every one waved excitedly and directed us to Andijon as we rolled by.  Then, the first car to pass us on the road pulled over to give us bread and take some photos.  “Welcome to Uzbekistan,” they all said; we thanked them many times and told them how happy we were to be here.

Late in the day we arrived in the Fergana Valley city of Andijon and quickly discovered the absurdity of the Uzbek currency.  ATMs are difficult to find and often of little use to foreigners, so most travelers bring US dollars to change to Uzbek som on the black market.  As this market is technically illegal, it consists of young men prowling the bazaars and large markets with huge Santa-like sacks of money, looking for foreigners to trade with.  The good news is that they give you a rate nearly double the official bank rate, and the ones we have dealt with have been very fair about the whole process.  As we arrived so late the first night, the hotel offered to exchange currency for me with our change from paying for the room.  The manager took out two drug-dealer sized stacks of cash and pulled aside a few bills to count.  When he finished, I waited for him to hand me the few bills, but instead he simply pushed the two stacks my way.  Whoa, when I really exchange money I’m going to need a backpack!  To give you a sense of scale, the largest Uzbek bill is worth about 40 cents.  People here get really good at counting…

The next day was a flat, pleasant day of riding through the lush Fergana valley.  We agreed to start looking for a campsite at about 7:30pm.  At 7:15 I came to a small village a few minutes ahead of Ben, who had stopped to take some photos, and decided I was in the mood to stir up a story.  I pulled over amidst a large group of men out drinking beer and hawking watermelons.  After fielding the standard questions (where am I from, where am I going, etc.), I posed to the group, “Mozshna… polatka toot?” (Is it possible… tent here?).  “Oh, no, no, no!  No tent necessary, you can stay in our home.”  (Not in English of course, but I got the gist of it).  Yet another instant act of kindness from the people here.

Ben arrived and as we walked with the group into the village, I soon discovered they had offered us a room of man who wasn’t even there.  Fortunately, when we met Huday, he was more than welcoming and immediately invited us in for plov dinner with his family.  After dinner we were set up in the room, a spare room in the center of the village used for eating and playing cards.  For the next three hours we held court with every man and boy in the town, answering questions about everything from Eminem to what we thought of Uzbek girls.  It was a riot: plenty of laughter to go around.

The next morning people began peeking their heads in the window at 4:30 to shout, “Good morning.”  Just after 5:00, Huday’s young son Alliot burst in the room to ask if we wanted any tea.  “Umm, yes that would be great… guess we’ll get an earlier start today than planned.”  After a wonderful breakfast and plenty of rounds of thanking the family for their hospitality, we were back on the bikes.  It was such an unbelievable experience and a great example of the hospitality people take such pride in in this part of the world.

One aspect worth noting is that it was easy to tell we were in a much more devoutly Muslim country than any previously.  Aside from Huday’s wife and daughter, who we met briefly inside his home, the dozens of people we met and spoke with, and pretty much anybody out hanging around town, were male.  It was an interesting dynamic and something you very quickly notice as different from the West.

Two days later we found ourselves atop another mountain pass.  It was much lower than those of Kyrgyzstan, but it was actually sunny!  I wanted to take a photo to show everyone back home, but we had just crossed our sixth police checkpoint of Uzbekistan and they made it very clear there were no photos allowed on the mountain.  Ahhh, being back in a police state again just makes me all warm and fuzzy inside.  Most officers just check our passports kindly and let us pass, but some have clearly tried to extort small sums of money; I just tell them I have nothing but a tent and clothes and they’re usually annoyed enough to send us through.

Much of this paranoia stems from an incident that happened Andijon (the city I mentioned earlier) in May 2005.  The Uzbek president Karimov was cracking down against political rivals and had 25 prominent businessmen arrested in the city.  Many of their allies marched on the prison in a largely peaceful demonstration to have them released.  The local authorities overreacted and a few hundred civilians were killed in what has been called the Andijon Massacre.  Because the Uzbek government refused any investigation into the matter, this led to the exodus of many international companies and NGOs from the country, and is also probably the genesis of the dozens of police checkpoints in the Fergana region.  The repercussions of this are still being felt in the business community and in Uzbekistan’s general relations with the West.

After the pass it was down the easy road to the Uzbek capital, Tashkent.  Change is afloat and all kinds of surprises are in store, but I’ll save those for the next post…