Turkey – 1 September 2013
On the beautiful coastline of the Sea of Marmara, the fragrance of 2-chlorobenzalmalononitrile fills the morning air, bringing a tear to my eye. I’m not an outwardly emotional individual, and my sobs have precious little to do with the joy of suddenly finding myself in Turkey. For 2-chlorobenzalmalononitrile, or C10H5ClN2, is a rather nasty chemical agent and the main component of a weapon commonly known as tear gas.
We are surprised by this strange welcome; in my experience, Turks are amongst the friendliest people on the planet. However, as it so happened, the first campsite we selected after crossing the border was but a gas-cartridge throw from the Silivri Jail Complex, where a massive public protest was underway. Regrettably, the demonstration soon went horribly wrong.
Just before noon, we were stirred from our beachside table by a loud commotion in the background. Forever curious, Laura and I quickly swallowed our coffee, grabbed a camera and headed out of the camp gate to the main road, from where the noise was emanating. People were arriving in droves, mostly on foot from the direction of Istanbul.
“What’s happening?” we asked the campsite manager, Orhan, who had decided to accompany us.
“They’re protesting against the imprisonment of almost 300 intellectuals, journalists, politicians, authors and army officers deemed enemies of the state by our government. The prison and courthouse are just beyond that field and the final verdict should be announced within the next few hours. Few believe the trial was fair.”
“How many demonstrators are expected?”
“About 50,000. 410 buses from 41 provinces are supposed to arrive, but not all will be able to attend: the police have cordoned off all access roads with concrete blocks and razor wire. Buses are stopped just outside Istanbul and protesters must walk the final 20 kilometres.”
“Do you think it will become violent, if the verdict is guilty?”
“No. Look around you – this is a peaceful protest. Anyway, the riot police have learned their lesson. They’ll hardly repeat the mistakes they made at Gezi Park last month.”
The scene on the farmer’s field in front of the prison was very orderly. Makeshift food-stalls lined the road, catering for the steady flow of footsore newcomers. I suspect well-fed protesters make better demonstrators. Around 10,000 had somehow managed to sneak through the checkpoints. Whole families were gathered: mothers and fathers, elderly grandparents and preschool tots. Why the latter were dragged to a demonstration was beyond my comprehension. The setting resembled an enormous picnic, were it not for the many red flags and banners fluttering in the air. Some of the slogans were curious. “Enough, or we will call the police!” was as popular as “Winter is coming!” – not a word-play relating to the Arab Spring, but a reference to the HBO series Game of Thrones, which has a huge fan base in Turkey. Not everybody seemed as optimistic as Orhan with regard to the security forces. As a precaution, many had gasmasks lying on their picnic blankets.
Laura and I were chatting and gathering more information from the participants, when all of a sudden we heard a succession of blasts. A wave of panic descended upon the field, followed by vast amounts of dense smoke and a stampede of people scattering to the far side of the road. The ranks of armed police backed by tanks and water cannon had fired tear gas! It was completely unexpected – as far as we could see, no demonstrator had used violence against the security forces. Why should they? The verdict hadn’t even been announced yet! Not wishing to get caught up in a messy battle, we took to our heels and returned to camp.
That’s where we are now, coughing and baffled, together with all the other camp residents, squeezed into the site’s small supermarket. The doors are closed to keep out the clouds of gas blowing towards the beach, which proves to be only marginally successful. Smaller children are terrified; they can’t understand why their eyes are burning. Outside, rapid shots continue for more than an hour. Ambulances occasionally pull up at reception with guests who were injured by rubber bullets and gas cartridges fired at close range. Eventually the effects of the tear gas begin to wear off and our mucous membranes resume their ordinary functions. On the local news channel we hear the verdict. Only 21 detainees have been acquitted; of the remainder, many received sentences that amounted to a life behind bars. The news reporter explains that the riot police at Silivri acted in self-defence, when protesters tried to break through the perimeter. Apparently they’d been warned by a colonel to disperse before the police opened fire. If this was the case, maybe it was said in a hushed whisper – none of us heard any warning whatsoever.
Was the trial unfair? This depends on whom we ask. Fact is, 275 individuals had been accused of plotting to topple the government of Prime Minister Tayyip Erdogan. Most defendants had been arrested years ago and have been awaiting trial in the so-called Ergenekon Conspiracy Case ever since. Today marked merely the conclusion of the five-year-long court proceedings. It wouldn’t have been the first time in history that Turkey’s government was overthrown. Between 1960 and 1997 the military – traditionally seen as the guardians of secularism – staged multiple successful coups. It’s hardly surprising that the ruling AK (Justice and Development) Party is on its guard, but many Turkish citizens believe Prime Minister Erdogan actively influenced the court to set an example, not to enact justice. He has, after all, appointed party loyalists to posts within the judicial system, and has managed to remove a number of influential people critical of his policies from government and military positions. It’s possible that some of the accused were guilty, but the evidence presented at the trial was definitely flimsy and occasionally only supported by secret witnesses who never appeared at the hearings. Critics say the verdict was predetermined. And yet, I doubt the plight of the accused alone could cause a public outcry of this magnitude. If so, what were the real reasons behind the Silivri demonstration?
The protest had as much to do with the prisoners’ fate as the Gezi Park demonstrations had to do with protecting trees: namely almost nothing. Prime Minister Erdogan and his conservative Islamist Party have been progressively curtailing many democratic freedoms previously recognised under Turkey’s secularist establishment. This is what millions of Turkish citizens are upset about.
It had all started off so well for Mr Erdogan. When he first came into office, three elections and 11 years ago, his initial actions won him respect. He took it upon himself to pragmatically rebuild the country and the economy. Istanbul, that bustling metropolis I once counted amongst the most chaotic in the world, received a facelift; many environmental issues were solved; he quadrupled the budget for education and curbed nationwide corruption. But recently he introduced reforms with distinctly authoritarian, antidemocratic and especially Islamist tendencies. Turkey has never had a glorious human-rights record, not even during the best of times, and it appears to be getting worse.17 His agenda includes cracking down on alcohol consumption and the public display of affection, censoring television and internet content, as well as limiting the freedom of assembly and speech. His take on lesbian and gay rights is as outdated as his repeated demands that “every Turkish woman should give birth to at least three children.” He’s vehemently against abortion and has been quoted saying that he “wanted to foster a pious generation”.
What about public opinion? Who holds the majority in the country – the conservative Islamists or the liberals? Turkish society is unique: I know of few places on the planet where one can find people of the same cultural, historical and religious backgrounds exhibiting such varied lifestyles and convictions. In summer on the southern beaches, it’s not uncommon to see women dressed in so-called “burqinis” – skin-and-hair-concealing swimwear designed for the pious Islamic female – lounging next to topless sun-worshippers. Visit a McDonald’s in any larger city and you’ll notice women in black chadors queuing behind teenage girls with revealing Western attire. Both may even take a seat at the same table to munch on their McTurco Kofteburgers.18 When the muezzin calls to prayer, some youths might temporarily interrupt their impromptu football match and orient themselves towards Mecca, while their schoolmates continue playing, completely unperturbed by the fact that a quarter of their team is missing. And everybody is a Turk, united by an identical heritage.
Yet regardless how peaceful social interactions might be, problems arise as soon as politics come into play. More than 99% of the population are Muslims, and some would like to see a return to more traditional values. Liberals believe their own views predominate, but I have my doubts, especially after having visited the eastern regions of the country on previous voyages. Just as the United States has its conservative Bible Belt, Turkey has a broad “Koran Girdle”.
In dire need of a more relaxing atmosphere, Laura and I pack up our tent and prepare to ride into Istanbul. Orhan hands me a Turkish flag to attach to my bike as a farewell gift. Why not? On ships, at least, it’s a matter of politeness to hoist the banner of your hosting nation when operating within their territorial waters. Though I dislike patriotic flag-waving, I have nothing against courtesy. If boats show their respect, so can bikers.19 Many would consider the words “Istanbul” and “relaxing” in one sentence to be an oxymoron, but we believe otherwise. For a bed awaits us there, a luxury we haven’t enjoyed since we left Grandma’s house in Bosnia. On my first motorised trip around the world back in 1997, I spent almost half a year in Turkey, working through the winter season as a ski instructor and lift operator in Saklıkent, a small village in the mountains above Antalya. It was there that I met Ilke, the 13-year-old daughter of the ski-resort’s owner. We maintained contact throughout the years, and over time became close friends. She’s now a woman of 28 and currently visiting her sister Iris, who has an apartment in Istanbul. We greatly anticipate our reunion, and not just because of the promised mattress.
Flag fluttering, we ride into the mayhem of the city centre. I must say, I love Istanbul. Every excursion is a stroll through the centuries. From the days of Alexander the Great to the establishment of the modern republic, it’s all found here in the city’s architecture and ambience. This is the western periphery of the Muslim world, the bridge between Orient and Occident and the place where you can find the best baklava.
We eventually manage to find Iris’s address and we all fall into each other’s arms as soon as the door opens. It’s been more than two years since we last met and, as expected, the welcoming is full of drama. Everybody knows how long-term travellers face many difficulties – but what most don’t realise is how the greatest hardships are usually emotional, not physical. Homesickness is one such issue. In my case, since I don’t have a geographical home, I define the term by the locations of those dear to me, wherever on the globe they may be. Ilke and Iris are members of my “pack”, and since we only see each other a few times a decade, every minute together is precious.
The day is still young, and our friends are keen to show us around Istanbul. Many independent travellers firmly believe that touristy sights are overrated and should be avoided. Instead, one should seek out uncharted places. I’m not so sure I can agree. Very often there are perfectly good reasons why some suburbs in a city are never visited: the traveller might end up walking the whole day through housing commission neighbourhoods. Hagia Sophia, Topkapı Palace and the Blue Mosque with its beautiful tiles, in contrast, remind of Harun al-Rashid and the tales of The Thousand and One Nights. Even Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves live here, as the Metro loudspeakers inform us in English and Turkish when we hop on board a tram: “Due to the probable occurrence of larceny at the station entrance, please make sure you have all your possessions with you…”
A short while later we encounter the so-called shoeshine scam, but don’t fall prey. The most common version entails a wandering shoe-shiner who “accidentally” drops his brush in your path, but continues to walk on as if he hadn’t noticed. As a Good Samaritan, you pick it up and hurry after him. Full of gratitude, he will offer you a free shine – but never say so explicitly. The end result is always an exorbitant demand for payment. Every major world city has an equivalent scam.
