The Great Pumpkin Onslaught

Last weekend the town of Keene was apoplectic with hysteria: it was the 19th annual Pumpkin Fest, the annual highlight for this bustling metropolis of just over 20,000 souls. The locals had been talking about this event for weeks, getting themselves in a frenzy for the invasion of thousands upon thousands of pumpkins. Their goal is the same every year: to better the previous record – apparently a Guinness one - of pumpkins that pass through the town gates. And what a success it was! Some 29,068 pumpkins passed through Keene, many of them being smashed and shattered in the Saturday night revelry that followed the day’s events. Before the destruction occurred, Main Street was taken over by food and drink booths, kids in a costume parade, live entertainment and the crowning of Miss Pumpkin 2009. I’d love to say I witnessed all of this, but alas, I couldn’t. After one hour in the morning, and before the crowds had fully descended, I’d had enough and escaped the hustle and bustle for quieter confines. I honestly failed to see what the fuss was about. If this is all the locals have to get excited about…God help them.

Maybe some of the testimonials from the locals will convince you otherwise:

“I just think this exemplifies the New England spirit.”

“It’s a great event. It’s just the hometown spirit. I guess that’s a dying thing these days.”

“I’ve always loved it. I fell in love with the area when we visited for the festival.”

I’m not convinced. But then I’m a cynical old curmudgeon anyway.

Look at those whoppers

Keene before the carnage


It’s not exactly the United Nations here

I saw a black man on campus today. Not such a big deal if you live in, say, an area that is more than 99.5% white. But for Keene? A rarity.

I’ve recently been trying to put my finger on what bothers me about the university and the town. There are oh-so-many things (most of them are merely minor foibles that nevertheless perturb me), but I nailed it recently: the complete lack of ethnic diversity. This is something I’d always taken for granted in the past (western Ukraine was more cosmopolitan than this!), but I’ve honestly never felt such discomfort in a place as I have here. Being surrounded by white guys wearing backwards hats and girls in their pajamas and ugg boots is downright terrifying and unpleasant. I’ve clearly become even more of a grumpy old man than ever before, but I feel trapped inside a bubble. The worst part is, I’m willing to bet no one else cares, let alone thinks about this. I’m sorely tempted to ask students for their opinions, but am scared lest they think I’m some sort of bigot.

Keene in a nutshell

Some of my loyal readers asked for descriptions of Bishkek while I was there and I’m afraid I let you all down. I was lazy and let the photos (both here and on Facebook) speak for themselves. I can hardly describe Keene (let the Pumpkin Fest speak for it), but I now feel vindicated by having recently read Milan Kundera’s The Curtain:

‘Description: compassion for the ephemeral; salvaging the perishable.’

I find this so utterly apt. I’m not planning on being here any longer than I have to be. And I won’t be shedding too many tears when it comes time to say goodbye.

Maybe that’s why I felt so letdown by Pumpkin Fest (I say this tongue firmly planted in cheek). I have so little excitement here, and the everyday fails to excite me:

‘The everyday. It is not merely ennui, pointlessness, repetition, triviality (yes it is); it is beauty as well (where?); for instance, the magical charm of atmospheres (rotten pumpkins?), a thing everyone has felt in his own life: a strain of music heard faintly from the next apartment (all I can hear is thumping classic rock); the wind rattling the windowpane (mine doesn’t move); the monotonous voice of a professor that a lovesick schoolgirl hears without registering (I’m giving a lecture soon, I’ll try and keep it monotonous); these trivial circumstances stamp some personal event with an inimitable singularity that dates it and makes it unforgettable.’

I’m probably just in the wrong place to appreciate such aesthetic beauty.

Oddities and creepiness

1. Every day for the past month or so at 4.20pm there’s been an informal ‘pot protest’. A hundred or so of the town’s hippies and out-of-sorts gather in central square to light up while the police mill about looking disinterested. I’m not sure what the purpose of this ‘protest’ is. We’re so close to Vermont that in effect, smoking dope is more or less de-criminalised here. This occasionally makes the front page of the Keene Sentinel. I wish I were making this up.

2. The other day I noticed a group of 20 or so black-clad people standing rigidly and kneeling in what appeared to be a séance or ritual prayer. Upon first glance, they looked like Satan-worshippers or at least some sort of messianic cult. There were low murmurs and humming. I turned to see what they were facing and it was a Planned Parenthood clinic. In their hands were anti-abortion leaflets and a few held placards. I’m not passing judgement on them or anything, but they certainly didn’t look as though they came from any mainstream religion.

