A bit of soft-core porn - Uzbek style - in the back of a taxi

I'm fully aware that thus far on my travels I have yet to really describe in great depth some of the places I've seen, other than to offer up some cursory and inchoate observations. That won't change with this dispatch. I'm saving some of my more properly thought-out analysis, regarding the stunning architecture, rich cultural heritage, vast array of mausoleums and exquisite, intricate Islamic faience for after my return to Bishkek, when I can properly sit down and digest everything I've seen in its entirety. Instead, I give you more oddities and quirky little happenings I've had with various local people. Those have proved to be the most memorable bits so far anyway.

From Khiva to Bukhara: getting groped in the back of a taxi

Transport options between some cities are limited to shared taxis or marshrutkas (minibuses). Shared taxis are much quicker and more convenient, though luck of the draw dictates that you never know who you might end up sharing a taxi with.

On my way from Khiva to Bukhara, I had to change en route in Urgench. The first taxi was a mere 45 minute journey, and I got talking to nice enough guy who was sitting in the back seat (I was upfront). He didn't waste much time in offering me some of his tobacco dip (or snuff). For those not well-versed in the fine art of dipping, you take a small pinch and insert it into your lower lip, all the while being careful not to swallow any accidentally: that would be lethal.

He aggressively offered me some and I kept refusing. But he was persistent and seemed offended and so I eventually acquiesced. This was at about 8.30am.

Next came the vodka, which he was kind enough to wait for until the taxi had reached its destination and we could each do a shot - or, take a swig directly from the bottle - in more comfortable conditions than in a bouncing, rattling tiny Tico with nearly 700,000km on its odometer. That didn't go down so well: I swallowed a good chunk of my tobacco and barely 10 seconds later I was retching on the side of the road. As means of rinsing my mouth out, he offered another swig and I duly obliged, even swishing it a bit before swallowing this time. It was almost 9am by this point. I felt great and still had about 5+ hours in another taxi to look forward to. I promptly paid the driver, then sprinted to the nearest kiosk I could find to buy some juice.

[Confession #1: I had an ever-so-brief dipping habit at university, which lasted for a month or two during the summer after my 2nd year; but I hadn't touched the stuff since the other day.]

But the real fun had yet to start

When procuring a taxi, it's always best to get the seat upfront, for obvious reasons. Otherwise you're stuck with 3 people squashed in the back. Unfortunately your dear author has been suffering from, among other things, a very sore coccyx. I have no idea how this occurred, but it's been bothering me greatly on my trip and any kind of sitting can be dreadfully difficult, meaning I'm constantly shifting to find a more comfortable position. The middle of the back seat is the absolute worst spot for this problem, so I made sure of getting myself a seat by the window at the very least. But then trouble showed up.

A woman, not by any means unattractive - think a very poor man's Jessica Biel - but certainly one who looked a bit feisty and troublesome, turned up with a small 5 year old girl in tow. One thing that always gets me is how small children aren't charged for their spots - most of the time they take up the same amount of room, which in this case meant 4 of us crammed into the back. And this wretched woman - who was 22 but looked more like 32 - would not, absolutely would not, sit in the middle. So an argument ensued and I was told to sit in the middle. I refused. Why not, I was asked. How the hell am I supposed to explain the problem with my coccyx? On top of this, I'm still suffering from my ongoing foot and leg problems, which only added to my concerns. Seeing as we were getting nowhere, I at last gave in, with the full intention of demanding a switch halfway through.

[Along those same lines, why is it that on most public transport in Europe you are charged an extra ticket if you have a large suitcase or backpack, yet if a woman gets on with a baby in a pram or stroller, which takes up far more room than an extra bag, there's no extra charge. How on earth is this fair? It's like young, independent travellers are penalised for having the audacity not to have a child or something. I don't get it, and as far as I'm concered it's completely illogical and ridiculously unfair.]