“Probable” occurrences of theft or not, we feel at ease. The lavish smells of spices and vegetables in the markets, the less pleasant odours of yesterday’s unsold fish at the waterfront, the coffee and teahouses, doors intentionally left ajar to exhale aromas and inhale passers-by – some aspects of this city may have remained unchanged since the days of Constantinople. Every district has a unique vibe, and around the old town almost every street follows a different trade. We meander past hundreds of antique shops, jewellers, carpet dealers and leather-craft stalls, until our feet grow tired and we retreat into a mosque.
What a singular innovation for the weary wanderer! Every mosque has one thing in common: the fluffiest wall-to-wall carpets imaginable. And better still, you must take your shoes off when entering. Slouching on the ground, away from the noise and bustle outside, I gaze upward past the grand chandelier to the square cupola, adorned with intricate calligraphy. One could quite easily fall asleep – seriously, how much cosier can you get? What a far cry from Christian church architecture, with their cold, stone floors, draughts and uncomfortable pews, seemingly designed to keep the congregation awake.
Iris’s apartment is not such a relaxing place either. A minaret is so close to our bedroom window I could almost touch the loudspeakers. Our anticipated sleep-in is cut short long before sunrise when the muezzin calls out for prayer. I know I once mentioned how I enjoy the exotic melody, but this particular muezzin is really quite bad. If there was such a thing as Muezzin Pop-Idol on television, then all three judges would have pressed the buzzer as soon as he cleared his throat.
Later I ask if we could visit Gezi Park and Taksim Square, where so many disgruntled citizens had recently taken to the streets. It all started last May, initially as a small protest by 50 environmentalists who wanted to challenge the government’s decision to turn one of Istanbul’s few remaining green zones into a shopping mall. By mid-June some 2.5 million people were seen marching throughout the country, exercising what they believed to be their right of “civil resistance”. Iris had been an active participant in the milestone demonstrations, which claimed 8 lives, resulted in 8,163 injuries and led to 4,900 arrests during heavy clashes with the police.
“This was the house I entered when running from the riot police. Many shop owners opened their doors to protesters seeking refuge. I don’t know what would have otherwise happened to me!” she relates.
It pains me immensely to imagine my dear friend, a lithe woman weighing no more than 50 kilograms, being run down by armoured units. She’s an amateur ballerina, damn it! What threat could she possibly pose to an armed commando?
From a nargile cafe on the Bosporus, we blow wafts of water-pipe vapours towards the skyline, crowned with hundreds of domes and minarets. Boats cruise up and down the strait connecting the Black Sea with the Mediterranean and separating Asia from Europe. The time has come for us to move on. We exchange hugs with our friends, mount our saddles and open the throttle. I know, deep in my heart, that we’ll meet again.
Midway on the Fatih Sultan Mehmet Bridge we enter geographical Asia, ready to explore the remaining 97% of the country. Turkey is 1,600 kilometres long and 800 wide – it would take half a lifetime to see only a fraction. So which area shall we focus upon? We opt for the Black Sea, a temperate coastal region I know precious little about. For winter is coming, just like the Silivri protesters said, and a night-time chill is already in the air. If we can postpone winter for a few weeks by staying at lower altitudes, all the better. We’re also curious to meet the Laz, a minority group living in the region. They bear the brunt of Turkish jokes, second perhaps only to the Greeks. The Laz are said to be friendly, but somewhat cranially limited, as a fellow motorist who stops for a chat in a motorway lay-by tells us.
“Look,” he says, drawing a straight line on a piece of paper. “What do you call this?”
Laura and I look at each other and then shrug.
“A Laz maze!” the man smiles.
I can’t stifle a chuckle. Every country has its own variation on the classic “How many Irishmen does it take to change a lightbulb?”
Rolling east along the highway, every second passing vehicle gives us a wave and an “İyi yolculuklar! (Have a nice trip!)”, sometimes shouting invitations for breakfast out of their side window as they pull up alongside. We often accept, until our bellies are bursting with pastries and çay (tea). I’ve encountered generosity in rural communities throughout the world on many occasions in the past – but this is the main artery to Ankara! Shaking my head in disbelief, I try to conceive of a world where Germans wave a welcome at every Turkish visitor and shower Turkish-plated motorists with chicken schnitzel and alcohol-free beer20 on the autobahn. I regret to say that this will probably never happen.
We eventually leave the motorway and make a beeline towards Sinope. A seaside campsite is found and we decide to settle in for a few weeks. The coastline isn’t the tidiest, but then again, few places on the Black Sea are. We’re not alone: every day more and more overlanders arrive. We’re nearing a branch in the main land route to East Asia: about half of the travellers will soon be heading through Iran, and the remainder to Georgia and Azerbaijan. To celebrate our respective ventures we allow ourselves a gastronomic splurge in the form of garlic prawns and fish charred black over a communal campfire, a colour befitting the sea’s name.
Some afternoons I spend beachcombing – the elegant term for “sifting through rubbish” – and manage to uncover a few hidden treasures among the thousands of recyclable plastic water bottles. For Laura, I find a pair of lost sunglasses and an even number of useable flip-flops, albeit only left-footed ones. Laura is convinced an indigenous species of Black Sea shark with a particular craving for left feet must be swimming in the waters. I, however, support the Mirror Universe Theory: that somewhere out there is an island full of only right-footed sandals. Isn’t life great when you have so much time on your hands for such questions?
While I’m pondering existence and collecting pretty shells, Mr Erdogan is constructing a new mosque on Çamlıca Hill overlooking Istanbul, with capacity for 30,000 worshippers and topped by minarets 107 metres high – the tallest in the world when completed in 2016. Evil tongues claim this is Erdogan’s way of creating a lasting legacy of his greatness.
It appears that some individuals become arrogant if they remain too long in power – and the mightier the power, the higher the probability of executive abuse. Should Turkey be allowed to join the European Union? Well, that’s not for me to say – I’m only an outside observer passing through on a motorcycle – but what I can predict with reasonable accuracy is that Turkey’s foreign interests will continue to shift eastward instead of westward the longer European membership is delayed. Maybe this is the true desire of the Turkish majority – who knows? For our part, we will just beach-hop along the coast towards Georgia, doing what we do best: humbly enjoy life.
Georgia – 1 October 2013
Continuing east, we don’t find any nudists on the Black Sea beaches any more: headscarves are now the norm. Even a few “ninjas” have materialised, as those wearing black burqas are colloquially known to more liberal Turks. The ratio between those maintaining tradition and those striving for innovation has now definitely shifted in favour of the former.
In hindsight, we may have done better to have stuck to the interior of the country instead of following the coast. While Sinope still had a certain flair, what followed was a wild-camper’s nightmare. Beyond Samsun lies what some call the world’s largest city: an almost uninterrupted sequence of settlements all the way to Trabzon – hence the nickname of this ungainly tract: “Samzon”. Laura and I miss the Turkey we know so well from previous trips: an aquarelle of sleepy villages with slender minarets thrusting towards the heavens; a canvas depicting old men with prayer beads, women sauntering alongside donkeys and people returning from a day’s work in the fields atop tractors. This is the Turkey of my dreams. It is real; it does exist – just not here.
On the other hand, there is one positive aspect about our chosen route: on the Black Sea we finally encounter the Laz. Unsurprisingly, they’re perfectly capable of changing a light bulb, and have their own jokes about those living in other regions of the country. What very few realise is how much global happiness depends upon this small community. For on the evergreen slopes of the Pontic Mountains, the Laz grow hazelnuts – a prime ingredient of Nutella and imported by Ferrero from this area. Can you imagine a world without chocolate spread? I can’t.
Another minority we meet are German residents of Turkish origin visiting their families. The Samzon road is full of German-plated cars, as are the rest stops, which often serve as impromptu campsites. When we pull over for a night’s rest ourselves, a family of seven immediately welcomes us to their table.
“Come, please join us for some tea,” an ethnic Turkish man offers in fluent Bavarian. “How long did it take you to ride here with your bikes?”
“Tomorrow it will be one year.” My reply naturally evokes laughter.
“We managed to reach Trabzon in 28 hours! Samsun is about the furthest point one can make in a day from Germany without breaking motorway speed limits, but we only have two weeks’ holiday. I want to spend as much time with my family in Artvin as possible.”
His daughter fills our cups from the two-part kettle. The top contains tea broth, the bottom boiling water, allowing the host to adjust the strength to one’s personal taste. Soon enough we’re swapping our life stories.
“I was born in Munich when my father moved to Germany many years ago. He returned to Turkey after retirement,” he explains, “but the situation is difficult: I belong to neither world. Here I’m mocked because I have a heavy accent when I speak Turkish, and in Germany I’m a ‘blackhead’. But what to do? You have it easier as a tourist in Turkey than I as a Turk!”
For a moment I consider citing his compatriot from the Black Sea – Diogenes of Sinope, aka the “Philosopher in the Barrel”. When asked where he came from, Diogenes answered, “I am a citizen of the world.” Although this notion of kosmopolitês may suffice to define the social identity of an ancient philosopher who lived in a wine vat, or a modern-day over-lander, it’s not a solution for everybody. Laura and I finish our tea, thank our hosts and retreat to our tent. Tomorrow promises to be a big day: our one-year on the road celebration coincides with our arrival in a new country – the 15th since we left Germany. We’ve driven 13,000 kilometres (or 35 kilometres a day on average), and spent $5,715 each all-up. Not so bad, considering the steep prices in Europe. Average consumer spending for a single-person household in Germany was more than $1,400 per month in 2012, triple what I needed. It’s true: travel saves on living costs!
Beyond the Turkish border, three small Caucasus nations await investigation: one Muslim and two Christian. Actually there are six, if one includes the breakaway de facto republics of Abkhazia, South Ossetia and Nagorno-Karabakh. Whether these newly formed countries will also be part of our itinerary is questionable. Though the wars for independence took place a number of years ago, latent hostilities still persist today. Azerbaijan is not very pleased about the secession of Nagorno-Karabakh, nor is Georgia with regard to Abkhazia and South Ossetia. The next few months will reveal just how bad the mutual tensions really are and if a side trip is advisable or even feasible. For the time being we’ll concern ourselves with Georgia, the country we’ve just entered.
I confess to nearly complete ignorance of this region; a fact I’m very embarrassed about. Fair enough, I know a little more than some people. During the 2008 South Ossetia crisis, when CNN released a broadcast headlined “Russia invades Georgia”, several concerned citizens of Atlanta (in the American state of Georgia) panicked. Calling the police, they asked about approaching commie tanks – a double whammy, since Soviet communism had ended in 1991. Wal-Mart stores noted a brief but discernible rise in grocery and ammunition purchases, a typical reaction born out of hysteria. I’m not that ignorant.