Yesterday I walked past Planned Parenthood, where a solitary woman was standing with leaflets. There was no one else in the vicinity, and I thought I’d try a little experiment (I’m that desperate for excitement that I had to resort to this). I walked up to the clinic, feigning interest and staring inquisitively at the entrance, a few feet from this woman. She approached me, handed me a flyer and said, “Abortion kills. Don’t go in there.”

I wish, I wish, I damn well wish I could have thought of some sort of riposte to that. But the best I could come up with was, ‘Don’t worry, I was just looking.’ I want to insert some sort of joke here but hardly know where to start.

What happened to that lovely New England autumn?

It has got quite cold here in a hurry. It’s only October but temperatures have recently been in the OC/32F range with occasional snow flurries. The bedroom in my flat doesn’t get heat and so it’s thus frosty in here already. This reminds me of my epic flat in Lviv, where the winter temperatures in January and February 2006 reached a bitingly cold -38C. I had no heat in the kitchen. One day I poured myself a glass of orange juice and set it on the counter. I then left it to perform my various morning ablutions before returning 20 minutes later. The top centimetre or so had frozen – not solid, mind, but it was icy enough. From that point on, I kept the fridge open to heat the kitchen. I may have to get a small fridge for my room here.

The natives are restless. And paranoid.

There seems to be a general paranoia sweeping the student body. Since early September, people have been panicking about swine flu and if you dare sneeze in public, everyone in the vicinity dives for cover. There are hand sanitizer dispensers every 50 feet and there is often a queue to use them. People avoid touching doors, instead preferring to nudge them open with their shoulders or elbows. The librarians wear rubber gloves (or as my father calls them, asshole gloves) and surgical masks. Okay, I made that last part up, but you get the idea.

But the paranoia goes well beyond mere swine flu. Everyone seems so on edge.

Today in the university library – a wretched place where the cacophony of students nattering to one another, chattering on their mobiles, farting and belching makes studying nearly impossible – serves as a particularly good example. I noticed a girl next to me was reading Cod by Mark Kurlansky, a book I read a few years ago. I was curious as to what she thought.

“Sorry to bother you, but what do you make of that book?”
“Um, I have a boyfriend.” (said valley-girl style, with rising intonation)

And for once in my life, I did actually have a snappy response to hit her back with! I was so proud of myself.

“Congratulations. I take it you don’t like it then.”

It’s not much, but it was the best I could do.

Not long after, a little ways away were two massively-built meatheads being quite disruptive and having a conversation that revolved around how much they could bench press (in the 335-350 pound range), how much protein and carbohydrates were in their energy drinks, how high their pain threshold was for injecting steroids into their backsides and the size of their…pecs. Anyway, just above their heads was a clock. I glanced over from time to time. Sure, they were annoying me, but like I was about to say anything. Finally,

“Hey man, you got a problem?”
“Uh, no. Just checking the time.”
[beefcake #1 looks over his shoulder]
“Oh, all alright then.”

Time for a rethink?

I had my first school observation yesterday. This term I have to spend a few hours a week observing in a high school before I start student teaching in January. It was quite an eye-opening, revelatory experience. One of the classes was a bit of a nightmare, with disruptive students talking back to the teacher, kids throwing things, teasing one another, not listening, sleeping on their desks, being disrespectful...general disobedience and insolence really. Just as I was thinking ‘what have I got myself into?’ one girl, the only seemingly serious student in the class, turned to me and said, ‘If you wanna teach high school, this is what you get. Are you sure you wanna do this?’

Uh, no.

Local Pillars of the Intellectual Community

I recently had an interesting conversation with my good friends Asif, Jeff and Yuhan regarding this very blog. They all seem to enjoy it and have much useful, constructive criticism to offer. One of the more perceptive comments – from Asif – regards my ‘orientalist’ tendencies and what he calls my ‘tolerant disdain’ for whatever subjects I happen to be banging on about. He was specifically referring to the way I talked about the Kyrgyz. I like this expression, tolerant disdain, and I do stand guilty as charged. As for me being orientalist…I can’t deny that, but it’s definitely more subconscious. I’m not going to say that I hope I haven’t offended anyone because I don’t care if I have. Damn, I’m ruthless.

