On the roadside on the outskirts of Samarkand after walking out early morning, a car pulled in. I did the usual ‘I cannot pay’ mime and the man did not drive off. Thinking he had agreed to take me for free, I got in. But things felt different; There were no questions about me or my trip and he looked like a man doing business. He then told me he wanted me to pay him.
‘No, I can’t pay you.’
‘Then how do you expect to get to Bukhara? No one will take you for free’.
I told him to just let me out, but he wouldn’t. I began to get angry, and when he stopped at the traffic lights, I just took my bag and left.
I had no problems getting there for free, none that I didn’t bring on myself anyway. After managing to hitch a ride with a truck driver for a few dozen kilometers, I got picked up by two brothers. They were in their ealry forties and set on making me feel very welcome in their country. They took me most of the way and, overwhelmed with excitement to have met a real English person, they took me to a restaurant and ordered copious amounts of meat and vodka.
I learned a very valuable lesson with these men – if you don’t want another vodka shot, don’t finish the one in front of you and say ‘no more’. Just leave it. Half a pint of Samarkand vodka later, I had to follow the waiter to the bathroom. I kept it all in, but the next thing I knew I was in a ditch with the early morning sun forcing my aching eyelids open. All of my organs were still in my body, but they were experiencing the hardest day of my life.
I was amazed how, blackout drunk, I had still managed to find a well-hidden camping spot.
I walked in autopilot mode to the road and sat in a bus stop for 20 minutes to recompose myself. A man came up to me and told me that I was on the wrong side of the road to get to Bukhara. I had completely lost my bearings, and on that morning, I thought the sun rose in the West.
It was really warming up, and I didn’t want to be on the long harsh road when the alcohol wore off.
I was picked up quickly by a man who thankful didn’t want to talk a lot. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a man who looked like he had died and come back to life. Maybe I had. ‘I’m never drinking again, I told myself, as I have before and will again.
Before I knew it, we were on the outskirts of Bukhara. It was only a 4km walk to the center. Normally, that distance takes me under an hour to walk, but today, it took be at least 3. I needed to sweat out the vodka anyway.
Reeking of stale alcohol, I walked into a supermarket to get some sugary snacks and water. The assistant followed me closely around the shop, probably thinking I was a homeless man.
I felt like I had floated into the city center. After checking-in to a hostel, I peeled my sodden t-shirt off my skin and very nearly threw up from the smell exasperated by the action. I considered throwing it away because after two hand washes, the smell stuck to it like gonorrhea.
I took a walk with the last hour of daylight and the realization hit me of why I have been getting so many stares. I saw another white person and he looked terribly out of place against the background of this Asian country – like a badly photoshopped image; even I stared a bit.
I do not think the stares are rude, they are just interested, and a friendly wave always seems to break their trance-like state. However, hearing the repetitive phrase ‘Otkuda?’ (Where are you from?) over and over like a broken CD player was getting on my tits a bit.
I felt terrible the following morning and thoughts of going home had returned. I had been feeling this a lot recently and despite knowing I was just hungover, I began to spiral. My mind was put to ease though when I walked in to the kitchen to find an open map of Georgia out on the work surface. ‘Get to Georgia, get the visa to China, and carry on’, I heard a voice in my head tell me.
I could not wait to rest over winter. I was having days where I would wake up with sore muscles and a sick feeling others where I felt like I had endless energy and motivation. My body was now running on reserve energy and some days it ran out.
Uzbekistan has not yet been ruined by tourism, as many countries have (especially in Southeast Asia); nobody tries to sell you anything you aren’t interested in and shop and cafe owners do not attempt to rip you off. Once I even gave more than I had been asked because I felt guilty. Visit as soon as you can, before it is too late.
I walked out of Bukhara before the sun came up to avoid the heat. Traffic was thin now as I headed further West into the desert. I enjoyed the beginning of this serenity as I continued to walk.
I hopelessly put my thumb out to a truck with both of the seats occupied, but they stopped for me anyway.
They took me all the way to Nukus – a 12 hour ride on surprisingly good road. We talked for about 7 minutes during the ride, which was fine by me because it meant I could read and sleep on their bed.
I watched the gradual progression in landscape as the road went from civilized desert to sandy blankness.
They left me on the outside of the city where I got my sleeping bag and roll mat out and slept on the sand. This was a new feeling for me and I managed to keep my equipment relatively sand-free.
Nukus was the last city before entering the vast, open desert, meeting settlement again in Aktau on the Caspian Sea.. There were two tasks I had here – get an e-visa for Azerbaijan and print it, and register my stay in Nukus, since it had been almost the maximum 3 nights since I last did it.
For these tasks I would need a print shop and Wi-Fi. I walked for hours seemingly hopelessly to the other side of the city in the humid, sandy and windy streets. I had to wear my face scarf to stop myself sneezing every few seconds.
Finally, like an oasis, a printing shop emerged. I used their Wi-Fi to submit the application for the e-visa, which, it turned out, would take up to 3 days to be issued. At first, I didn’t like this, but I was glad because I would have to rest. I walked back out of the city to a a spot among the dry desert vegetation and looked forward to the coming days of having nothing to do but read, eat, sleep and write.
The next morning, I navigated from memory to the Wi-Fi spot to find that the visa hadn’t been issued yet. I got some lunch in a small café where I hung out for a few hours.
A very attractive girl, about my age, called to me. ‘You’re from England?’ she asked, as if I were a celebrity. I mistook Gulbahkar’s enthusiasm for attraction.
‘It is my dream to go to London’, she told me; as was every Uzbek’s dream. What did we do to them?
I considered marrying her, just to get around my visa problem by getting free entry into Russia. After a bit of research, it turned out I would have to give up my Irish and British citizenships to obtain Uzbek. Oh well.
She took me to the school where she taught English and the students were even more excited than she was. They couldn’t ask any more than what my name was, where I was from, and how old I was, and I went between 4 classes and got asked those questions more times than I can remember. I spoke a bit about my adventure, told them where I had slept and travelled to. The shining looks of excitement and inspiration on their faces really inspired me to start public speaking and that evening, the email to send to potential hosts was written in a few minutes.
After another night in the shrubs, I spent most of the day doing nothing but reading and drinking tea. My visa had finally been issued and I checked in to the only Hotel in Nukus to get the final registration slip; there would be no more on the way to the border with Kazakhstan.