Yet Georgia simply never featured on my list of places to see. It may have remained indefinitely in my slush pile were it not for its convenient location as a winter layover on our journey towards Central Asia. The “Stans”, as all the nations between the Caspian Sea and China are collectively called (Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan and Afghanistan), can be bitterly cold between November and February. The temperatures drop to double-digit negatives in most areas. By contrast, Tbilisi promises to be mild. Though we won’t be swinging in hammocks between palm trees, we needn’t worry about our fingers freezing to our handlebars. Besides, one titbit of information I do possess is quite reassuring. Georgia is not only the birthplace of Stalin, but also of wine, where it’s been produced for the past 8,000 years. Since the grape harvest is next month, we should be able to secure ourselves a decent amount of antifreeze.
The first thing one notices after passing the border is the immense drop in prices. Petrol, a whopping $2 per litre in Turkey, is now only 87 cents. Beer, available right next to the customs house for thirsty motorists, is sold in massive two-litre bottles for 35 cents. Cigarettes go for as little as 19 cents a packet, and for $1.50 you can get a filling meal of khinkali – meat dumplings packed into a dough pocket, similar to ravioli. If I eat more than five I need to increase the setting on my motorcycle’s rear suspension. I’m not displeased. A country should never be judged by its bar-tab, but if we want to wait out four winter months in the area, afford-ability is a huge benefit.
Many travel polls rate Georgia as the most beautiful country on Earth and one of the friendliest. Now that’s quite a claim to live up to! I’ve been around a bit and my personal criteria tend to be rather severe. It’s said that Georgians traditionally regard guests as gifts from heaven; time will tell whether this is true.
My initial impression of the people we encounter between Batumi and Zugdidi, by appearances alone, is not all that favourable. Neither is Laura’s. Little do we know how wrong our first impressions will turn out to be!
“Chris, if I’m completely honest, do you know what the locals look like to me personally?” she asks as we stroll from Zugdidi’s central bazaar towards Dadiani Palace, said to house Napoleon Bonaparte’s death mask.
“Hmm. Let me guess. Younger women often dress like prostitutes, men like drug dealers and the remainder like homeless bums? Oh, and a middle-aged man who’s still sober after 10:00 in the morning is a rare find. How close am I to your politically incorrect assessment?”
“Spot on!” she laughs. Yet we know how little the dress code says about the individual or his hospitality. It would also be deeply unfair to judge Georgians by fashion statements: they still wore chainmail in the upper Caucasus a century ago! And look at us with our ragged bikers’ gear and dusty faces. One might believe we were living on the streets. Oops! Almost forgot: we are.
It soon becomes apparent that Georgians can be a bit reserved when it comes to open displays of friendliness, at least in the beginning. This isn’t Thailand, known widely as “the land of smiles”, where a tourist can say or do almost anything and locals will still give you an ear-to-ear grin – but it may also be fake, only skin deep and merely a custom rather than heartfelt warmth. Here, it’s the visitor who must usually initiate niceties instead of relying on the locals to take the first steps. Personally, I support the notion that friendliness and trust must be earned, not unconditionally granted. Magically, almost without exception, our smiles are reciprocated by young and toothless old, the sober and the drunk. Georgian smiles, when they do occur, feel sincere.
“Make some effort to show that you’re interested in the people as individuals, not just sightseeing for your own pleasure, and you’ll be invited to home and hearth, dinners and weddings,” we’ve been told by travellers who visit Georgia often.
In this regard, the country may turn out to be more like Russia or just about every Arab nation, instead of eastern Asia. Which customary behaviour does one prefer as a tourist? It depends, I guess. If you’re on a two-week holiday, perhaps Thailand: one doesn’t have sufficient time to invest in friendships. Whether a smile is faked or honest matters little, as long as you’re treated agreeably. We might favour Georgian social mannerisms, as we’re here for the long haul.
We won’t be spending winter in Zugdidi. The city lies on the border with Abkhazia, is overflowing with refugees, and like so many border towns around the world, really isn’t the prettiest of sights. Following Abkhazia’s independence in 1993, a quarter of a million ethnic Georgians were forcibly expelled from the newly founded country. Twenty years have passed since then, and many are still denied permission to return home. Abkhazia has also been waiting impatiently for the past two decades: they want international recognition. Just consider for a second: the Czech Republic and Slovakia were formed in precisely the same year and a unified Germany only slightly before. You don’t hear anybody doubting their nationhood, do you? The main stumbling block is Georgia’s stubborn refusal to view both Abkhazia and South Ossetia as anything else than integral parts of its territory under temporary Russian military occupation. Meanwhile, Russia recognises both regions’ independence and provides them with defensive troops. A peace agreement doesn’t sound very promising until President Putin apologises to Georgian Head of State Mikheil Saakashvili for a threat he made in 2008 during a meeting with Nicolas Sarkozy in Moscow. Putin said, “I would hang him (Mikheil Saakashvili) by the balls.” That’s not a very pleasant thing to do, even amongst politicians.21 To complicate matters, the European stance favours the Georgian government’s position – after all, Georgia is a future candidate for European Union membership. So there we have it: another wonderfully intricate and nasty political stalemate.
What this nasty situation means for many locals we find out from a young soldier of Georgian-Abkhaz ethnicity in Zugdidi.
“You might be able to go, but I can’t visit my family in Abkhazia. Nor can they visit me,” he tells us between sips from a bottle of highly potent content. “Both my parents live in Sukhumi. I fled to Georgia with my uncle when I was young – living conditions are better here. But I haven’t seen my mother for seven years. Neither side will grant us visas, apart perhaps for funerals. Next time I see her, she’ll be in a casket.”
We extend our sympathy. He returns to his bottle and we continue towards Napoleon’s death mask. I don’t begrudge the soldier his drink. C’mon, you politicians. Allowing the kid to see his mum isn’t going to bring about the end of the world, is it?
The spirits floweth freely in Georgia. Vodka, beer and chacha – a homebrewed brandy – are as popular for breakfast as a fry-up in Great Britain, and at any other time of the day. Whenever and wherever we stopped after Batumi, people have offered us drinks: road construction workers, shepherds passing by our tent and especially fellow motorists. The last time I had to deal with a similar scenario was in Siberia with my Land Rover. Back then I sometimes resorted to the fake excuse that I’m a recovering alcoholic in order to avoid offending locals with my refusal to join their drinking sessions. I may have to repeat this white lie now in Georgia. To say, “Sorry, but chacha and motorcycle-riding are not a good combination, and besides, the police might stop us,” would be futile. Even the police have offered us a drink.
Napoleon’s expression on the mask looks quite dead, as I expected it would, but the Dadiani Palace gardens are blissful: a refreshing dip in a sea of green, surrounded by a dreary grey city. We might give Stalin’s death mask, displayed in his birth town of Gori, a miss. Instead, we’ll head into the Caucasus Mountains towards Svaneti for a breath of fresh air. The concrete cubism of former Soviet attempts at architecture is just too depressing. Seventy years of Soviet rule have definitely stained some of Georgia’s city skylines. Crumbling apartment blocks dominate the boulevards; all joined together by a haphazardly connected power grid and above-ground gas pipelines.
“Judging by the corrosion on these pipes, I’m surprised the whole city doesn’t explode!” Laura notes.
“Judging by the blood-alcohol levels of the people, I’m amazed they don’t spontaneously self-combust,” I respond, only half-joking.
We stuff our side-boxes with a dozen churchkhela (walnuts encased in a sugary grape-juice coating and colloquially known as “Georgian Snickers bars”) and a few khachapuri (the staple Georgian cheese pie) and head into the hills.
It doesn’t take long before we begin to look at Georgia with completely different eyes. Gone is the greyness, and in its place are wide pastures populated by happy-looking cows and winding roads inhabited by innumerable piglets. We need to execute swine-slaloms with our bikes, a sure sign that we’ve left Muslim territory. This could be a worn-down version of Sweden, with all the quaint wooden farmhouses. Yet the chipped paint on the verandas somehow harmonises with the weather-beaten faces of those toiling in the fields. Soon the road rises into the Greater Caucasus Range, cutting through beech and oak forests. Perched atop nearly every hill are citadels and so-called koshkebi: 20-metre-high fortified towers with entrances only accessible via ladders which could be retracted when besieged. Made entirely of stone, they resemble Jenga blocks stacked by daring masons. Many of the koshkebi have toppled or lean more precariously than the Tower of Pisa. In all fairness to their builders, they’ve been standing for nearly a thousand years and served their purpose well. Upper Svaneti was never conquered by invading forces. The region was difficult to access and defended by warriors with a fierce reputation. Even during the Second World War, the independent-minded Svans were exempted from military service in the Soviet Army.
Continuing higher still, we approach the treeline. Isolated villages lie in the deep shadows of Europe’s highest mountain range. Georgia is part of Europe? It all depends how one draws the geographical boundary between Europe and Asia in the Greater Caucasus. There is no official definition. All sources maintain that the border runs along the crest of the Ural Mountains, down the Ural River, through the Caspian Sea, the Black Sea, the Bosporus Canal, the Sea of Marmara and the Dardanelles. But here in the Caucasus it’s not so clear: if one considers the mountains’ watershed to be the dividing line, then the northernmost regions of both Georgia and Azerbaijan really are part of geographical Europe.
Between the iconic peaks of Mount Ushba and 5,200-metre-high Mount Shkhara, alpinists can find some of the world’s most challenging climbs. Ushba is occasionally referred to as the Caucasian Matterhorn, and it doesn’t take a wide stretch of imagination to visualise ourselves again in Switzerland. Memories of past trips repeatedly flash before my eyes. I see stone walls resembling those at Kualep in Peru, gorge-spanning footbridges as in Northern Pakistan, and hilltop fortified settlements reminiscent of Umbria in Italy. Brown bears, wolves, lynxes and a handful of Caucasian leopards even dwell in the mountainous hinterlands. The variety in Georgia is mind-boggling. How in the world could I have not placed this country on my must-see list?
We needn’t worry about the bears: they’re quite rare. Should unwanted wildlife approach our tent, we have a surprise means of self-defence. Huge Caucasian Shepherd dogs, formerly bred to hunt brown bears, are our nightly security guards. Not an evening has passed since Batumi without a stray dog sticking its nose through our tent-flap. Due to their sheer size we were initially cautious. But not any more. Laura and I now lie awake in our sleeping bags, joyfully anticipating four-footed visitors.
“Did you hear that?” Laura whispers. “Something is rustling outside!” Sure enough, another Caucasian Shepherd is circling our tent. “Come, puppy, come. We have khachapuri!” she calls out. It takes only seconds, and our “home” feels complete again. Laura on the left, me on the right and a 90-kilogram wagging ball of fur between us. We share our cheese pies fairly, and of course the fur-ball is allowed to sleep inside our tent.