But in the interests of fairness, I’m going to take this tolerant disdain that Asif thinks so highly of, and apply it in my discussions about life at this ‘university’ of mine. I’m going crazy here, having a terribly difficult time adjusting to college life once again. The problem is, at 33 I feel like quite an old man when surrounded by 18-21 year old whippersnappers. There’s no proper postgraduate programme here, so I definitely feel like an outsider. And although I’ve yet to learn a great deal in the classroom itself, I take heart from the old Oscar Wilde adage, which has always been one of my guiding principles in life: ‘It is well worth to remember from time to time that nothing worth knowing can ever be taught’. With that in mind, I’ve learned loads from my fellow classmates. All of the following I’ve overheard in passing these past couple of weeks:

That eating meat means no periods: ‘You know, I was a vegetarian for 4 years and then as soon as I started eating meat again, I didn’t get my period for a while.’

That college men are not nice: ‘I know he only got me drunk so he could sleep with me…’

That there is something seriously lacking in the New Hampshire education system. In class the other day:
Professor: ‘Who can tell me something about the Holocaust?’
Class: silence
Professor: ‘Does anyone know how many died in the Holocaust?’
Voices in class: ‘One million?’ ’50 million?’ ‘100,000?’
Professor: ‘Does anyone know the names of any of the concentration camps?’
Class: silence

And this college has a Centre for Holocaust Studies.

[I can’t even insert a witty comment here, this is just disturbing and tragic.]

That there is something seriously lacking in the New Hampshire education system, part II: In class the other day, playing a game in teams, where each member of the team had to go up to the chalkboard where there was a blank map of the 50 states. One at a time, relay-style, each team member had to fill in the name of a state. There were 3 teams. After each team had about 15 states filled in, people were stumped. They got the northeast, Texas, California, Florida and that’s about it. There was me, the nerd, filling out the rest. Before the time ran out, our team (or, I) had 34 of the states, the other 2 teams didn’t get above 20. (and yes, I would have been able to fill in all 50 if I’d had another minute. What can I say, I spend my free time looking at maps for fun.)

By the way, I’m doing a teaching certification course in secondary school social studies. That’s right readers: these are the future geography teachers of America! The motto of this tale? Don’t send your kids to school in New Hampshire.

That Sarah Palin’s daughter apparently attends Keene State. The other day in the student centre, where there are flags from various countries hanging from the ceiling, me being the geography nerd that I am, and also wanting to see what kind of reaction I would get, I asked two girls if they recognised a particular flag. I genuinely didn’t know which country it belonged to.
Me: ‘Hi girls, I know this is going to sound weird, but I was wondering whether you know which flag that is’, pointing to the flag.
Girl: ‘Geez, I don’t know, Africa?’

Let’s see if you know, because I had to look it up. Here’s the flag: https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/the-world-factbook/flags/flagtemplate_wa.html

That clever, witty and somewhat subtle comments go unappreciated in the classroom. Or maybe I’m just not that funny.
Example number one: when discussing the use of rules in the classroom, it was decided that telling a student not to do something only leads them to doing it. For example, if you say to the students ‘No chewing gum’, then they’re more likely to chew gum. If you say, ‘don’t soil your trousers’, then they’ll more than likely soil their trousers. This is logical and makes sense. I then chimed in with, ‘sounds just like abstinence-only education in some parts of the US’. There were one or two chuckles in the classroom.
Professor: ‘I’m sorry, can you repeat that?’ I did. Professor: ‘I don’t see what relevance that has to this discussion’.

Example two:
Professor: ‘So, you must learn to use plenty of additional resources besides the textbook. The textbook should not solely be used to cover the material. Leave the covering of the material to cats.’
I burst out into riproaring laughter. The rest of the class was silent.

That only idiots like me are interested in public transportation in small towns like Keene: at the bus ticket office the other day, upon finding out that there’s no way out of this God-forsaken hellhole, the ticket agent said, ‘Dude, this is America! You gotta get yourself a car.’ Thanks lady.

