I got a new handlebar bag this morning. Swiss swapsies; it's good to meet other travellers. Same-same similar to the traded one but jazzy new electric blue and side pockets. I equip myself with colours, foremost. We're three in Tashkent having left our Dutchman in Samarkand to take his own, Southern Tajik approach. Assuming stamped passports this afternoon, William and Laurens and I will take a little scenic loop to Dushanbe. As usual it's not a place I know about but my expectations have an unfeasibly French feel, as though it were an é. Probably we'll mostly see the bazaars for dried fruit and nuts and whatever else can be panniered to eat three weeks later in a snowstorm. I've not fitted the big tyres yet. This morning Laurens was fiddling ball-bearings back into his hub while William angle-ground his rack bolts and I made espresso on the Tashkent sidewalk feeling a smug little prince. We've had a few cautionary emails from Tajik weathermen and I'm increasingly glad of my kit's general solidity.
Uzbekistan, then. Last night at a pancake party my new friend Stas explained to me that one reason nothing works everso well is that any business which is too succesful will be swiftly nationalised and its executives disappeared. What else to say?! The metro and residential sprawl have the same standard-issue Soviet feel as Tbilisi and Yerevan and there's an almost total lack of street art. I'm surprised to rather enjoy strolling about Tashkent. The police kontrols would be hilarious if we weren't kept constantly afeared of being caught on some arbitrary bureaucratic transgression, illegally-insufficient hotel-registration slips at the exit border, perhaps. At the bazaars you can get double the bank rate of exchange from men with carrier bags of currency, but you mustn't... There's a pervasive sense of enormous legal grey area, necessities kept necessarily illicit so you can never quite relax. The vendors can't decide between blatant rip-off or honest good-value which leads to confusion at every eatery; now and then somebody tries a hundred dollars for a shoddy meal but just as often breakfast comes gratis. The tourist lady in Samarkand said "they're good people, and they want money" - not but, which is maybe fair enough. I try to assume the best and buy extortionate pears to the amusement of my more sceptical companions. The food is often bland and fat. My Persian vitamin saturation depletes under assualt of watery mutton and vodka; double satsuma-rations along the Gulf an impossible memory. I suppose it reads all gloomy but really I'm enjoying being here. Spring brings all kinds of wonders and while the city is difficult the hamlet-garden camping comes gorgeous and generous with orchard donkeys and families clubbing together our food and firewood. Fresh given eggs on a breakfast fire go a long way against wierd police and funny money.
The group effort feels like strength to strength as we learn whether and when to laugh at eachother or ourselves. Two nights ago I ruined all our pasta with schoolboy cold water and was let off far easier than I would've been on, say, a firestation. The weight has lifted from small decisions and its' pretty easy to keep moving like this; a pedal-train with lovely views and mutton stops. I'm petitioned by mother and sister to be home in time for a North-Wales cottage in August. Even with a Russian visa I couldn't ride that quick; I still wonder about aeroplanes, or China. Decisions lie over the Pamirs.
I couldn't get on with the internet cafe this morning so finishing this by Kindle by the fire by night in the forest before the border (visas granted). The moon is up, the dogs barking and those two already asleep. Photos might take a while now.
Uzbekistan, then. Last night at a pancake party my new friend Stas explained to me that one reason nothing works everso well is that any business which is too succesful will be swiftly nationalised and its executives disappeared. What else to say?! The metro and residential sprawl have the same standard-issue Soviet feel as Tbilisi and Yerevan and there's an almost total lack of street art. I'm surprised to rather enjoy strolling about Tashkent. The police kontrols would be hilarious if we weren't kept constantly afeared of being caught on some arbitrary bureaucratic transgression, illegally-insufficient hotel-registration slips at the exit border, perhaps. At the bazaars you can get double the bank rate of exchange from men with carrier bags of currency, but you mustn't... There's a pervasive sense of enormous legal grey area, necessities kept necessarily illicit so you can never quite relax. The vendors can't decide between blatant rip-off or honest good-value which leads to confusion at every eatery; now and then somebody tries a hundred dollars for a shoddy meal but just as often breakfast comes gratis. The tourist lady in Samarkand said "they're good people, and they want money" - not but, which is maybe fair enough. I try to assume the best and buy extortionate pears to the amusement of my more sceptical companions. The food is often bland and fat. My Persian vitamin saturation depletes under assualt of watery mutton and vodka; double satsuma-rations along the Gulf an impossible memory. I suppose it reads all gloomy but really I'm enjoying being here. Spring brings all kinds of wonders and while the city is difficult the hamlet-garden camping comes gorgeous and generous with orchard donkeys and families clubbing together our food and firewood. Fresh given eggs on a breakfast fire go a long way against wierd police and funny money.
The group effort feels like strength to strength as we learn whether and when to laugh at eachother or ourselves. Two nights ago I ruined all our pasta with schoolboy cold water and was let off far easier than I would've been on, say, a firestation. The weight has lifted from small decisions and its' pretty easy to keep moving like this; a pedal-train with lovely views and mutton stops. I'm petitioned by mother and sister to be home in time for a North-Wales cottage in August. Even with a Russian visa I couldn't ride that quick; I still wonder about aeroplanes, or China. Decisions lie over the Pamirs.
I couldn't get on with the internet cafe this morning so finishing this by Kindle by the fire by night in the forest before the border (visas granted). The moon is up, the dogs barking and those two already asleep. Photos might take a while now.
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