A fortnight of peregrinations in Uzbekistan

First, as always, one of my infamous and epic disclaimers

Central Asia, with Uzbekistan in particular, has long been on my list of places to see. No other region has arguably grabbed my imagination in such a way. From the moment when I first read Peter Hopkirk’s The Great Game, I was instantly hooked. Tales of intrigue between the Russians and British in high mountain passes, stories of treachery and betrayal from various emirs, the trading routes of the old Silk Road, the exquisite and intricate faience of Islamic architecture, not to mention the structures themselves, the mythical connotations rendered forth by the mere utterance of the name Timur Lane…I had long built-up an image in my head of how splendid and wondrous the sites would be. It would be fair to say that I had very high expectations, which I firmly believe is always a dangerous thing. But then it can be awfully tricky suppressing such expectations, so what was I to do? Uzbekistan was one of the last great unknowns on my travel calendar.

The verdict? I’ll save that for the end

Nukus, capital of Karakalpakstan: utter desolation, Aral Sea tragedy and a fascinating art museum

That could have been my wife on the right

I’ve already discussed my experiences in Nukus, a grim, desolate place hundreds of miles from anywhere. The destruction of the Aral Sea in the 60s and 70s destroyed the republic, and very few people inhabit the region now. I was tempted to progress further towards the Aral Sea, to a town called Moynaq some 200 kilometres away, if only to stay in a hotel called Oybek, which the Lonely/Lying Planet describes thus:

‘There’s no electricity, no running water, and it looks like a giant poo volcano erupted in the shared bathroom. But the champagne brunch is just divine. Not really. Fortunately they keep the large rooms much cleaner than the bathroom.’

It did actually cross my mind to lie and say I really did stay there. But I didn’t. And I didn’t think such a fleabag hotel was reason enough to venture a long way out of my way.

Khiva: slave caravans, mud-walls and densely packed mosques, tombs, alleys and medressas

In some ways, Khiva reminded me of Tallinn: both come across as outdoor, museum-like fairy tale cities, where just about all of the sites are enclosed within the city walls. Outside of the fortifications, there’s not altogether much worth seeing. Khiva can be explored in a matter of hours, unless one pops into each and every little museum and medressa, which can pricily add up.

Had there been more tourists around, the ubiquitous souvenir stalls might have seemed oppressive and overly gauche. But the city was largely devoid of tourists, save for a French tour group, and most of the stallholders were too lethargic and apathetic to try and drum up much business for their tacky wares.

Bukhara, Uzbekistan’s holiest city: wanton cruelty, barbarity and a couple of beheadings

This was the highlight of my stay, though I was ill for a part of it. Still, I was eager to delve into the 1000+ years of history of a town centre that apparently hadn’t changed much, if at all, over the past 200 years. This was where I enjoyed that wonderful ‘plov’ meal from the crooked scrimshanker of a money-changer who tried to set me up with his daughter (one of a couple such attempts on my trip) and had a nice rubdown and trampling by an 18 year old boy at the public baths.

The sites here were stupendous and moving, especially in the fading light of dusk. Particularly memorable was the Mir-i-Arab Medressa, which tourists can’t enter, and the Ark, Bukhara’s oldest structure, 80% of which was destroyed by Soviet bombing raids in the 1920s. This was where, in 1842, two British officers caught up in the Great Game intrigue were beheaded. Colonel Charles Stoddart had arrived in 1838, and was immediately thrown into jail by the offended emir (a long story which I won’t get into here). He spent much of the next 4 years in torture chambers and dungeons and a bug pit full of various creepy-crawlies. Captain Arthur Connolly arrived in 1841 in a futile attempt to get Stoddart released. He too was made to languish in various cells before being executed along with his comrade. Of all the Great Game yarns, this remains one of the most entrancing and gripping.

Samarkand: jewel of the old Silk Road

We travel not for trafficking alone,
By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned.
For lust of knowing what should not be known,
We take the Golden Road to Samarkand.
(James Elroy Flecker, The Golden Journey to Samarkand)

Whenever I’ve thought of Central Asia and its glorious past, Samarkand has always been the first city to lodge in my head. Its very name conjures up some of the most epic and evocative images, sending frissons of excitement down my spine. I had no idea what to expect, though I had reserved my highest expectations for here.

The Registan in all its [Soviet-restored] glory

Its most famous site – and arguably the most famous and spectacular in all of Central Asia - is the Registan, a massive plaza boxed in by three of the world’s oldest and most-beautifully preserved medressas. To be fair, the Soviets renovated much of these edifices, so much so that many say that today they look nothing like they did centuries ago when Timur Lane made Samarkand the capital of the Mongol Empire in 1370. But it’s still quite a spectacle, majestic in its grandeur and redolent of a bygone era signifying the region’s greatness, affluence and power.