That there are some main streets yet to be invaded by Starbucks. And that not everywhere in America features over-the-top, fake customer service. The other day at the Brewbaker Café, I was interested in a scone or a bagel. It was 3.30pm:
Me: ‘Have you got anymore scones or bagels?’
Girl: ‘Uh, this isn’t lunchtime, lunchtime was 3 hours ago, we’re not serving food anymore’. (there were decrepit, stale-looking muffins behind the counter)
Me: ‘Oh, sorry, I just haven’t eaten in a while. I’ll just have a coffee then’.
Girl: ‘This isn’t Starbucks you know’.
Me: ‘What, so I can’t have a coffee either?
Girl: ‘You can, you just can’t have any food’.
Me: ‘Fine, a small coffee then’. Which was lousy and lukewarm. I’m now boycotting this place. Surly bitch. I didn’t realise that Starbucks had a monopoly on selling food outside of regular mealtimes.

That there’s a massive campaign on to get people to travel outside of America. At the post office, there are signs everywhere advertising passports: ‘Apply for your passports here’ and ‘Get your US passport here’ and ‘Go somewhere with great public transportation and crap customer service, get your passport here’ and so on and so forth. There were two tellers. Three times each teller asked each customer whether they wanted to apply for a passport. I walked up to post a letter.
Teller: ‘Good morning, how are you today? Would you like a passport application?’
Me: ‘No thanks, I just want to post this letter.’
Teller: ‘Okay no problem’ (why should it be a problem?)
Me: humming nothing in particular
Teller: ‘you know you can hum all you want if you go to Europe. Would you like to apply for a passport?’
Me: ‘no, it’s okay, I’ve already got one’.
Teller: ‘oh, okay. Would you like to apply for another?’
Me: ‘No thanks, one is enough.’
Teller: ‘Okay. Can I get you anything else today? How about a passport application?’
Me: ‘No, it’s alright, thanks very much.’ I walk off.
Teller, shouting after me: ‘Wait, where are you going, don’t you want a passport application?’

That life in college is crime-ridden and dangerous. The weekly student newspaper posts a Campus Safety Report Log each week, rounding up the week’s most violent, heinous crimes. These are week one’s highlights:

31 August
11.41am: Keene Police Department requested for a Campus Safety Officer to meet him over on Ralston Street at the Hot Dog stand.
2 September
5.41am: Campus Safety received a call from a male student who wanted to report that someone urinated in his room.
3 September
10.54pm: caught subject urinating on lawn.
5 September
8.17pm: Girls called reporting a skunk in the parking lot. They were scared of getting sprayed.
6 September
12.33am: Student receiving harassing phone calls.
1.50am: Intoxicated subject in front of Randall Hall.
4.11am: Suspicious people hanging out around Randall Hall.
6.14am: Bitter, cynical postgraduate student more used to life in third world hellholes complaining outside student centre that he can't find anywhere to buy a kebab.

That was only the first week. The second featured such nuggets as ‘odor investigation’, ‘skateboarders making lots of noise outside the library’, ‘student is sick in the men’s bathroom’ and ‘female asked for someone to bring over a mouse trap to remove a mouse from the apartment’.

Does life get any more exciting than this?

That I am missing a lot by not going to fraternity parties: the following is a conversation I recently overheard between two girls in at the student centre. To my very best ability, I’ve tried to recreate it as accurately as possible (I’ve kept the actual names):
A: I was so drunk the other night, I can barely remember what happened.
B: Well, Luke and Anna were making out, they were totally drunk and then you started making out with Anna…
A: Oh yeah, that was like, totally weird. I was so drunk.
B: Yeah, so Luke and Anna were totally going at it and you just went over and started making out with Anna. Luke totally didn’t know what to do.
A: I was so drunk. I don’t think I even drank that much. I can’t believe I made out with Anna.
B: Girl, you were hilarious.
A: It was so much fun. We totally have to do that again.

Maybe I ought to start experiencing a bit more of college life outside the classroom.

Where the hell do I go from here?

Or, what have I got myself into?

After 7+ years of living abroad, I’m back in America. Small-town America. More specifically Keene, New Hampshire, a small college town of just over 20,000 people near Vermont. I’m already starting to regret this.

I won’t get into any clichés about culture shock, reverse culture shock or what-have-you, but there hasn’t definitely been some serious cultural ‘readjustment’ going on in my head and body.

The more immediate concern is, where do I take this blog from here? I’m flattered that people have enjoyed stories of my shenanigans in Central Asia, interspersed with anecdotes from similarly exotic locales, but surely I’m going to have a tough time bigging up Keene, New Hampshire, aren’t I? At the very least, this will definitely test all my creative powers. You see, I’m the type of person who identifies with ‘all things morbid and evil. I love the splendour of decay, the foul beauty of corruption’.* I don’t think I’m going to find much of that here.