My audition for a soft-core porn column. Or, I thought Uzbekistan was a conservative place

This woman wasted no time making me uncomfortable. She was openly flirtatious, very tactile and incredibly aggressive. At first it was mild: asking my name, where I was from, offering me apples (one of which had a maggot in the middle), tomatoes and bread. But in no time she had her hand on my leg, was nestling her head into my shoulder, trying to hold my hand, inspecting my biceps and forearms and chest, of which she didn't approve of the hair. My protestations that I was a taken man did nothing to deter this wild, depraved beast from attempting to maul me.

She danced in the backseat. She nudged me every time I drifted off into a sleep. She repeatedly pulled my headphones out of my ear if I dared listen to music. She would then lick my ear, this after whispering some sweet something or other into it. Her hand got closer to my crotch. She rubbed my chest. I must have come across as the most uptight traveller in the world, I was not enjoying this, not smiling and kept firmly removing her wandering hands. On top of all this was my intense physical discomfort. After about 90 minutes of this mayhem, I insisted we stop and switch places. So we did. And then 10 minutes later, she asked to stop and switch again. So I had gone from the middle to the right side, and she was now in the middle, where there was no escape.

After a toilet break on the side of the road a short while later, while I was doing my business behind a derelict building, she sprung behind me and shouted 'boo!'. That was it: I was livid and I screamed some horrible obscenities at her. When I returned to the car I let out a torrent of foul, contempible abuse. She probably understood little of it, but she got the hint. Or so I thought. She sat in a mopey silence for a few minutes and suddenly, out of nowhere, thrust her hand right onto my crotch. I sternly slapped it away and again unleased a litany of abuse, this time more in Russian than English.

Reflecting on this experience, strangely enough the one thing that annoyed me more than anything else was her insistence on speaking to me in Uzbek, despite it being quite clear that I didn't understand a word. She initially addressed me in Russian, but then quickly switched to Uzbek. But she kept expressing irritation when I failed to understand her harsh, gravely voice. Why she persisted with Uzbek is baffling to me, but I think she just revelled in being difficult and odd. If that's the way her behaviour could be described.

Getting groped by an 18 year old boy: much better!

This was an experience I'll never forget. Loyal readers will know my fondness for public baths. The one I visited in Bukhara has to be one of the most unique and enjoyable encounters I've had. I had the place to myself; there was not a single other soul in this ancient, centuries-old cavernous bath. After about 30 minutes in the sauna - which despite the 40C+ heat outside still remained refreshing - I was directed to a massive marble slab and told to lie down on my chest. I was completely naked. An 18 year old boy then proceeded to manhandle me and turn me into a pretzel. He trampled over and kneed my back, picking my legs up and twisting and contorting them in countless directions. I heard parts of my body I never knew even existed crackle and crunch. Most of it was downright excruciatingly painful yet it felt truly wonderful and invigorating and I'm not even into sado-masochism. After 30 more minutes of being tied up into a knot and having my knees and elbows bend at angles that science shouldn't conceivably now, I was turfed out onto the street feeling a new man.

Oh, and half way through, I did get turned over onto my back. And I was thoroughly washed. Everywhere.

For an image of me getting my massage, try this link:
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f1/Sargent,_John_Singer_(1856-1925)_-_1890-91_-_Massage_in_a_bath_house.jpg

Uzbek hospitality at its finest

Loyal readers will have heard my rants about Kyrgyz and Kazakh hospitality; now for the Uzbek version.

First off, I should say that although I met some terribly wonderful people in Uzbekistan, unfortunately the vast majority tried to fleece me in some manner. I realise this is a common scam with tourists, and thankfully my [limited] Russian saved me a ton of money, but I was constantly being taken advantage of, and my obstinate refusal to back down in most cases worked like a charm.