Tashkent: the start and finish

New friends in Tashkent (the kid in the middle in red really doesn't mean that)

I began and ended my journey in the capital, Tashkent, which in many ways was the most intriguing and thought-provoking of my destinations. Most travellers to Uzbekistan steer well-clear of Tashkent, using it merely as a base for a day or two whilst waiting for visas or flights out of the country. But as a self-professed lover of cities, I was thoroughly enchanted and mesmerised by some of the things I saw and experienced here.

Tashkent was, in some respects, an eerie, surreal place. I encountered very few tourists and nowhere else is the idea of Uzbekistan being a ‘police state’ made more manifest than here. The city was swarming with policemen and some lovely tree-lined streets were completely deserted of regular people. Amazingly, I couldn’t get over how friendly all the policemen were; though I’d read and heard tales of police harassment and brutality, every policeman I met was courteous, pleasant and inquisitive in a non-threatening manner. And none even so much as hinted at wanting a bribe.

Along with the anodyne Contemporary Art Museum, which I popped into for little other reason than to get a respite from the oppressive heat, I visited two others: the History Museum of the People of Uzbekistan and the Amir Temur (or, Timur Lane) Museum, dedicated of course to that bloodthirsty tyrant - but then, who wasn’t back in those days? - of a former Mongol leader, long considered an Uzbek national hero and the de facto father of the country.

Amongst the plethora of odes and tributes glorifying the great man was this gem from Uzbekistan president Islam Karimov:

If somebody wants to understand who the Uzbeks are, if somebody wants to comprehend all the power, might, justice and unlimited abilities of the Uzbek people, their contribution to the global development, their belief in future, he should recall the image of Amir Temur.

Though I don’t want to delve into the frasmotic flummeries – for they are all flummeries in the greater context anyway – of Uzbek politics, a brief word on Karimov, Uzbekistan’s president since its independence in 1991. Most call him a third-rate, crack-pot dictator who stifles the opposition, silences dissent by any means necessary and boils his opponents to death. Whatever one says about him, there’s little doubt that he has an iron grip on the country – thanks to a few rigged elections - and for the foreseeable future he’ll be running the show. But as far as brutal, authoritarian present-day dictators go, he has to be up there in the top 10.

Post September 11, Uzbekistan suddenly became a crucial hotspot in the ‘war on terror’, and American and British aid and forces – along with an airbase - poured into the country. This gave Karimov even more leverage in his attempts to stamp out any dissenting voices, for any slight signs of insurrection from Islamic political parties were often conveniently linked to Al Qaeda and he more or less had free license to crack down on anyone deemed a threat. (For an excellent account, read Craig Murray’s Murder in Samarkand, which goes into far more detail than I’m at liberty to go into here.)

Now, I’m no expert pollster nor am I a psephologist, but in a sample size of about 25-30 Uzbeks, in a rudimentary poll I found Karimov to have an approval rating of exactly 0%. Around 10 people abstained from answering, but I’m willing to bet none of them would have changed the equation.

[For some reason, the words of Nigerian writer Chinua Achebe used to describe his compatriots kept going through my head and might be applicable here: ‘They are seemingly nothing but a region of incorruptible and unpatriotic citizens drenched in the crucible of barbarism and incompetence.’]

Anyhow, the History Museum featured all sorts of paeans to Karimov, with a handful of patriotic quotations mixed in with photos of him with various world leaders. Amongst the more indelible were images from September 11 next to a letter from Rudy Giuliani praising Karimov for his role and support in the war on terror along with a gift of a signed photo of the Twin Towers. Next to this display was a dubious array of images of alleged ‘terrorist’ bombings in Uzbekistan over the past few years. I found this all quite troubling, to say the least.

One grim display featured some bandannas with this amusing caption:
‘Terrorist’s forehead fillets taken off from terrorists’ heads’. Not literally, thank goodness.

But in an attempt to find some further humour, or at least irony, in what I saw, this further quotation sums it up nicely. This is what Karimov had to say regarding the brutality and totalitarianism of the Soviet Union:

Socialist transformation lead to the creation of the totalitarian state, coercive nationalization of the economy, elimination of political pluralism and greatly damaged national originality.

And in the section dedicated to the might and prestige of Uzbek science, which featured photos of the future of Uzbek energy, from wind-power generators to hydroelectric plants to clean coal stations, was a solar power plant, along with the caption: ‘big sunny oven’.

You really can’t fault the technological prowess and bravado of Uzbek scientists.