Dawn breaks, our dog stretches, then exits through the open flap with a farewell wag. It was only a one-night stand. He did his job and we rewarded him in return. Tomorrow, at a different location, I’m certain we’ll find another pooch as company.
I admit when riding through villages, dogs can sometimes be a nuisance. Many theories circulate as to why canines run after anything with two wheels and threaten to nibble at the rider’s ankles. Kicking them away with steel-caps is not an option for us, nor is speeding up, lest we accidentally run over tender paws. In our experience, stopping is the best solution. Most Georgian dogs then flop over on their backs for a tummy tickle. How did my philosopher-friend Diogenes once phrase it? He believed, “Human beings live artificially and hypocritically and would do well to study the dog. They live in the present without anxiety, and have no use for the pretensions of abstract philosophy. In addition to these virtues, dogs know instinctively who is friend and who is foe. Unlike human beings who either dupe others or are duped, dogs will give an honest bark at the truth.” I also think the world would be better off if we all behaved more like our four-footed friends – played with sticks instead of WMDs and always sealed friendships with a “woof” and a bottom-sniff.
When the weather begins to worsen we decide to make a beeline towards Mestia, a small Svan village with a few privately owned guesthouses. Our choice falls upon a place called Manoni, and we arrive just in the nick of time. Sunshine has given way to a torrential downpour, freezing cold at these altitudes. The snowline begins just above town. In charge of Manoni is a woman who looks like a Kamaz lorry and could easily body-double a professional wrestler.
“Come inside! Warm! I make fire!” she commands, grinning with her three teeth. Grabbing an axe, our matron proceeds towards a woodpile with stumps the size of beer-kegs. “WHOMP!” A single swing splits the logs in two. This elderly lady is as good as any Canadian lumberjack. Though I’d be cautious calling her a “lady”.
We erect our tent in the garden, then flee indoors to the roaring stove. Laura quickly befriends our host by asking whether she can pitch in with kitchen work. The weather doesn’t look as if it will improve anytime soon, so we might as well make ourselves useful around the house. By the end of the week, Laura is milking the guesthouse cow every morning and preparing dinner in the evening. Only the axe work we leave up to the capable and calloused hands of the caretaker.
It’s good we have so much time on our hands: waiting out the rain tests our patience. The first days are fine. The drops falling on our canvas sound like music. We drift asleep by counting the beats per minute, but after a week the non-stop pattering becomes painful. Music can be used as a tool for psychological torture, as everybody knows since the War on Terror began. Interrogated detainees chained to walls and forced to listen to “Guantanamo’s Greatest Hits” – TV tunes such as “I Love You” from Barney & Friends and the theme song from Sesame Street – for days, weeks and months on end went bonking insane.
“What are you staring at so intensely?” I ask Laura on the 14th day of bad weather. For the past hour she’s been looking out through the flap. “Betsy the cow is making crap-circles around our tent. What are you up to?”
“You know how some people read fortunes from coffee grains in a cup? I was just wondering if it’s possible to tell the future from my discarded cigarette butts.” An interesting, soggy pile is accumulating outside my vestibule.
“If it works, tell me when it will stop raining, yes?”
Finally, our ordeal comes to an end. The sun has reappeared, but now we face a new problem. Beyond Mestia, our planned route continues to Ushguli, then towards Lentekhi over the Zagari Pass. Ushguli is said to be Europe’s highest village at 2,120 metres,22 and the pass climbs higher still. What fell as rain in Mestia for weeks will be snow at those altitudes.
“The pass is closed!” everybody in town informs us. “It’s impossible to cross. You’ll never make it with your motorcycles!”
Regardless whom we ask – the shopkeepers, police, horse-trekking agencies and even the military – according to everybody, the route to Lentekhi is now shut for the winter season. It might reopen in May, so we are told.
“What do you think? Shall we take a look and ride as far as we can? We can still turn back towards Zugdidi if the snow is too deep,” I ask Laura.
She agrees; we haven’t come this far to give up so easily. “I’m not going to allow a few snowflakes to stop me! ‘Mission Impassable’ commences tomorrow at sunrise!”
We both deeply resent people telling us something is “impossible”. If I’d listened to everybody who told me that something couldn’t be done, I wouldn’t be on my third trip around the world today. If we’re going to give up, it will be because WE have failed in the attempt, perhaps several times. The only person who can determine my limitations … is me.
The history of mankind proves me right. The majority of the world once upheld the opinion that humans would never fly, walk on the moon, run a four-minute mile or climb Mount Everest. Nothing is impossible for everybody; it all depends upon individual or collective determination, experience and, in many cases, pure luck. Remember these famous quotes? “Rail travel at high speed is not possible because passengers, unable to breathe, would die of asphyxia” (Dr Dionysius Lardner, 1830). “There is no reason anyone would want a computer in their home” (Ken Olson, president of Digital Equipment Corp, 1977). “The Beatles have no future in show business” (Decca Records to the Beatles, 1962). So next time somebody tells you that your plans and dreams are unattainable, give them a big broad smile and walk away.
It’s our last night at Manoni, and a few friends of the house have gathered to throw us a farewell chacha-party. I have my reservations, but the villagers will hear none of them.
“Tonight you must drink! The Zagari Pass will be cold!”
Our glasses are filled, then the eldest in the group rises from his chair and proposes a toast. It’s lengthy, and nobody sips or utters a word until he’s finished. I have a slight inkling where this is heading. Every country has a drinking culture. In Turkey we learned of the “100 Sacred Rules of Rakı”. Georgia, in contrast, has something called a supra, or feast, which is directed by a tamada, or toastmaster. If the toast is extensive, or the occasion special, an alaverdi might be employed to provide elaboration. I’m in dire need of an explanation since our tamada speaks only Georgian and Russian. Luckily, one member at the table is fluent in English. I just hope the toast wasn’t to Stalin. The man who deserves the greatest honour for defeating Hitler, but was also responsible for the deaths of no fewer than ten million Russian citizens under his tyrannical regime, is revered in this neck of the woods. I don’t know if I could handle a five-minute ode to Joseph.
Our alaverdi translates. “He said: I would like to dedicate this toast to the importance of friendship…” What follows is deeply moving. A sonnet to chance encounters between souls, the warmth of camaraderie, and the sadness felt upon parting. The dedication ends with: “…so with that, I would like to say once again, cheers to our friendship. Gaumarjos!” Everybody at the table nods their approval: the tamada had spoken well.
Damn, that was beautiful. If socializing with a drink is like this I might even change my attitude towards alcohol! It seems that the chacha-movement can occasionally be more than just about getting pissed before breakfast. This is philosophy spoken in prose! I love it! There’s only one slight hitch. Following each toast, glasses must be emptied in a single gulp, to be immediately refilled for the next round of speechmaking. The tamada honour rotates in an anticlockwise direction, until it’s my turn to speak up. Laura was passed over – lucky girl; women very rarely propose toasts in Georgia. I stand, raise my glass, and cite a few classic poetic lines on friendship, altered ever so slightly to fit the occasion. I wait nervously for the alaverdi to translate my words into Georgian. I’m not overly fond of speaking from a podium, even if it’s a kitchen table, and often lose my articulacy due to stage fright. After a brief silence, I receive a head-bobbing ovation. Apparently I passed the test. Now only another dozen rounds to go. Matters not. After the third shot of chacha I could sing karaoke without breaking a sweat.
Next morning I notice a severe degradation of my cranial faculties. Nonetheless, we pack our bags with enough edibles for a week-long siege of the pass, fill our petrol tanks to the brim and head out of town. The first stretch to Ushguli, a hamlet of 200 people with the most amazing collection of koshkebi, is conquered by nightfall. The worst we encountered were mudbaths the size of small swimming pools. I managed to get Puck stuck in the muck up to the engine block on one occasion – but this is where the benefits of travelling in pairs come in handy. Laura pulls me out with a towrope tied to Pixie’s luggage rack. Left to my own devices, freeing my bike would have been back-breaking.
Past Ushguli we reach the snowline, and Laura goes sliding off her bike for the first time in months. After her third fall, she throws herself onto a pile of white and shouts, “This is like riding over an oil spill! Maybe I should drink and drive like the locals? If I get so tipsy that I fall to the right when Pixie slides to the left I’d stay upright! And look ahead; it’s only getting worse!”
She’s right. The trail, which even in summer is more suitable for livestock movements than vehicles, is getting steeper and the snow already reaches our ankles. As no one has attempted a crossing for weeks we don’t have tracks to follow. The route to the top of Zagari is barely discernible.
“We can’t continue like this,” I agree. “We’re going at 500 metres an hour: it’ll be springtime before we reach the other side.”
I plop down next to Laura and think. We could tie our bikes parallel to each other with a few strong branches, thereby turning our one-wheel-drive vehicles into a two-wheel-drive quad. Sounds silly, but it might actually work. Then I have a better idea.
“Pass me our towropes. Let’s try something.” A long time ago, on my very first outing with Puck in 1996, I rode up to northern Norway in the middle of winter. Back then I had snow chains specially made for motorcycles. Some bikers in Scandinavia use them for winter camping trips; others prefer spikes. I don’t have a box of nails to thrust through my tyres, but we do have our 11-millimetre rope. Wrapped tightly around our rear wheel and woven between the spokes, it should act like chains, if my theory is correct.
It is. I have traction! But for Laura, with her shorter legs, the ride will not be easy.
“It might be better if I ferry both motorcycles over the pass, while you carry some of the gear. What do you think?”
Laura is delighted, as it also gives her the opportunity to take a few stunning photos with her camera for posterity. The scenery is some of the most beautiful in Georgia, further enhanced by the late autumn colours in valleys far below and dazzling white peaks above.
For the next five hours, I first ride Puck a distance of 200 metres, then park my bike, walk back to fetch Pixie and repeat the procedure. I’m effectively doing the Zagari Pass three times: twice by motorcycle and once on foot. But at least we’re finally making some real progress and manage to ride ten kilometres on our second day out of Mestia.
“The pass, look! From here onward it’s all downhill!” Laura cries. We make a small clearing in the snow, pitch our tent and hurriedly cook a pot of instant soup before diving into our sleeping bags. It’ll be cold up here at 2,700 metres – my thermometer is already showing −8°C – but we’re so tired I doubt we’ll notice. From the comfort of our tent we watch the sun set behind the mountains and the stars emerge. It is eerily quiet. All of a sudden, and completely unexpectedly, Laura’s telephone rings. We’re at the limits of reception and can barely make out the voice on the other end. It’s our three-toothed axe-swinging hostess at Manoni, asking if we are well and wishing us a good night! As I said, Georgians can be absolute gems, even if they aren’t the smiliest of people.
