Alone in Uzbekistan

To see photos of Uzbekistan, check out the gallery! 

 

The thought of leaving Australia for Uzbekistan tortured me. My final night was miserable.  

Why was I about to go to a double-landlocked dustball, whose history (a major draw for travelers) I knew embarrassingly-little about, in a region so proximate to Taliban-controlled Afghan mountains that I could bike to an explosion in hours?

Coupled with the fact that Australia is a paradise–world-class waves, wild beaches, and beautiful women–I had finally undone the ghastly physical damage that “roughing it” in China inflicted on my body. I started to look like a triathlete again, not a vaguely-emaciated lump of jaundiced dough.

On the verge of tears, I shuffled through the grocery store, greedily snatching jars of peanut butter and bags of muesli: these will delay the onset of decrepitude, right?

On the way to the airport, I phoned home: “Uprooting the familiar is good,” my Dad consoled. “I’m proud of you.”  The flight was a blur, and soon I was in China for my extended layover.

After a scary encounter with some bad people in Beijing, I fled to the airport a day early to hide. I thought maybe I’m headed to Uzbekistan for asylum now?

In hindsight, this raging battle to drag myself to Uzbekistan is a comical period of personal growth. Unsurprisingly, my fears never manifested.

I was stunned by overwhelming hospitality, mouthwatering Uzbek food (an Indian/Mediterranean/Asian blend), and the frequent surprises brought by exploring an ancient hermit kingdom with travelers from remarkably-different backgrounds.

The first clue that Uzbekistan would be fun was the collection of intrepid travelers it attracts. At the hostel, I met a young Belarusian girl, a Swiss cyclist riding home via the Silk Road from Malaysia, Afghan and Pakistani doctors who live in areas unseen by most Westerners, and one hilarious Russian man who, though he couldn’t speak much English, communicated perfectly using body language and vodka.

At dinner with the Swiss cyclist and Afghan doctor, we discussed geography, travel, and politics. After four pots of tea, way too much “shashlik” (veggies and meat roasted in a smoky clay oven), and a loaf of Uzbekistan’s famous homemade bread, the Swiss man paid our dinner.

“I’ve been treated more times than I can remember while in Uzbekistan,” he added. “I want to return the favor before I leave.”

This act of generosity set a tone, and from thereon out, almost every meal shared with friend or stranger brought a battle to cover the check. I have never experienced such generosity from people I’ve known for such a short period.

The next morning, while visiting a local mosque with the Swiss and Afghan, an Uzbek man spotted us as outsiders. He came up, politely introduced himself, and offered to show us around the grand mosque. For the next hour, he patiently showed us all parts of the site, doing his best to fight through the language barrier.

Before departing, the Uzbek had us kneel as he recited prayers aloud in Arabic. The Afghan man, who is Muslim and speaks eight languages including Arabic, was shocked. On our way out, the Afghan translated and explained how exceptionally kind those prayers were.

There was no bid for donation or religious conversion; the Uzbek man just wanted to welcome us into his place of worship, teach us about his practice, and wish us wonderful lives in the presence of his God.

Way too often in the West, “Islam” and “Muslim” are immediately followed with political rants or the latest updates on extremist groups. It’s easy to forget that Islam is the world’s most practiced religion: a peaceful one.

Later that afternoon, I was reminded of Uzbekistan’s bizarreness. While wandering through the Soviet-era metro system with the Belarusian girl, we were taking photos of the grand halls that, during the Cold War, doubled as nuclear bomb shelters.

People marveled at us like we marveled at the gorgeous metro stations. Until 2018, no photographs were allowed to be taken in the metro system, and passersby are still shocked at the novelty of foreigners photographing these once “classified” areas.

Even the countless military personnel on patrol (Uzbekistan is still a police state) were bewildered by our entertainment. Unlike at home, however, officials must not be photographed, or else you run the risk of having all digital photographs seized and destroyed.

While walking the metro halls with the Belarusian girl, whose natural beauty already attracted a lot of attention, every head turned our way. They smiled at her and raised an eyebrow at me…I think “surfer attire” made its debut in Uzbekistan, and locals weren’t stoked.  

Eventually, one tall, young Uzbek man with gentle eyes stopped and offered to show us around. Riding the wave of hospitality, we welcomed him to our entourage. He took us to the various stations, showed us around town, and eventually, we ended up eating the famous Uzbek “plov:” a mouthwatering dish of dates, nuts, and buttery rice. Ours included horse meat.

He would not let us pay for dinner. The average Uzbek earns $120 per month.

At home, people care more about driving luxury cars than tipping their server or spontaneously treating someone to a meal. Once again, Uzbek hospitality opened my eyes and made me reflect on my own habits.

Back at the hostel, a party was gathering to celebrate the Belarusian girl’s 26th birthday! The hostel owners spent all afternoon barbecuing, and various guests contributed dishes from their home nation.

All expenses were covered by the hostel. Their only request? Sing a song for the crowd from your country. I panicked and sang “Row Row Row Your Boat” to a baffled group of Russians and Japanese.

