Shadows on the Silk
Cities along Silk Road are like stars in the night sky; bright spots that captivate you but are surrounded by inhospitable zones where you ought not to dwell for too long. However, if you can ignore your survival instincts and go off the beaten path just a little bit further, into areas where rivers still run, you will encounter wildlife and scenery as majestic as anywhere else on Earth. Time, it appears has still not brought the mess humans can bring to these few oasis’ and it is in these spots where I have felt most at home on this odyssey.
The beauty of Khiva was to be replaced by that of Bukhara; less compact but equally historic and more famed for its metal work. Despite the continued ornate architecture and the feeling of living in one of the world’s best museums, Bukhara sadly marked the beginning of the ‘tat trail’©; consisting of a load of knock-off Chinese imitation items and souvenir t-shits. The beauty of it all though was, if you gave yourself enough time to explore, there were still the original Silk Road trade-crafts to be found and not many tourists flowing through to bump up the prices.
Many a morning was spent haggling on items ranging from lapis lazuli to unique ceramics, all over a hospitable chai. I don’t care what people say, I bloody love haggling and I resolutely feel it is an artform in its own right. Some will say a quid to them is worth more than it is to me (I am now at point in my budget where that’s no longer true), but at the end of the day the price is inflated for tourists, they don’t sell unless they find the offer is acceptable and you get to enjoy time spent conversing with people you would never have met otherwise.
Bukhara: a city that defines ‘needle in a haystack’
Stumbling in from the crossing that separates Khiva and Bukhara, I was quite keen to have an early night and rest the saddle-sores. Sadly my host had other ideas. In a rather drunk state, he refused to believe I could be 29 and not married and proceeded to ask whether I would be interested in marrying one of his five daughters? Before I could interject he called them out to meet me in turn, with five very embarrassed people all saying hey and apologizing for their Dad’s state. I took each saddened hello as their refusal to the marriage proposal and so had to settle for some shaslik (skewred meat) they brought out with them as the alternative. Every cloud….
This was to be the first of three very eventful nights at this guesthouse, with the finale being awoken to help the owner re-wire some bedside lamps at 1am. There’s a special feeling of revenge using the owners own wifi to crucify them in a scathing review; and it was with a wry smile that I departed Bukhara the next morning for Samarkand. The cycle ahead was going to be tough, as I set myself an ambitious two days to get through 284Ks of desert and almost certainly terrible road surfaces. Bukhara it seemed, knew what I had written in my review and had conjured up the worst headwind of the expedition so far. Wind so vicious you would be pedaling for all your worth and a small kid with their nan would slowly walk past you and off into the sand strewn distance.
Saviours in a storm: hospitality knows no bounds here
When I finally broke the 100K mark I pulled over, truly shattered, into the nearest teahouse. The only food on offer was somsas, which is probably best described as a Cornish pastie meets what we in the UK would know as a typical samosa. Ordering four and a family bottle of Fanta (not sorry) I gorged in a semi-state of delirium and only coming to my senses when the table next to me were settling their bill via means of frantic hand motions and exchanging of money.
I did not think too much of it until they finally finished their chai and got up to leave, with one man putting one had on his heart and giving me a thumbs up. This, it appeared, meant that they had paid for my bill, which explains the look of shock the waitress was giving me (I thought it was my smell). Slightly lost for words, and blown away by the generosity from someone I had barely even looked at, let alone spoke to, I got up to offer him my last somsa, to which he laughed at and refused. If Carlsberg did people, it would probably be Uzbekistani’s, with every day bringing new forms of kindness in ways you just would not get back home.
High on life, and full of samosa, I smashed out the remaining mileage to where I hoped would be suitable camping; well away from any roads or towns and by a river. It is important to note that Google Earth only offers you a snapshot in time, with the changing of seasons or the juggernaut that is climate change sometimes giving you false hope. There have been several instances this trip where I should have been next to a cool, refreshing river only to be greeted by a parched bed. Future cyclists be warned, every year from here will only make these oasis harder to find, try and have a plan B (unlike me).
Overlooking Eden: As Adam and Eve imagined
Today was to be my day and where I was to spend the night was far superior to any accommodation that could be offered by human hands. Where there is water in Uzbekistan there are scenes of unimaginable beauty, the air vibrates around you with life and the vegetation shakes with the body weight of hundreds of birds. Murmurations in densities and complexity that I have never seen before unfolded before me as I set up my tent; the appearance of a harrier species causing these masses to part and mesmerise anew, akin to shoals of fish dancing in water to live another day.
The remoteness of the site meant I was without phone signal, and it was not until I reached the first town the following morning that I finally received news that the ruling monarch of the United Kingdom, my Queen, had very abruptly died. It was obviously quite harrowing news to begin the day with and it brought to mind of just how long I had been away for. I knew then, and know now, an era has now ended and what that means for my country I do not know. In such uncertain times one needs continuity; and with the sorry state of government back home, we won’t be getting it from them. I console myself that, at least for the time being, I have the bike aka the Camel and adventures to distract me but as the day progressed my thoughts of home fill my mind. A clawing sense rises in me that I will eventually be going home to a country that has changed for the worse since I left; and more abruptly, I am potentially going back to a place that might even feel a lot less like ‘home’.
Samarkand: Architecture as cool as the climate
I finally arrived at my final stop along the Silk Road, Samarkand, and a place I knew I would have very limited time in. In just a few days a huge economic conference including China, Russia and the Central Asian states would be held in the city, and the city would effectively be sealed with roads in and out to be closed. The upside to this was the fact that Samarkand had been given a makeover, with the tarmac arguably the best I had ridden on since France and everywhere open until much later in the evening to make up for the time missed out when forced to close.
Again I was blown away by the architecture here, but of the three cities I have visited along the Silk Road, Samarkand has the least soul and feels most sterile. Even in my limited time there I could feel the vibe of the city became more and more mute; men in suits and military fatigues began to appear on every corner, and that friendly atmosphere that is so ubiquitous in Uzbekistan, to the point where it follows you like a sweet scent, had gone.
Indeed, things were moving very quickly here. The days themselves either reflected the mood of the city or were finally caving into the pressure of Autumn, with my last two mornings spent with my fleece on. Not since scaling a 3000m pass in Georgia had I needed to wear a fleece, a testament now to the changing seasons and that I have burned a significant amount of my belly blubber. Good bye insulation.
The way out: the last few roads in Uzbekistan
Things are set to get cooler when I cross into Tajikistan, with the Fann mountains the impressive barrier between myself and the final river of the odyssey; the Syr Darya. It feels extremely weird, fulfilling, sad, and exciting (I’m sure there’s a German word that encapsulates all of this) to even write the river’s name. A testament to all that has gone before me; the many moments of pain and joy, and the excitement in the unknown that still lays ahead.
The distances might be smaller but each day is still the same, universal 24hours. I intend to fill each one pushing the mind, body and soul and in return savour the rewards that this expedition has given me, namely: solace, memories and a sense of purpose. It is quite literally onwards and upwards from here with a few very hard days cycling needed to get me to the top of the hill…..but not before a detour or two can be made.