At dawn I am back in the saddles – plural. Laura has already begun the descent on foot. I need her assistance whenever we come across a snowdrift: sometimes waist-high walls block our path. Kicking and punching with hands and feet, we make channels just wide enough for our bikes to squeeze through. Our teamwork is perfect, and by the end of the third day, we’re again below the snowline. The remaining 50 kilometres to Lentekhi won’t be easy. Glacier-fed rivers are pouring off the mountain slopes, slicing through the road, and the ubiquitous mud-puddles have returned. Tackling these hurdles will require time and effort. Yet we’re no longer in a hurry; the worst is over. Odd as it may sound, I regret this a bit.
By rationing our foodstuffs we hold out another four days, and spend the afternoons lazing in the sun like lizards or playing “volcano hopscotch” in the rivers adjacent to our campsites. The objective is to cross to the other side without getting one’s feet wet by jumping onto the boulders strewn throughout the bed. The water itself is lava – touch it with one foot and you must henceforward skip one-legged, make contact with both feet and you burn to a cinder and lose the game. Is one allowed to play “volcano” at 43 years of age? Why in the world not?
Alas, we’re running low not only on food, but also fuel. Riding in this terrain has quadrupled our bikes’ consumption. To conserve petrol we roll downhill with our engines switched off whenever possible, and reach Lentekhi with only a few drops in our tanks. Puck needs to be pushed the final metres to the makeshift petrol station: a private house with a shed full of steel barrels in the yard. A tarmac road marks the end of our little adventure, but there will be more, I have no doubt about that. The Zagari Pass we will treasure in our memories as one of the world’s most stunning rides. Impassable? Hogwash.
When you’re heading into Abkhazia, the Georgian border officials will probably enquire about your intentions before they open the barrier and allow you to leave their territory. How would you answer? If you say anything along the lines of “I heard that Abkhazia is a beautiful nation and I want to visit its capital!” you might be sent back to Tbilisi with a boot up the arse. A better response would be “I love Georgia and want to see all of your country!” Don’t have a guilty conscience about lying; bending the truth in such cases is sometimes the only way to complete your trip.
A similar scenario will await you later when you try to enter Azerbaijan. It doesn’t matter that you paid hundreds of dollars to obtain your visa. If you show up at border immigration with lots of Armenian stickers attached to your bike (or, god forbid, a pretty one from Nagorno-Karabakh), you can beg, scream or plead political ignorance all you like: you’re not going anywhere. Azerbaijan is still very upset about the territory they lost to Armenia two decades ago, and not a month goes by without a few skirmishes along the ceasefire line. Politeness, smiles and the ability to play dumb will get you very far on a trip around the world, but informing yourself about current events can get you even further.
Politics. Like it or loathe it, there is no denying it: a greater understanding of international affairs will often facilitate border crossings and the procurement of necessary, albeit difficult to obtain, travel documents. Some overlanders manage to traverse highly volatile regions of the world unscathed, whereas others who attempt the same route soon find themselves in deep trouble – or worse.
So whatever you do, don’t go skipping through the Darién Gap between Panama and Colombia whistling “Colonel Bogey” unless you are (a) utterly insane or (b) have a Kuna guide with insider knowledge of the Colombian neo-paramilitary force’s movements. Likewise, should you be heading into the eastern districts of the Democratic Republic of Congo, never say that you’re a great fan of Joseph Kabila; it might get awkward and cost you your head. If you’re an American in Pakistan and your government has just sent drones to strike Peshawar, fake your nationality and pretend to be Canadian. When unsure about the basic inner workings of a country, ask the locals lots of questions. But please exercise caution when discussing sensitive issues with those living under a repressive regime, lest someone is listening and you or they come to harm. You needn’t avoid political topics altogether; just know what to say, when to mention it, and especially to whom.
Politics has a lot to do with an overland trip – although this isn’t the main reason why I take such a keen interest in world affairs. What many armchair-travellers forget is how all the world news bulletins, broadcast from some far-flung corner of the globe into Western homes, are part of our experienced reality. When you watch a crisis unfolding in Egypt, a traveller with a motorcycle will be somewhere nearby, witnessing it first-hand. The result of elections in Turkmenistan may not seem significant to most people in the West, but for those of us driving the Silk Road, the outcome can be of the utmost importance. Political decisions, rebellions and wars dictate our migration routes. While the opening of the Berlin Wall or the signing of the Schengen Treaty were momentous historical events, an overlander may find news of a future road through the Darién Gap or open land border between Sudan and Egypt no less significant, though these bulletins may never appear in Western headlines. Whether you hear of illegal Israeli settlement building in Palestine or massacres in Kenya, these are not merely two-dimensional pictures on a flat-screen television for travellers – they have the potential to affect us personally and are always very, very real.
Even more important than our own plight and journey: political issues have an impact upon your friends. Just like every other traveller who’s spent years on the road, Laura and I have acquaintances on every continent. When sanctions are imposed on Sudan, I fear for the livelihood of lovely people I encountered there on my last trip. When the United States engages in wars on foreign soil that result in the deaths of tens of thousands of civilians, the “collateral damage” may be acceptable for America, but it’s not tolerable for me, or for the relatives of those who are killed. When Iris is concerned about Turkey turning into a police state dominated by religion, I’m sweating buckets alongside her. I’ve visited more than a hundred nations, and for me their civilian populations are not abstracts or statistics on an Excel spreadsheet. We’ve sipped tea with their families, slept in their homes, dined at their tables and embraced each other during our heartfelt farewells. These people are the closest neighbours some nomads will ever have. For this reason – from my viewpoint – launching a missile on Baghdad is no different from striking at the centre of Frankfurt or New York City. The world is our home and passports are only tools enabling us to cross borders, nothing else.
We seem to be living in a world where many people either don’t care about the world of politics, or they care so much, they’re willing to cause each other harm. Some hide their heads in the sand, but ignoring ongoing events at home and abroad as a means to distance themselves from the facts of everyday life can only succeed when everybody else is equally silent – and that won’t happen. I disagree with these tactics, especially when our own Western governments are meddling on foreign turf. Democracy does not mean elections alone. The notion that the act of voting concludes a citizen’s liability is nonsense. It doesn’t matter whether the party in power is the one you voted for or not. If it’s involved in crimes against humanity, it could be deemed a civic democratic duty to overthrow it, swiftly and peacefully.
A conscientious media could do more to lift the veil of silence on many global issues and reveal to viewers what travellers sometimes witness abroad. Sadly, most news channels have the attention span of a five-year-old and are as lopsided as a motorcycle with a single side-box. News bulletins are treated like a loaf of bread: what’s a fresh headline today is already stale by tomorrow, and by the end of the week it ends up in the bin. Honestly, when was the last time you watched a report about the continuing war between the Séléka and Central African Republic forces on a mainstream channel? Sometimes the bread isn’t even baked in the first place; I strongly doubt many in the West have ever heard of the Naxalite militants in the Red Corridor or the Free Papua Movement in Indonesia. If not, you wouldn’t be to blame. Unless you’re an overlander travelling through these troubled regions, how would you learn of them?
For the sake of the local populations I encounter on my trips around the world, I wish our media would treat them with more respect, and not just regurgitate a current crisis when a Westerner is killed in a conflict. An update once in a blue moon is not enough if we desire greater global awareness. Those who suffer in some far-off corner of our planet have no defence against being overlooked. Why do I mention politics in a travel book? For those we have met, lest they be forgotten.
A Caucasian Winter – 31 December 2013
Fireworks illuminate the night sky above Tbilisi a few weeks before Christmas. Every day for the next two months, rockets will flare and crackers explode in every suburb of the capital. Car alarms are set off, frightened dogs howl and the city’s light sleepers wander the streets with bloodshot eyes. Dubai plans to break the world record this upcoming New Year with the all-time greatest pyrotechnical display, but Georgia definitely deserves an entry in the Guinness Book of Records for the longest.
“People actually shoot off fireworks throughout the year,” our landlady, Nana, explains, standing with us on the balcony of our newly rented apartment. “It’s a Georgian thing.”
“When is Christmas and New Year?” I ask. “I get confused with the Orthodox calendar.”
“We celebrate both holidays twice. Our Christmas falls on 7 January, with lots of carol singing and even more drinking, but for commercial purposes we observe yours as well. The orthodox New Year is on 14 January. We call it the ‘Old New Year’, which is a bit of an oxymoron, I guess.”
“Does that mean everybody gets presents twice?”
“No, only once,” she laughs, “usually on ‘new’ New Year. But sometimes gifts are brought on 25 December by Tovlis Babua, our ‘Snow Grandfather’, who comes from Svaneti instead of the North Pole. We don’t really have a fixed date for present swapping.”
My list of “Georgian things” is growing steadily: small peculiarities that might strike the newcomer as odd. These can range from practicalities such as how to board the Ford Transit marshrutki minibuses built for 20 passengers, when 40 people are already inside, to world-altering mysteries like “where is the hole in my bog-roll?” The answer to the first riddle is shove your way in; to the second (in case you really want to know), the cardboard core is missing because toilet-paper holders are virtually non-existent in Georgia. At least this solves all bog-roll orientation wars – should the loose end hang in front or to the rear?”23
To be serious, observing minute details when travelling is fun, and sometimes an investigation of the apparently trivial opens the sluices to a waterfall of information. We’ve witnessed, for example, how the majority of Georgians cross themselves when they pass a church, regardless of whether they’re strolling by on foot or seated inside a marshrutka. Even teenage hooligans, as they swagger along Rustaveli Avenue, might stop dead in their tracks and trace a signum crucis. It’s tempting to think that most Georgians are just deeply religious, and leave it at that, but the big picture is more complex.
“For some it’s more about national identity, not faith,” Nana believes. “Under Soviet rule the Georgian Orthodox Church suffered repression. After we split from Russia it became almost a symbol for independence. Our younger generation knows that upholding the trinity – ‘native language, native land and native religion’ – is what it means to be proudly Georgian.”
“And true spirituality? Is it common?”
“Yes, to various degrees and in many forms. Up in the mountains, pagan influences are still strong. For instance, when a person dies away from home, many believe his soul cannot find peace until it’s returned to his village. So a cockerel is taken to the place where the person passed away, along with ceremonial grains. They set the cockerel free, believing the bird can ‘capture’ the spirit. Based upon how it eats and crows, people know whether it was successful or not. It’s then taken back to the deceased’s home town with the soul inside. Kvini Lit’xe, this practice is called.”
Georgia isn’t a clearly outlined pencil sketch and understanding its heart takes time; it’s as if the country is surrounded by a semipermeable membrane, allowing merely cellular amounts of information to seep slowly through. Asking locals many questions speeds up the osmosis, yet the answers sometimes only add to the mysteries.