Time for yet another arcane literary reference to justify my existence

In The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, Milan Kundera speaks of graphomania: a mania for writing, or to have a public of unknown readers; isolation breeds it. It becomes an epidemic where there exists:

* an elevated level of general well-being, where people can devote time to useless activities
* a high degree of social atomization or general isolation
* the absence of dramatic social changes in the nation’s internal life (for example, there are many more novels written in the UK and France than in Israel), though in this case I’ll substitute ‘person’ for ‘nation’

I think all three of these situations apply to me. What does that mean? Probably that there are no excuses for not writing a lot. I’ll have to really dig deep for material, however, so any and all suggestions are welcome. Please send along any interesting ideas or angles I could pursue.

First off, why am I here?

In a nutshell, in order to get my teaching certification in secondary social studies. The aim is to get this over and done with as painlessly as possible. My course ends on 9 May 2010 and I plan on having a one-way ticket to somewhere far from here departing on 10 May.

Okay, so I’m being a tad melodramatic. It’s not all that bad. Yet.

Cultural adjustment 101 – the things I’d forgotten about

After years of living in various 3rd world hellholes, there is much about America that takes some getting used to:

* the general orderliness and omnipresent rules and laws. Case in point: having to wait for the blasted green man to cross the road. My first day in Keene, whilst flat-hunting, I was ticked off by a policeman for jaywalking. Later, a car honked at me from some 200 metres away for not waiting to cross.
* at sporting events, the artificial noise and music pumped into the stadium to juice people up.
[in a somewhat related note, I’ve often wondered why in America the national anthem is played before domestic sporting events. This has long been a fascination of mine. I thought America was the only country where this happened, but I found it to be the same in Israel, just before a Beitar Jerusalem-Maccabi Haifa match. I can understand it being played in Israel, which faces a justifiable existential threat. But why here?** I should also add that Emma has alerted me to the fact that the national anthem is also played before [ice] hockey games in Russia, which ruins the thesis I’d been working on.]
* the lack of public transport outside of major cities. I’m completely isolated without a car in Keene, and I generally abhor driving.
* the language barrier. Seriously. Most of the time I find it harder to communicate here than places abroad. I’m not sure I can properly explain this, but it somewhat relates to my next point:
* the overly hospitable to the point of excessively annoying and obnoxious and overwhelmingly perfunctory customer service in restaurants. It starts with the greeting, which never fails to rile me up: ‘Hey, how you guys doing, my name is Ashley and I’ll be taking care of you this evening. What can I get you to drink?’ Why do they always say that they’ll ‘be taking care of us’? What are they, babysitters? It’s enough to make me miss the surly, insolent customer service characteristic in the former Soviet Union.
*the fact that you can’t buy individual pens and nor can you test the pens before buying them as you can just about everywhere else. My father points out that by this stage in my life I should know which pens I like, but I can never remember and I inevitably end up buying the wrong pens. This happened to me recently when I was shopping for stationary.

As for my classes…

So far, uh…it’s early days yet, I’ll give it time. The first week is never a good indication of how things stand. At least I hope that’s the case. But I’m not terribly encouraged by the early signs.

My first class, which deals with exploring teaching as a career and is intended for freshman (for non-Americans, that’s first-years) who aren’t sure whether they want to pursue teaching as a career, really led me to question what I was doing here. Why I have to take this is beyond me, but I have no choice. There are 24 students in the class: me, another boy, and 22 18-year old girls, all with nose studs, and all named either Katie or Rebecca. I quite like both names, so I hope this doesn’t taint my associations forever. For most men, this wouldn’t be a problem. For me, it was downright terrifying. Especially as I constantly got picked on by the professor as the old, wizened man of the classroom.

After the professor introduced himself by playing an agonizingly cringeworthy guessing game of ‘How old am I? How long have I been teaching? What do I teach? How often do my wife and I have sex?’ that lasted 15 minutes, the two teaching assistants, who are second-year students, introduced themselves as follows:
‘Hi, I’m Steph, I’m a sophomore, I’m on the dance team, yay!, I study blah-blah-blah…’
‘Hi, I’m Katie, I’m a sophomore, I’m a cheerleader, yay!, go Keene! I study blah-blah-blah, my boyfriend and I blah-blah-blah every night…’

We then engaged in inane group activities which reminded me way too much of teaching English activities with teenagers. I even got to work with the same type of irascible, churlish girls that have proven to be my bête noire in the past.

