The start of the Silk
The desert was done, the hardest and yet most rewarding section of the trip now consigned to a part of my memory labelled ‘warning, proceed with caution’. I was looking forward to, but not longing for, the comforts that civilisation had to offer: a bed, showering, dare I say a beer or two and I was nearly wholly let down but the first major town I came to, Nukus. I’ve never much appreciated town planning before, but when you have a slaughterhouse, next to a school, next to a vacant bit of land before coming to a huge municipal building you start to get a bit disorientated. When life gives you lemons, make lemonade; when you find yourself alone in Nukus, start planning your exit strategy.
The near nine days of non-stop cycling and living out of a roasting tent had taken its toll, with saddle sores now no longer a slight joke but actually being quite debilitating. It is testament then to the ‘charm’ of Nukus that I cut short my recovery period to just one full day, such was my keenness to press on. However, I could not have timed my one relaxing day any better.
Stitching me back together: eventual recovery on the Silk Road
Nukus sits in a part of Uzbekistan called Karakalpakstan, a place officially a part of the nation, but has very much its own identity which is different to the rest of the country. The people here are culturally closer to Kazakhstan and if you have followed the news recently, there had been large-scale and sadly bloody riots here just a month or so before my arrival. It will excite my three readers then to know that my one day here coincided with Uzbekistan independence day, something that was as far from a celebration as I have ever experienced. To give readers an idea of just how low the turnout was, State and probably secret police were pretty much the only people aside from myself watching the lavish concert being held in the central square. Thick jawed, serious looking guys were trying their best to be relaxed with the officers in attendance clearly from another part of Uzbekistan; as they looked very different from those that call this province home. An agonising silence followed the national anthem, in which it was gestured we needed to stand for. At this point I was half expecting to see Napoleon or Snowball trot on stage to give a sermon, with this Orwellian experience more than making up for my initial disappointment with Nukus.
I woke early the next day, keen to cycle in the cool and away from any semblance of what might be termed ‘rush hour’ here. My target was a campsite along the Amu Darya, a place which for years stalked my mind, as somewhere I would forever read about and never venture to. Over the past century the Amu Darya river has turned from one of the major arteries to the Aral Sea to merely a conduit for cheap global cotton, with resultant huge social and environmental impacts. Destruction of the environment is a theme that runs deep in this region, with the Caspian tiger an animal that once prowled the very banks of the Amu Darya I planned to camp on not more than 50 years ago, now consigned to history.
It is mind-blowing to think a species of tiger we’ve probably all never heard of…a TIGER has gone within the lifetime of the many village elders I meet! If they disappeared without a trace imagine the dozens if not hundreds of species slipping away annually. ‘Do not go gently into that good night’ does not apply to these invisible organisms, the possessors of millions of years of evolution, key actors in an ecosystem dying by a thousand cuts. It is this thought that powers me through a pretty gruelling day, with the heat and lack of recovery (aka extreme saddle sores) hampering me greatly. Eventually I arrive into what can only be described as Eden, a valley rimmed with distant hills, lush reed beds and riparian banks stretch alongside the river as far as the eye could see. The juxtaposition of the Amu Darya from the desert I had just come from was hard to comprehend, with the sounds of birds and crickets the new blissful soundtrack to my trip. I showered in mosquito repellent and unwrapped my leftover lunch and just gazed out. Minutes, hours, days might have flown by, left in a state of beauty-induced paralysis, an easy meal for a tiger than once reigned supreme here.
It’s real and it’s out there: the Amu Darya
A hard morning slog to Khiva began the following day and it was here that I finally felt like I was on the Silk Road proper. Khiva is a place that blends the concepts of art and architecture, with buildings so captivating you can’t help but sit down, order a chai and stare. Such was the majesty of the town that I would follow the same route through the old town in the morning and late afternoon, with the change in the sun’s position bringing new life to some buildings and making you feel as if you are in yet another town along the Silk Road.
What was more captivating was the change in faces; in just two days of cycling the people and culture were abruptly different. No two people looked alike, a collage of life walking past me along every street. I have never had much of an urge to photograph people before, but here, here I wished I had a go pro stuck to my forehead. It also seemed my good luck with timings was to be continued as my second day in Khiva coincided with the Uzbekistan melon festival; an event that I jotted in my notes at the time as ‘Glastonbury meets Nantwich farmers market’ and it was as good as you can imagine.
Rival provinces bring the best melons they can muster (this is not to be taken as a euphemism), their finest musicians and their traditional dress all to do battle to be claimed the best melons around. It was a day of exuberant celebration, friendly banter between different areas and a chance for people from all over to mingle and no doubt trade tips on melon growing. I soaked up the atmosphere and homely comforts Khiva offered as I knew several long bike trips were ahead. The next few weeks would see me travel great lengths to the other Silk Road cities in Uzbekistan; Bukhara and Samarkand, each separated by little mini deserts of their own.
The Gherkin before the Gherkin: Londoners know
I have become slowly hooked with Central Asia over these past few weeks. The people, the places and experiences slowly ebb into you, and you feel all the better for it. I have never once felt like a stranger in these parts, nor have I ever felt alone; a testament to the kindness and generosity of the people I have been fortunate enough to meet.
The realisation that home is distantly calling is such a jarring counter-punch to the everyday here, with every morning feeling like day 1 of the expedition. New places to be explored, intriguing people meet and strange foods to be consumed. Geographically I am in the very heart of Eurasia and it feels like it’s soul resides here too. I will forever be hooked on the elixir that is life in this part of the world and will no doubt return one day to buy all the trinkets I sadly can’t carry with me on the bike.