The next morning, I went running and bought a sleeper train ticket to visit Khiva: an ancient city on the other side of Uzbekistan. The train would leave at night, so I spent the day poking around bazaars and seeing the capital, Tashkent. At night, just before I needed to leave the hostel, the Afghan and Pakistani doctors invited me to observe the first night of Ramadan with them.

They fasted all day–not drinking or eating–and with night would bring a massive religious binge! They wanted to include me. For some reason, I knew observing Ramadan would be more meaningful than seeing one more ancient city.

That night had us out till 3am. I heard stories of their travels through Afghanistan, the Eastern perspective on Osama Bin Laden’s assassination, and the tribal belts of Pakistan. I was repeatedly invited to visit both! Over hookah that night–no alcohol of course–I promised to pay Pakistan and Afghanistan a visit. Next year, perhaps.

On our way home, Zalmai, the Afghan doctor, bought a bottle of Vodka to surprise Vladimir, the bald Russian man. Though Zalmai doesn’t drink for religious reasons, he wanted to make Vlad happy, and boy did his big bald head turn red as Vlad jumped and hugged Zalmai!

One stereotype that did hold true was the Russian affection for Vodka. Between Vlad and another Russian, the bottle was gone in the morning

The next morning, when buying a replacement train ticket, I found myself tied up in an outrageous bureaucratic explosion that was astronomically-intensified by my ineptitude in the Russian and Uzbek languages.

The Uzbek train ticket counter made the DMV look functional.

Short lines were misleading, and long lines meant death. I was rerouted through three lines, and one shut down five minutes early for lunch as we reached the front. Customers frequently pay with enormous bricks of 1,000 som bills for a 180,000 som ($12) ticket: the equivalent of paying in pennies, and every bill is counted.

Due to poverty and inflation, the Uzbeks are stuck with a crippled currency.

After some three-way translating and single handedly restraining a pod of elderly women in colourful babushkas from plowing in front of the line, I bought my ticket! Through bureaucracy and old women, I would not miss that train.

Before departing on this Soviet-era night train to ride across Uzbekistan, Vlad gave me a traditional “Russian Sendoff:” a quick prayer followed by shot of vodka and a hug. Vlad got a great kick out of this as I hadn’t been drinking the whole time till then.

The train was surprisingly comfortable, and stepping out of the doors felt like stepping out of a time machine: Bukhara is an ancient city with thousand year history.

I’d be lying if I said exploring the hallowed, ancient cities of Bukhara and Samarkand for the next week was the highlight of my time in Uzbekistan, but it was a completely different pace than Tashkent.

With Silk Road heritage, these breathtaking mosques, trading domes, fortresses, ancient bazaars, and desert oases felt unlike any other portion of my gap year: I was a time-traveler, food connoisseur, and historian at once.

During the daytime, the arid, scorching “dustfest” kept everyone shade-bound. Only at dawn could I be free to run, and as I quickly learned, this window of time is a rare opportunity of magical solitude. Running is always fun, but passing through the empty, millennia-old buildings that saw the likes of Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, and Amir Timur while the city rested was unbelievably fun.

It’s hard to give justice to seeing the sun rise over a desert oases whose buildings all look like something from a history book. I got a glimpse of our past.

After these long runs, I inhaled copious amounts of fabled, traditional recipes with spices from Mediterranean, Indian, and Asian influences. Between meals, a massive loaf of fresh Naan bread could be acquired on any street corner for fifty cents.

With this satisfying combination of running, eating, reading, and touring the ancient cities, the last week of Uzbekistan flew by.

When back in Tashkent, the capital, for my final night, I once again broke fast with Zalmai. It felt like reuniting with an old friend–we understood each other, but still found tons of new topics to entertain at meals. Unlike most “last meals” with traveling friends, this goodbye was easier: I know I will see him again. With his humble personality, doctor’s intelligence, and wit, he’s the perfect companion for visiting Pakistan and Afghanistan.

In case it didn’t come across already, this trip to Uzbekistan lit a special fire for me.

I’ve always been drawn to remote areas–places most people don’t go. I want to see endless horizons, surf empty waves on untouched coastlines, and sleep on the side of cliffs. I want to feel the bitter winds of Patagonia biting my face, watch the sun rise from the side of some distant mountain, and give my heart and soul to get there.

Surprisingly, Central Asia satisfies this craving for remoteness. A rich culture and hospitality are friendlier variances of the wetsuit and sleeping bag, but I’m able to ride trains, use currencies, and observe cultures that most English-speakers are entirely unaware of.

After Uzbekistan, I flew to Kyrgyzstan, where I’m writing this post. For the next month, I will chase the physically-isolated mountains of Kyrgyzstan.

In other words, for the “grand finalé” of my gap year–the pièce de résistance–I will backpack through beautiful, isolated mountains in the most bizarre place I could think of…

Stay tuned.

 

Article by Andrew Buchanan. To see the ancient cities, mouthwatering cuisine, and friendly faces of Uzbekistan, explore the gallery!