God help me.

[I thank my good pal Asif for recently sharing his fortune cookie with me. We decided that it will be my motto to guide me through these dark times at Keene State: ‘When you have no choice, mobilise the spirit of courage.”]

Bizarre flashbacks and unwelcome déjà vu that remind me of my age

It’s been a long time since I was an undergraduate, and I’d forgotten all sorts of other niggly little things. But I’m also not certain what’s new and what’s different. Hell, when I started university back in 1994, we barely had the internet on campus! We certainly didn’t have mobile phones if memory serves correctly (fellow Tuftonians, am I right here? Did anyone have a mobile? Can you verify this?)

Other observations from my first days:

* I must be the only person on campus not wearing jeans or shorts.
* I’m one of only a handful of males that doesn’t wear a backwards baseball cap.
* the usual, annoying endlessly dull conversations that consist of question: ‘Oh my God, you went to --------- high school? Did you know so-and-so?’ and answer: ‘oh my God, he’s like my boyfriend’s little brother!’
* Poster sales! With the same selection as 15 years ago, including all American college students’ favourites: Dave Matthews, Reservoir Dogs and Che Guevara. Doesn’t this shit ever change?
* Girls wearing pajamas to class. This will never change.

But fret not friends, there is hope

Most of my readers know my fondness and at times downright obsession with t-shirt slogans. I didn’t expect to see too many funny ones here, assuming that people would be a bit more conscious of the message they’re trying to get across. But I spotted a classic one the other day on the back of a girl’s shirt:

‘The front view is even better’

Maybe this place won’t be so bad after all.


* Sylvester Viereck
** Michael Billig, in Banal Nationalism, touches upon this theme

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.

From Taskent to Karakalpakstan in an Uzbek Airways Tupolev. Got that?

Disclaimer: I'll be the first to admit that I can be a pedant when it comes to the English language. But allow me to share another bugbear of mine: the incorrect or excessive usage of 'literally'. To me, literally is a special word to be used only for special occasions. One cannot say 'I was so tired that I literally fell asleep' or that 'my feet were so hot they were literally on fire'. Those are just two examples of unacceptable uses of literally and unfortunately too many of them are prevalent in English.

Glad I've got that out of the way.

Soviet-engineered flying saunas - literally - at their finest

After a couple of days in Tashkent - an intriguing city which I'll write about at the end of the trip - I took an old, 1950s-engineered Soviet Tupolev plane west across the country to Nukus, the capital of the Republic of Karakalpakstan. Much of the area has been devastated because of the destruction of the Aral Sea, and it's a desolate, barren part of the country, with not much on offer other than a remarkable art museum. It was to be start of my eastward journey back across Uzbekistan.

The population of the republic, which must surely be one of the least-densely populated parts of the planet, is around 1.2 million, 400,000 of whom are Karakalpaks. To my amazement, I found that very few people in Nukus spoke Russian, and those that did could barely understand me. My Uzbek and Karakalpak (not too similar to each other and very different from Russian) are not quite up to scratch, which proved a constant challenge.

It's a small miracle I even made it to Nukus alive. I don't know much longer Uzbek Airways can get away with using such old, decrepit contraptions and still call them aeroplanes, but the one I took surely must be heading for the scrap heap soon. The thing was, literally, a sauna and I've never heard such a racket in my life, parts of the plane sounded like they were falling off midair. And I'd never been inside such a hot, humid vehicle either. With the fans not working, it was an utter, 90-minute nightmare. If you want a nice, swelteringly humid Turkish sauna, I can recommend taking a domestic Uzbek Airways flight. A real treat indeed.

The hotel was even better: a mosquito-infested cauldron of stale-smelling grimy sheets, musty air and a barely-functioning putrid toilet. You know, I've read a lot of books about travel across the former Soviet Union and stories like these from hotels always sound so adventurous and romantic when you read about them in print. They're not so fun in person. Of course, many of these books were written in the 1970s and 80s.

Suffice to say, it was one of the most unpleasant nights of my life. I spent the entire night swatting away the interminable mosquitoes which were coming at me like kamikaze pilots. If the blood-splattered wall and the remnants of my Economist are anything to go by, I must have killed at least 30 of the bastards, with many more escaping to prey on the next poor victim of that room.