I'd heard that locals will often invited foreigners into their homes for dinner, or at the very least, tea, while expecting nothing in return. One day in Bukhara I met a shifty money-changer in the street, and he took me to his house in order to conduct the transaction. Blackmarket money-changers are not really tolerated in some cities, Bukhara being one of them, so we had to do this on the sly (Uzbek official exchange rate: 1500som = $1; blackmarket: 1800 = $1). This guy was nice and amiable enough, but somewhat creepy. He had a lisp and one of those quiet, hissing sinister voices normally characteristic of foreign movie villains, like Hans Gruber in Die Hard. His face was like a weather-beaten, pock-marked Richard Gere with a rectangular-shaped Frankenstein-like head, but he was missing his entire top row of teeth - would you trust a guy like this? Anyhow, after a quick transaction in front of his house over green tea, he and his wife invited me back to their home for dinner that evening, telling me they were going to make me traditional plov (pilaf, rice, whatever), and that it would be the best I'd ever had. Naturally I was sceptical.

I almost didn't go. It was my final night in Bukhara and there was another small restaurant I'd spotted and wanted to go there. But I thought it would be rude to stand up Richard Gere and his wife. So I went. Bad move.

I should have seen this one coming

What a surprise awaited me on my arrival: Richard Gere had 2 teenage daughters, of 14 and 16. And of course the 16 year old would be joining us for dinner. I should have known that this was another underhanded trick to get me hitched to an Uzbek girl.

Either way, I eagerly awaited my plov, which is considered an Uzbek specialty. I'd had plov twice in Uzbekistan thus far on my trip and both times it was pretty wretched (the plate I had in Kazakhstan on my way to being ripped off at the border would be the best I had on my trip). My hopes were now high.

Did I get the most delicious plov that Uzbekistan had to offer? Did I f&#%! I got a plate of lukewarm spaghetti with a drop of sauce and a fried egg on top. And stale bread. And lousy tepid green tea/dishwater. I'd had a tasty lunch in some local dive that cost me around $1.25 This was worth about half that.

The 16 year old sat across the table, glaring at me as I ate my 'plov'. I attempted to make conversation, which was a fruitless and thankless task. I found most Uzbeks under the age of 18 to be incredibly friendly, open and welcoming, and a lot of girls would smile and say hello as they passed you on the street. Not this one: she was a surly, grumpy little article, sitting there stewing in silence, almost as if this were a weekly ritual: Richard Gere would bring some unsuspecting foreigner over to change money and then they'd invite the fool over for a bit of matchmaking over spaghetti. She was probably tired of it. Or she didn't like me one bit, more likely the case. I did my best to get words out of her but it was a futile endeavour.

What kind of hospitality do you call that?

After the meal, the moody little teenager scurried off without even a goodbye, while the wife brought out examples of her arts and craft handiwork: some cotten placemats. Not to be harsh, but they weren't very nice, the more so when compared to some of the lovely stuff I'd seen in the markets. They showed me 4 pieces and asked which one I'd like, as a gift. I chose the least offensive and thanked them. Richard Gere then asked me, from the kindness of my heart, how much money I'd like to give for this 'gift'. I was incredulous. I was especially flabbergasted because I had very little money with me, the equivalent of around $7, which I needed for snacks and transport to Samarkand the next day. (word to the wise: if you come to Uzbekistan, bring lots and lots of dollars: ATMs don't exist here and getting money on cash advances is awfully difficult.)

I probably committed the ultimate faux pas by handing back the gift, profusely apologising that I simply had no money to give them, making up a story about getting robbed of my remaining dollars. They seemed dejected and certainly didn't feel sorry for me. Then as I was leaving, Richard Gere put his hand to his heart yet again, and asked how much I could pay, from the heart, for the wonderful 'plov'. All this time, every time he spoke with that sinister maniacal lisp in Russian, I'd get shivers down my spine. This, I couldn't believe: so much for 'true' hospitality then. I didn't want to insult them, but the meal wasn't worth much. As it is, I vastly overpaid and sheepishly handed over nearly $4 - a decent-sized sum for what I got and more than a meal at any other place in town. He took it, inconspicuously counted it, looked visibly agitated, then pocketed it without even a thank you. His wife was equally disappointed.

But let's not that little episode spoil things

Uzbekistan is behind me and overall, it was a pleasurable experience. I'm now on my way back to Bishkek for roughly 3 weeks, where I'll put together a recap of my entire trip, this time including all the fascinating cultural crap I've barely touched upon.