Our decision to use Georgia as base for a winter layover had another reason, apart from the relatively mild climate: their bureaucratic machine is virtually hassle-free. Most European nationals automatically receive a free 360-day visa upon entry. From here onward things will be different. Azerbaijan and Kazakhstan, our next two destinations, have stricter immigration policies. We need to apply for a Letter of Invitation from a sponsoring company, which must be approved by the ministry of foreign affairs and/or interior, and then we must properly time our entry and exit dates and fork out a fair amount of cash to their respective embassies. So, after descending from the Zagari Pass a month ago, we began to hunt for a place to call home until springtime. We started in Gori, Stalin’s native city, but Laura and I weren’t enticed to stay, no matter how many busts of Stalin beseeched us from the plazas to linger. Chiatura, a coal-mining city to the north, seemed more promising. Here we entered a world reminiscent of “Old Mother Russia”. Nestled in a valley lies a town time forgot. Due to the steep topography, Soviet urban planners had decided to string together a haphazard network of ski-lift cable cars to ferry residents to and from work. Miraculously the system is still operational, though it’s only held together by rust and prayers. The city has flair – call it a gloomy vibe – and definitely tons of character! The downside of Chiatura is the location: during winter, the deep valley receives only a few hours of sunlight a day.
This left us with Tbilisi. Hunting down a suitable apartment with a garage for our bikes was easy. After a quick search on various estate agents’ websites we had a sizeable range of options. Rental rates started at $150 a month for a two-room flat, but you get what you pay for, and for that price you don’t get much. The first few apartments we looked at were dark grottoes on the upper floors of crumbling outer-suburb high-rises. But then we found the “Nightingale’s Nest”: a semi-detached house in a quiet residential area. It’s love at first sight. We have hot water, high-speed internet and – best of all – we have Nana, our landlady. It’s a little more upmarket than we’ve anticipated, but hey, some things in life are worth an extra penny.
On Christmas Eve we dress in our warmest clothes and head into the city. Tbilisi may not be Paris or Rome, but neither is it Tegucigalpa in Honduras or Lagos in Nigeria. It has plenty of old, leaning houses in the historical centre, with crooked balconies and hidden courtyards, a collection of prominently placed Orthodox churches and even a ballet theatre. All lie in the shadow of the Narikala Fortress, situated high atop a hill. The Mtkvari River bisects Tbilisi and a small waterfall tumbles into a gorge beneath the botanical gardens, hidden behind the Abanotubani sulphur-baths. How many capitals in the world have a waterfall?
Holiday preparations are in full swing. The city council has strung up lights along the main shopping boulevard, and the statue of St George, sitting on a towering pillar in Freedom Square, has been turned into an artificial tree with blinking lights. Not too long ago the plaza was called Lenin Square, complete with a monument dedicated to the Russian revolutionary. As elsewhere in Georgia, all Lenins were toppled following independence and for the most part replaced with George and his dragon. All Caucasus nations have a peculiar relationship with Moscow. On the one hand they’re fiercely proud of their independence, and adamant to free themselves of all associations with the former Soviet Union. Even history might be distorted, just to prove a point. In the Tbilisi National Museum, for example, the Second World War exhibit presents Georgia’s fallen as “Victims of Russian Occupation and Oppression”, not “Heroes of the Red Army”. People gaze towards Europe when they think of a brighter future: a magical place where wages are high and governments less corrupt. On the other hand, an inward soul-search still reveals a strong moral and emotional bond of friendship with Russia, despite recent historical events.
“Do you see what I see?” I ask Laura as we stroll along Rustaveli Avenue, pointing towards a mobile drink-stand. Snow flurries are falling from the sky.
“I can definitely smell it. Glühwein! Christmas is saved!”
Many people in the West boycott the holiday nowadays. For them, the festive spirit has been lost through rampant commercial exploitation and “obligatory” shopping stress.24 But for many overlanders, even for those who are utterly irreligious, as I am, Christmas is special. Perhaps more than on any other day of the year, the traveller misses parents, friends and familiar faces. My family understands our situation; every year my mother tries to send me a package full of homemade chocolate-coated biscuits, to whatever country I happen to be in. Should this be Norway, all is well: they arrive nice and crispy. But once she posted a package to the tropical island of St Lucia, where the temperatures in December can rise above 30°C. Opening the box, all I found were dozens of sad-looking shortbread biscuits swimming in a sea of chocolate. This year we have a different problem. Although my mother posted the box three weeks ago in Germany, it has yet to arrive. During the Soviet era, Georgian households had mailboxes and the postman would bring letters and parcels directly to one’s home. Today, residents must visit the post office themselves to check for deliveries. We do so as well, every second day, and we carefully examine the postal workers’ faces for signs of guilt and biscuit crumbs. It would be awful if eating foreigners’ biscuits turned out to be another Georgian thing.
We’ve decorated our apartment as best we can. I’ve even thrown a strand of silver tinsel over Thor the cyclamen, rescued from my bike for the winter. He’s not looking so well, after having driven through a dozen countries on my handlebars – more than many people have seen in their lifetime. In the absence of Mum’s biscuits, we make a huge batch of Nigella Lawson’s Really Chocolatey Triple Chocolate Chip Cookies, though the “we” is an exaggeration: Laura does the baking; I only help with the eating.
“Maybe we shouldn’t go to the post office any more,” I suggest, grabbing a bikkie from the tray. “Have you heard of ‘Schrödinger’s Mailbox’? According to one interpretation of quantum mechanics, every system is a superposition of different states, which only collapse into a single reality once an observation is performed. In other words, as long as we don’t look into a mailbox it’s simultaneously full and empty. Isn’t having a potentially full box better than having nothing at all?”
“Can you eat a potential cookie?”
And again, Laura is right. A woman’s practicality can turn science itself on its head.
No Christmas is complete without presents. For landlady Nana I built a wooden cabinet she needed for her living room. She, in turn, made us a huge platter of gozinaki, a traditional holiday confection with caramelised nuts fried in honey. Constructing the cabinet wasn’t easy. When I picked up the boards I’d ordered from the carpenter’s, the measurements were wrong, some pieces were missing and the angles were more left than right. I made do with what I had and built a pretty, albeit slightly crooked, cupboard. Nana loves it, despite the flaws.
“Oh, that’s normal here,” she explains. “Nothing is done with precision and everything takes forever. Georgians often have difficulty breaking old habits. Back in Soviet days few products were available. If you didn’t have an electric cable connector you just twisted the wire ends together or used sticky-tape. Today, one can buy everything in Tbilisi, but many believe that what was good enough then is still good enough now.”
A week later, “New” New Year’s Eve arrives; unfortunately our German biscuits haven’t. To watch the celebrations we walk down to the new “Always Bridge” in Tbilisi. Officially it’s the Bridge of Peace, but many residents believe the design strongly resembles a lady’s Always Ultra sanitary pad, so they renamed it. We carry a bottle of bubbly with us, as do most of the locals. Security guards are on patrol to keep peace and order. Some, however, are no longer very steady on their feet. Arm in arm with their red-nosed colleagues, the guards cheerfully sway to and fro through the crowds.
Only a few more minutes till midnight. After we pop the cork, light up a few sparklers and jump around in circles hugging everybody in sight to wish them a happy 2014, we’ll need to head back home as soon as possible. Nana and her family have asked us to be this year’s mekvle. The word derives from kvali, meaning footstep or trace. According to tradition, a mekvle is the first person to cross the threshold of a private home after midnight on New Year’s Day – much the same as the Scottish first-footer. It is of utmost importance that he or – unlike the Scots – she has “happy feet”: in other words, a positive vibe, pure thoughts and a good heart. His or her aura will determine the household’s fortune for the next 365 days. Naturally, many Georgians try to manipulate the tradition by inviting a person believed to possess happy feet into their home just before the clock strikes midnight, then kicking them out with instructions to knock on the door a few minutes later. If the year turns out to be great, the same individual will be invited again the following New Year’s Day. We feel honoured to be mekvles, but I do hope Nana didn’t misjudge our auras. To be on the safe side I’ll let Laura walk in front of me. Her feet are very happy in my opinion.
Laura starts the countdown: “Three, two, one, happy 2014!”
We both take a huge swig from the bottle, watch the fireworks display and then catch a taxi back to our apartment. Knocking on Nana’s door, we are greeted with a tray full of nicely arranged saucers with honey, nut brittle and homemade bread.
“What are you bringing to our home?” Nana asks.
“Happiness, health, prosperity and peace for everybody!” we reply, according to tradition.
“It will be a great year, I’m sure,” she smiles warmly. “Now come in and eat.”
We do, but not too much. Next week there will be more cartloads of food – when we celebrate Christmas and New Year all over again.
The remaining days until March fly by quickly. Nearly three months of normal life, or at least as close as we might ever come to it, has drawn to an end. Goodbye fridge; farewell hot shower and comfortable bed. We’ve enjoyed all the little luxuries a tent cannot offer. It can be wonderful to have four warm walls every now and then instead of thin canvas, but I do miss waking up to birdsong and sun on my sleeping bag. It’s time to go. Nana is standing at the door with a handkerchief, while both motorcycles impatiently paw the ground and stare at the starting gate.
Mum’s biscuits, by the way, eventually arrived. They were quite stale when they did – the delivery had taken two full months. To all Georgian postal workers responsible for this hideous crime: may the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits and may your arms be too short to scratch! And now let’s head to Baku and onward into the blue.
Azerbaijan – 1 March 2014
The huge overhead road sign just before the Azerbaijani border only reads: “Good Luck”.
Whether the Georgian well-wisher placed it as a friendly farewell gesture for departing travellers, or as a warning of possible trouble ahead, we cannot say. We hope its purpose is not the latter: our paperwork is not completely in order and our minds are clouded with concerns.
It all began in Tbilisi with a stamp. Laura had realised that her Italian passport was running out of space due to the oversized visas glued onto nearly every page. For some unknown reason, visa dimensions are often inversely proportional to a nation’s political and economic importance on the global map: the more insignificant the country, the larger and more flamboyant the sticker. So a few days before we left the capital, Laura dashed to the Italian embassy to request a duplicate new passport, not a replacement, since her $100 visa for Azerbaijan was in the old one and she needed it to continue the voyage.
“Nessun problema!” the consul had promised her. “You can pick it up tomorrow.”
As in every European country, citizens can have multiple passports provided the issuance of duplicates can be justified. I have three, just like many journalists, diplomats and frequent flyers.