The highlight of the city, and the primary reason for most people going to Nukus, is the [Igor] Savitsky Art Museum. Not to go into too much detail here, but Savitsky was the former curator of the museum, which is notable for its outstanding, eclectic collection of Soviet-era realist and avant-garde art. Most of these paintings were banned in the Soviet Union but found a safe haven in the backwaters of Uzbekistan, far from any prying, too-inquisitive eyes. Not many visitors make it out to Karakalpakstan, but those who do so are rewarded with what must surely be one of the more fascinating collections of art you're ever likely to encounter.

Never mind mail-order brides: come to Uzbekistan!

I swear, every man I've met here has asked me the following questions, in this order:
1. Where are you from?
2. Have you got children?
3. Have you got a wife?
4. Why not?

I love how question 2 is always asked before question 3. Anyway, after answering no to both questions, I'm immediately offered or told about a beautiful young woman who needs a husband. This has to be the easiest place in the world to find a wife. Witness:

As I was waiting for my transport from Nukus at the bus station, a decaying old structure about 6km outside of town in the middle of nowhere, I started a bit of banter with the market vendors, all lovely young ladies. One in particular, a strikingly pretty teenager, was being rather flirtatious. When her mother appeared, I made the crucial mistake of telling her that I thought her daughter was beautiful. This sent spasms of euphoria through the marketplace, and within minutes they were already in the advanced stages of wedding preparations. The daughter seemed awfully excited as well, which I found flattering. I had to quickly put a stop to all the hubbub, and calmly told them I couldn't marry this girl.

Why not, she aggressively inquired? Because I'm already taken, I responded. But is she as beautiful as my daughter? (I think that's what she said, she was speaking half Uzbek, half Russian) Now how does one answer a question like that without getting brutally assaulted afterwards? I stammered something or other and then conveniently enough, it was time for my taxi to leave. After getting an amusing group photo, I said my goodbyes despite one last plea from the mother to marry her daughter.

[Speaking of photos, I failed to bring my camera cord with me, so all photos will have to wait until after my trip.]

And now a brief word about the mud-enclosed wonders of Khiva

I've now reached what I'd consider to be the first stop on the old Silk Road, just one of a host of cities in Central Asia that have always held immense romantic allure for me. I'm quite a sucker for Great Game history (see Peter Hopkirk's 'The Great Game' for an absolutely riveting tale), and have long wanted to visit this part of the world, an area dripping with history and culture. In Great Game lore, Khiva was known for its slave caravans and barbaric cruelty, as it housed a great many Russian slaves captured by Turkmen tribesmen in the 16th, 17th, 18th and 19th centuries. Repeated attempts to free the slaves were unsuccessful until the late 1800s.

Most of historic Khiva is well-preserved as a veritable open-air museum, replete with medressas, minarets, caravanserais and various other structures within the cosy confines of ancient mud walls. It feels slightly artificial and a bit lifeless at times, and it's hard to imagine that at one point it was a bustling town, teeming with life and activity and market vendors. Now there are only a few souvenir stalls and the odd tourist here and there. It's not high tourist season at the moment, it's way too hot for that, and much of my trip thus far has been largely devoid of contact with other travellers. Tashkent was quite eerie in that respect and everywhere else has been quiet as well. Not that I'm complaining much about that aspect, though the heat has been downright unbearable and I am suffering a wee bit.

From here it's onto Bukhara.

Getting Kazakhed at the Kazakh border

Some time ago, I was having a conversation with a few people regarding the term 'to be Shanghaied'. We were discussing its origins and then moved onto other examples of where we use city or country names as a verb. And amazingly, we couldn't think of any. Why don't more of these terms exist? Surely a language as rich, inventive and creative as English would have churned out a term or two along these lines, no? Anyway, from this point on, I'm starting up 'to be Kazakhed'. Listen up and spread the word.

Yesterday I was travelling from Shymkent to Tashkent, two cities a mere 120km apart. Without properly doing my research (mistake #1), I assumed what Lonely Planet had written regarding getting across the border was true, and I followed their instructions to the hilt. Bad idea.