But lest we forget…

The most moving site had to have been the Crying Mother Monument featuring the ever-present eternal flame that forms a part of so many war memorials in the former Soviet Union. Along either side of the statue were corridors with the names of the 400,000 Uzbek soldiers killed during World War II. Samarkand had an identical monument, but this type of thing never fails to move me. Whether Uzbekistan is or was a ‘mighty’ nation, and no matter the present state of its politics, it’s difficult to forget the sacrifice that some of the more forgotten parts of the world have made. Just to put things in perspective, Britain lost some 450,000 men in the war and America 420,000, so the Uzbek contribution, in manpower lost anyway, is equally tragic.

Wrap-up Part I: the negative, pettifogging bits:

* It was too damn hot; do not go to Uzbekistan in July and August – temperatures got as high as 44C/111F. The primary reason there weren’t so many tourists? The heat. This time of year, apparently, has the fewest tourists and I soon saw why.
* The food, surprisingly, was downright lousy and the beer execrable. In Uzbekistan, brewing beer is definitely a science and not an art. Uzbek plov is supposedly legendary, but I gave up after 3 attempts. Not only that, but no matter where I ate, whether touristy or well off the beaten path, I had constant gut rot. It was so bad and unpleasant, in fact, that even now, some 2 weeks after my trip, I’m still suffering from a dodgy tummy.
* Although some of the people were pleasant - mainly teenagers, who were exceptionally friendly and chirpy – most were charlatans and crooks out for my money. What little Russian I know saved me a bundle of money, but people almost always tried to take advantage of me wherever I went. I have numerous examples but will withhold them in an attempt to suppress the more negative memories.
* Transport: cramped, shared taxis and flying saunas are not fun. (in this case, I am perfectly happy to ignore one of my guiding maxims in life: ‘Travel for the movement only, not the conclusion; that way you will be a part of the journey and not a victim of it’ - Owen Sheers. Some of the movements on this journey almost killed me.)

How’s this for a backhanded compliment?

I’ll take a compliment any way I can get it, so this will suffice. In most hotels I stayed, upon producing my American passport and trying my best to make the necessary arrangements in Russian, I was often met with perplexed stares and, in English, ‘you speak so good Russian for an American!’ This is not an indication of my language ability, more the lack thereof of the Americans they’ve encountered. Of this I’m certain. But often in my travels, I find Americans getting short strift. I didn’t meet too many travellers, but the few I met were French and British. None of them spoke a word of Russian.

And now for the final word

Did I have a good time? I did indeed. I’d been dying to visit Uzbekistan for as long as I can remember, so I’m definitely glad to have gone. But it was a tough trip too, and certainly far from relaxing. In the words of Laurens Van Der Post in his Journey Into Russia, I find one of his sentiments that resonates loud and clear in my own head:

One of my greatest defects as a traveller is that I am not sufficiently moved by ruins and ancient monuments. I find the buildings of the past seen out of context with the age and civilization which produced them strangely unreal, as if they do not conform but even tend to contradict the things which gave them being and life in imagination.

Any damning comments about the glories of Uzbekistan are no fault of the country or its people: it’s all down to me. A few years ago, when visiting the Alhambra in Granada, I was utterly uninspired and found it strangely unmoving. That was a site that I had long been eager to see. And suddenly, fast forward a few years later, and I was strangely unmoved by much of Uzbek’s faded former ruins and relics. Seen out of context, I couldn’t get a feel at all for what these places were really like centuries ago. I wanted to live and breathe the past, I wanted the architecture to hit me, I wanted the old images of bustling, frenetic marketplaces to take over my imagination. But nothing. I felt empty about it all, like I was going through the motions, ticking off boxes, barely understanding what I was taking photos of at times.

Let me offer up a whopping contradiction and say this: I feel that to truly appreciate a place like Uzbekistan, more than many other destinations in the world, one really has to know a fair bit about its history. Saying that, I realise that it may sound like I’m grasping at straws to describe a place that doesn’t have much going for it. Far from it: even without a knowledge of the past, Uzbekistan is a marvelous, exceptional, stunning place. It can well and truly be appreciated without any knowledge of its history. My problem is that I felt like I knew so much about its past, built up some massive expectations and was then inevitably disappointed because I failed to fully comprehend and appreciate what I was seeing.

Perhaps in my senescent state I’ve become bitter and cynical about the things I see. Perhaps I’ve forgotten how to appreciate the past. Or perhaps I expect too much out of the past. I really don’t know. But by all means, I highly recommend Uzbekistan. Just don’t get into a taxi with a maniacal, sex-crazed 22 year-old on heat; unless of course you’re into that sort of thing.

The Kazakh steppe: 14 hours of excitement

Emma and I in Almaty: insert your own caption

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.