The following morning Laura skipped happily back to her embassy, only to discover that the consul had cocked up. A brand-new passport had promptly been issued – but the old one had a massive CANCELLED stamped on every page in red ink, including the one with her Azeri visa. My girl was speechless – something which happens extremely rarely to an Italian woman. Laura phoned the Azeri embassy to ask what could be done. The reply was not very promising.
“There’s no way you’ll be allowed to cross the border. You’ll have to apply for a new visa.”
We decided to try our luck crossing into Azerbaijan anyway, and now here we stand, parked under a “Good Luck” sign in no-man’s-land, a stone’s throw away from the immigration post.
Laura is ready to plead, beg and cry if necessary: an ancient female tactic that has been proven to soften the hearts of nearly every man, including stern border officials, across the world. For the first time in a year, she’s even put on some mascara and lipstick. Regrettably, male travellers do not have this option, or so I presume, since I’ve never tried. The most I could do on past solo trips was to pitch my tent in front of the customs house until the officials became so annoyed with my presence they relented and stamped me in. This always works, but such battles of will can take anything from a day up to a few weeks. We’ll only do that as a last resort.
All the countries from here onward, up to and including China, have the potential to cause us grief, so we might as well get used to it. They have policies that seem to discourage tourism, not promote it. Your tourist dollars are simply not needed when Central Asia has something much more lucrative: vast deposits of oil and gas. Visas are restrictive, and reliable up-to-date information is impossible to obtain since the rules for visitors change so frequently. One day you might need an official Letter of Invitation and possibly a guide; the next you don’t. In addition, visa costs and conditions depend not only upon your own nationality, but also the country where you submitted your application. We’ve met German overlanders who were only granted a “Stan visa” in Berlin provided they pre-booked accommodation for the duration of their stay, and others who obtained an identical visa at a Stan embassy abroad (for example in Austria, Turkey or Iran) yet were placed under no restrictions whatsoever. The experienced traveller will shop around internationally for the cheapest and most liberal visa offers, just as a budget-conscious housewife will seek out the best deals on tomatoes. Sounds ridiculous, but that’s the way it is.
We manage to clear out of Georgia in just a few minutes and reach the Azeri post wearing our brightest smiles. Luckily, they’re returned in kind by the dozen guards who had seen us approaching. I pull up alongside the official with most stripes on his shoulder, and before he even has the chance to ask for our documents I take off my helmet and gloves to shake his hand.
“Salam alaykum,” I greet, right hand over my heart and looking him in the eye while I slightly bow my head, as is customary in most Islamic countries. He follows suit, possibly more out of politeness than tradition. I have an inkling my behaviour is outdated. Azerbaijan is a secular state and known to be very liberal with regard to religion. Women generally do not cover up, restaurants and shops are open during Ramadan and the attitude towards alcohol is ambivalent – proposing a toast to Mohammad with a glass of local wine won’t condemn you to the seventh level of Jahannam, the deepest pit in Islamic hell.
Azerbaijan even hosted the 2012 Eurovision Song Contest. Under the swirling laser-lights of Baku’s Crystal Hall, contestants sang their hearts – and sometimes intestines – out in a battle between 42 countries. Laura and I had forced ourselves to watch the bizarre pop competition on television just before we left Germany – obviously not for the music, but rather in an attempt to understand more about the country we intended to visit. Azerbaijan is only very rarely mentioned by our Western media. We knew nothing about the country other than its location on the map. What we saw on stage and in the background during intermezzos surprised us: many singers and dancers wore provocative costumes, while on the streets one could glimpse couples strolling hand in hand and even kissing in public! Quite clearly, Azerbaijan was not Saudi Arabia.
Armenia, of course, didn’t participate in the contest. The threat of war looms ominously between Azerbaijan and Armenia over the Nagorno-Karabakh issue, and it may only be a question of time before the tanks start rolling. Azerbaijan’s president, Ilham Aliyev, has repeatedly stated that Armenians throughout the world are enemies of the state and vowed to take back the disputed region – and more. In a public speech he threatened to conquer not only Nagorno-Karabakh but also Armenia itself while he was at it. War’s foreplay has already begun: Azerbaijan was able to increase its military budget to nearly $4 billion in 2013 thanks to their oil revenues, ten times the amount Yerevan can afford to spend on its forces. The future of Armenia looks bleak.
I believe our border situation calls for ta’arof. This is an old Persian custom I was able to use to my advantage in emergencies on past trips to the Muslim world. In essence, it’s a form of cultural politesse, whereby two individuals engage in a long-winded exchange of niceties followed by just as many assurances. Meanwhile, there’s rarely an intention of following through with any pledges. Visitors to Islamic countries might encounter ta’arof on a daily basis when interacting with locals at bazaars, at restaurants or when receiving an invite to an individual’s home. Should you ever hear a taxi driver say something along the lines of: “Be my guest; you do not have to pay,” don’t automatically assume that this is what he means and respond with, “Why, thank you very much!” Proper etiquette dictates that you overwhelm him with gratitude and graciously insist on paying your fare. If, and only if, the proposal is repeated numerous times may you accept it as an offer of genuine hospitality. This also applies should your host express his desire to slaughter a sheep in your honour or invite you to sleep in the master bedroom of his house instead of the guest room. Western tourists unaccustomed to ta’arof may find these constant “white lies” confusing. Many would prefer the locals to simply say straight out what they mean and skip the courtesy bit altogether. For the local, however, engaging in ta’arof is imperative and good manners. It’s practised from street level up to big business and in politics.
So I step off my bike, shake every guard’s hand in turn, ask about their wellbeing individually and enquire about their families. After the difficulties I had with my deplorable Russian in Georgia, I can finally use my slightly better knowledge of Turkish to make myself halfway understood. The local lingo is basically a Turkic variation, as is the case in all the Stan countries we plan to visit.
“Ah, your children live in Baku and you have been posted here? What a shame; I hope you are able to visit them regularly!” I declare, expressing my sympathy, to then continue with the questions travellers to the Muslim world are themselves asked a million times a day: “How many children do you have? Do you have pictures you can show me?”
Asking such personal details is considered intrusive in the West, but here it’s not. While the guards enthusiastically show off their kids – especially the boys – Laura points to our motorcycles, lamenting the fact that we’re not so lucky.
“Children, sadly, do not fit into our side-boxes, but Insha’Allah, once we reach Australia, perhaps we too can have such wonderful families! If only we are spared many difficulties along the way. The road to Australia is long!”
After a small eternity of chit-chat about our journey and our bikes, the chief officer reassures us that Azerbaijan is a very welcoming country and we will face no problems. This was the ta’arof door we had been waiting for! As with an offer of a free taxi-ride, for example, the foreigner can accept, even if it wasn’t sincere. Once the door is ajar, it’s immensely difficult for locals to say “no”.
“My visa is in this passport and here is my new passport,” Laura explains, batting her eyelids a little. Within seconds we both have our entry stamps. The customs office even grants us permission to ride our bikes in Azerbaijan for the duration of our stay, which is highly unusual. Due to a bureaucratic glitch by the State Customs Committee regarding the temporary import of vehicles, foreign-registered motorcycles – as opposed to cars – are officially only allowed to be driven in the country for 72 hours. Apparently we played our cards well!
Azerbaijan will now be the first in a long line of non-democratic republics we wish to visit over the coming year. President Ilham Aliyev is a hereditary dictator if you ask me, though he’d claim he was democratically elected. It would be wise to keep my opinion to myself: draconian measures await those who criticise his regime. Laura and I unintentionally duck whenever we need to pass under the scornful eyes of Ilham and his deceased father, ex-president Heydar, gazing at us from overhead posters and house-sized video screens on the motorway. Father and son have been ruling the country for more than two decades and it’s doubtful this will change in the near future: in 2009 Ilham orchestrated a constitutional referendum allowing him to run for unlimited consecutive terms. The opposition party can only bang their heads against the wall since they don’t hold a single seat in parliament. Little wonder: the Aliyev clan funds its political campaigns with government resources as well as private income from stakes in the country’s largest banking and business sectors, the foremost being SOCAR – the State Oil Company of the Azerbaijan Republic – of which Ilham is vice-president.
It’s also precisely this oil that has catapulted Azerbaijan from a former Soviet backwater to a visibly wealthy Caspian state – as long as you don’t stray too far from the main roads. Every time we do, to stop for chai and a nibble, the pristine tarmac lined with modern shopping complexes swiftly morphs into potholed dirt tracks leading through dilapidated villages. Financial analysts claim that Azerbaijan ranks high on the economic development index and has low unemployment compared to other former Soviet republics, but I presume they mean the capital Baku. The majority of “employed” villagers we encounter are those trying to sell watermelons, fish and live rabbits at the roadside. We swerve between the outstretched arms that clutch the wriggling Bugs Bunnies by the ears and thrust them in front of our helmets. The only common denominator these impoverished towns share with the showcase glitz along the highway are posters of the Aliyevs nailed to the walls of many houses.
Meanwhile, Ilham’s 11-year-old son purchased nine Dubai waterfront mansions valued at $44 million in 2010. Don’t ask how a pre-teen was able to sign luxury property contracts; such questions might be construed as criticism of the government. The most significant issue for me is what the people think about their president’s tax evasions and money laundering in his overseas shell companies. Hell, not too long ago the German President, Christian Wulff, handed in his resignation after it became public knowledge that he had allegedly received a few favours while he was still an MP. He’d accepted free accommodation in a hotel while he was on vacation, and later became involved in a loan and media scandal. Whoop-de-doo! Yet in Azerbaijan a corrupt government that routinely taps private telephones and treats investigative journalism as “espionage” stays in power.
Wait a second – Western governments do that sort of thing too, don’t they? We still have Julian Assange, the founder of WikiLeaks and recipient of awards from Amnesty International and the Sydney Peace Foundation for his “exceptional courage in pursuit of human rights”, trapped inside the Ecuadorian Embassy in London. He’s been seeking diplomatic asylum since June 2012 – all because he dared to blow the whistle on Western governments’ crimes, in particular the true face of warfare with the famous “Collateral Murder” video. This gruesome footage, which shows American soldiers killing Iraqi civilians, is deemed classified by the US government. Should Julian ever be extradited to the United States he might face the death penalty under terrorism charges. Chelsea Manning, the soldier who sent the video to WikiLeaks, has already been sentenced to 35 years in prison – unlike Chen Guangcheng, the Chinese civil rights activist. He exposed his government’s policies and was welcomed in New York City as a hero in May 2012. Or how about Edward Snowden, the man who disclosed American NSA surveillance details and revealed that even Chancellor Angela Merkel’s mobile was tapped? Charged with espionage, he’s hiding at an undisclosed location in Russia, and also seeking permanent asylum in a “democratic” country. Also, please never forget those at Guantanamo Bay. Despite Obama’s vow to shut down the “gulag of our times” in 2009, 155 prisoners were still inside at the beginning of 2014, most of whom have never been charged with a crime. Some have been waiting since 2002 for their case to be brought to trial. That was the year I left Scotland with my Land Rover and still nothing has changed!