I consider myself a savvy traveller but I was rather impatient yesterday and couldn't be bothered haggling too much. I've also realised my Russian is absolutely pitiful, which makes negotiating doubly difficult. I paid the equivalent of $7 to take a 110km ride to the border post of Chernyaevka, from where I expected to be able to cross by foot before taking a short 10km or so taxi to Tashkent, which supposedly would cost me $5. That's what Lonely Planet says anyway (my friend Sian calls it Lying Planet, I think she's right).

I got to Chernyaevka only to be told that most nationalities, including Americans and British, could not cross there but had to go to Yallama, another 100+km away. I think my taxi driver knew this. Suddenly there I was, stuck at some remote border post, with little option but to continue with this clown. His asking price? A cool $50. I flat out refused and looked round for other taxis. Realising they were on to a good scam, none of them budged below $50. I was stuck behind the proverbial rock and a hard place and reluctantly had to give in.

Confusing matters, this crook of a taxi man handed me off halfway to another taxi man. I couldn't understand what the hell was going on, and I made sure, or so I thought, that before agreeing to this that I wouldn't have to pay another dollar or tenge (the Kazakh currency) for the privilege. They were both in agreement and seemed to understand me.

My new taxi driver seemed like a nice chap. We even stopped en route for some lunch, a bit of plov (which was unbelievably good) and shashlyk in the middle of nowhere, his 'treat'. There was some good banter between us even though he spoke no English.

Then as we were nearing the border crossing, he pulled the car over and demanded 4,500 tenge ($30). An argument ensued and I refused to back down. So we just sat there and stewed while he berated me for my supposed insolence. He went down to $20. I refused. I repeatedly told him that I'd already paid and agreed on a sum, and that I had already got ripped off enough as it was. He suddenly understood nothing of what I had to say. After about 15 minutes of our stand off, and sensing that we weren't going to get anywhere, I literally threw $10 at him and called him a bad name. He actually smiled and wished me a good journey. I reckon he thought that was better than nothing, the indolent git.

It was a blisteringly hot day and I was sweating profusely by this point. I still had to get across the border, which only took about 4 hours or so. I'm not sure why there was such a lengthy delay, for there were only about 15 people crossing over to the Uzbek side. When the first [Kazakh] border guard examined my passport - I'm using my American one - he asked me what state I was from. He seemed perplexed when I kept responding with New Hampshire. He shook his head over and over, saying 'no, no, what state, what state, for example Alabama, Missisissippi, Florida...' (he must have had a deep affinity for the deep south). I persisted with New Hampshire, but he was becoming increasingly agitated and exasperated, so I then said New York and this seemed okay with him. He clearly needs to brush up on his New England geography.

Originally when I'd negotiated that $50 fare, I was told I could be taken all the way to Tashkent. Not so of course. There's no way those taxi men would go through the hassle of a 4 hour border crossing, and I feel a bit foolish for not considering that ahead of time.

Once I'd got across the border (after a brief health check-up to see whether I had swine flu, or pig influenza as they called it), I was met by utter isolation. Hardly a soul in sight except for two taxis who wanted another $50 to take me to Tashkent, which was another 100+km away. An original 120km trip had now turned into around 350km and was proving way more expensive than originally anticipated. I was ruthless in my bargaining and got one guy down to $25, a small consolation.

I eventually made it to Tashkent and eventually found a place to stay thanks to a number given to me by Italian Brian, though the place is nothing as he advertised. I'm in a sweltering, tiny room with more mosquitoes than a Nigerian rainforest, living next door to a couple of 12 year olds and sharing a bathroom with them as well. One of them came knocking on my door last night at 10.30 asking for my passport. Just a little bit suspicious I'd say.

Lessons to be learned?

1. Do your research ahead of time, especially when crossing borders in Central Asia
2. Never assume anything
3. Don't take shit from taxi men; stand firm and hold your ground
4. Be patient (my downfall)

Whatever the consequences, I've learned my lesson. Let this whole experience be called 'getting Kazakhed'. You can invent your own definition, but here are 3 good choices. Choose the one that fits best:

to be Kazakhed (v)
1. to be ripped off in Kazakhstan
2. to be lied to in Kazakhstan
3. to be fleeced and misled by taxi drivers at a remote border crossing in some former Soviet hell-hole with already convoluted and mind-boggling borders stemming from a time when a country's leader (i.e. Stalin) decided it would be fun to draw random borders traversing different ethnic groups and then creating a nightmare border situation for 21st century backpackers too stupid to check on updated border situations before setting off on a journey