Let’s not brag about our own government systems when judging countries like Azerbaijan. It appears democracy, staged or real, is no guarantee for justice, and does not always lend itself to benevolent leaders. We felt no embarrassment courting the Bin Laden and Saddam Hussein clans in the past, as long as they served our interests (when they no longer did and became a threat, we killed them), and have no problem turning a blind eye towards Azerbaijan’s corrupt regime today. This country possibly has more untapped gas and oil than Saudi Arabia or Iran, and the potential to supply Europe with energy for many decades to come. Ilham is a great buddy to have. Europe is even considering Azerbaijan as a future member of the European Community – on the corner of every Manat, the local currency, one can see in which direction the political wind is blowing: banknotes are adorned with a complete map of Europe.
Sometimes I believe the concept of democracy needs a rethink. The world over I’ve seen only four variations and none seem to ensure social justice and a peaceful future for mankind. It can be as in Azerbaijan where, as Josef Stalin once put it: “It’s not the people who vote that count. It’s the people who count the votes.” Or the election process is fair, but the candidate people pick is not the one who truly holds the reins of power. Or the range of candidates is so meagre, voters pick not the one they like most, but the one they dislike least and he’s not bound to keep campaign promises. The fourth variant is where the elected head of state truly is a reflection of the masses … but who’s to say the masses are informed enough about national and international affairs to carry the huge responsibility of voting? Doctors need to prove their competence before they’re allowed to perform neurosurgery; people are required to pass a driving test before they can get behind the wheel of a car – would perhaps a “voter license” upon completion of a carefully crafted “voter exam” weed out at least some ill-informed individuals at the world’s ballot boxes? If you have any better ideas how to improve upon the existing democratic process, do tell. The world would greatly benefit.
Over the next few days we encounter the good, the bad and the ugly. The good includes the petrol prices and chai stops. At every single roadside eatery we’re presented with a scalding cup of tea for free, a slice of lemon and sugar cubes to suck upon while we sip. As in Iran, one doesn’t stir the sugar into the tea. Bad are Azeri drivers. The highway is full of new Mercedes limousines, old UAZ 4x4s and Kamaz lorries belching smoke. What they all appear to have in common is road rage. Ugly are the many police checkpoints. The former Georgian President Saakashvili fired his country’s entire 30,000-strong police force in 2005 due to their notorious corruption, and then employed new officers. It may be wise for President Ilham to do the same in Azerbaijan. We’ve heard of one overlander who parted with $400 in bribes between the border and Baku. We are luckier and breeze through without paying a cent.
If you’re stopped by the police in any country around the world – provided you did nothing wrong – you needn’t become a victim of corruption. Begin with a smile and see if friendliness gets you anywhere. If not, ask for the officer’s superior and demand to see the traffic violation regulation in writing. Should this equally fail, you need to do some good acting: ask for the officer’s ID, take out your mobile phone and make a pretend call to some government ministry in the capital. It matters not if the policeman doesn’t speak your language properly. If you drop his name, number and the word “corruption” into your simulated conversation he’ll get the gist. Alternative tactics include playing dumb and speaking only in your own tongue, or insisting that you pay the bogus fine at a bank. My preferred strategy whenever I’m asked for money, is to hand-sign “naughty-naughty” with my finger and drive away. In the past 16 years of travelling not once have I ever paid a bribe.
In addition to good, bad and ugly, we have the great, namely the Qobustan landscape and wild-camping options. After months spent in populated and noisy Tbilisi, the silence of the desert is overwhelming. It’s full of low mountain ridges, dry ravines, and sun-scorched plains speckled with limestone boulders – perfect places behind which we can pitch our tent and hide two motorcycles. Many centuries ago, Qobustan was partially submerged beneath the Caspian Sea and the climate was wet enough to support vast amounts of wildlife, including lions, leopards and gazelles. Not any more; the only fauna we encounter is a scorpion in Laura’s boot. She’d mistakenly left her footwear outside the tent overnight, something that won’t happen again.
Finally, we arrive at the Caspian Sea. It’s the world’s largest lake and conceals our planet’s third largest reserves of oil and gas. But the 800-kilometre-long Azeri beach is not exactly Thailand or the Australian Gold Coast. Instead of sandy coves dotted with palm trees, we find scenery reminiscent of a Mad Max film set. For our beach holiday we have the option of sleeping next to abandoned refineries, under oil pipelines or between nodding donkeys (not the long-eared Eeyore kind, but mechanical oil pumps), none of which provide for a very romantic setting. At least I never have to worry about running out of petrol in this country; all I’d need to do is secretly drill a hole in a random pipeline and fill up my tank.
The Caspian’s salty waters and constant winds could provide a grand site for surfing. Yet all hopes are in vain: the coastal waters are covered in a greasy film and the sea breeze tastes sharply of oil and sand. Laura and I opt out of going for a swim. Marco Polo, who passed through this region in the 13th century, believed taking an oil bath was an ideal treatment for “men and animals with mange and camels with hives and ulcers.” Even today, Azerbaijan’s elite can splash out at one of the country’s spas that advertise the health benefits of immersion in oil. They claim it has the ability to cure skin diseases, rheumatism and arthritis. I’ll stick with Western medical opinion and claim it’s carcinogenic.
Geological signs of the region’s immense wealth are everywhere. Azerbaijan’s name may derive from the Persian Āzar (holy fire) and pāygān (place of). If so, it’s well named. Where mankind doesn’t drill into the bowels of Earth to extract its blood, nature bleeds of its own accord. Natural gas seeps out of the porous ground on the Absheron Peninsula. Where the gas is ignited, visitors who bring along a picnic can grill bratwurst and bananas over the open flames. It’s a popular outing for locals and tourists alike. Just a few kilometres inland from the coast are Qobustan’s famous flatulent mud volcanoes. Some 400 are currently active – bubbling, farting and occasionally erupting in massive explosions.
Nearby is an inscription on a boulder probably left by a Roman centurion sometime between 83 and 96 CE. It reads: “IMP DOMITIANO CAESARE AVG GERMANICO LVCIVS IVLIVS MAXIMVS LEG XII FVL” – Emperor Domitian Caesar Augustus Germanicus, Lucius Julius Maximus (the centurion) XIIth Legion Fulminata (Thunderbolt). Some historians believe this engraving marked the easternmost edge of the Roman Empire, an early form of graffiti stating “I was here”. So are we. Laura and I take a step beyond the boulder and look at each other.
“Hey, do you realise we’ve come further with Puck and Pixie than the Romans ever advanced?” I say, not without a hint of pride.
“And we still have a ways to go. Come on, let’s head into Baku and get the bureaucracy over and done with.”
Laura is right. We have more visas to procure and a ferry to catch; for the first time since we left Germany we’re actually in a rush.
Baku; what a city. I don’t know whether to call it fascinating or grotesque. How should one aesthetically judge a metropolis that has in its centre replicas of the Louvre’s glass pyramid and a Venetian canal, a UNESCO-protected 11th century tower, a vista of oil rigs blurring into the horizon from the seaside boardwalk and a Russian-style subway system dug so deep it doubles as an atomic fall-out shelter? Those who suffer from claustrophobia and do not wish to descend into the cavernous metro can whisk themselves through the city in one of Baku’s thousand purple London taxis, purchased specifically for the Eurovision Song Contest. A worthwhile venture may also be a visit to the four-metre-high wall built along the new highway to the airport for the event – I’m told it was to prevent foreign visitors seeing the poverty on the other side.
Some of the futuristic buildings could be considered beautiful; others resemble a Star Wars battleship that crashed arse-first into the ground. Plans are underway to construct a one-kilometre-high tower with 189 floors and a ring of 41 artificial islands as a luxury residential area comparable to Dubai’s Palm Jumeirah. It’s amazing what you can do with a gazillion barrels of oil. At least the offshore development will not result in the forced eviction of underprivileged locals, as occurred during the building of Eurovision’s Crystal Hall. Many were not even compensated when their flats were demolished.
As for the older structures, it’s difficult to tell the authentic from imitations. Some restored mansions are on a par with anything we saw in Tbilisi, but many are Disney-style counterfeits with fake stone cladding affixed to underlying concrete walls. This combination of modern and ancient architecture, night-time pulsating LED displays on glass towers and cobblestone alleys leading through carpet bazaars, is an assault on the senses – or an affront, depending on how you look at it.
Mosques and minarets are a rare sight in a city that has a bronze statue of a young woman wearing a navel-revealing crop top in the pedestrian zone. What’s lacking in religious display is compensated for with signs of patriotism. An American firm constructed a 162-metre-high flagpole at the northern end of Baku with a banner the size of a football field. Call Baku surreal, pretentious or glitzy, the only thing I do know with absolute certainty is that it’s bloody expensive. Hostel prices are so insane we try our luck with couchsurfing, as we did in Zermatt. Our saviour is Andrew, a Polish expat our age with a luxury apartment overlooking the city.
We would have preferred to linger a while longer in the deserts of Qobustan, but we needed to visit Baku in order to procure the Silk Road’s holy trifecta: visas for Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan and Tajikistan. Problem is, we’d unknowingly arrived in the capital during the major holiday season and most embassies would soon close for a week or longer. It was Novruz Bayramı – New Year’s Day again – complete with fireworks, celebrated in Azerbaijan on the Spring Equinox according to the Persian calendar. This is now our third New Year in the past three months! Somehow, by sprinting frantically through town, we manage to obtain all our visas in time to catch the next ferry to Kazakhstan, which only sails once a fortnight. I bid my farewell to this crazy oil-boom country by recalling the words Anke Engelke used when she announced the Eurovision contest score results: “Tonight, nobody could vote for their own country, but it’s good to be able to vote and it’s good to have a choice. Good luck on your trip, Azerbaijan. Europe is watching you.”
With that, we mount up and head to the ferry terminal.
Kazakhstan – 1 April 2014
“You’ll be able to board the ferry in 20 minutes,” says the friendly port guard for the tenth time in the past six hours. Laura and I have both resigned ourselves to the fact that 20 Azeri minutes are infinitely longer than 20 minutes in the West. We’ve been waiting at the Kazakhstan terminal since five in the afternoon and now it’s almost midnight. The parking lot is eerily empty apart from a few cars belonging to the staff and a tribe of feral cats purring around a tuna tin we gave them earlier. It doesn’t look like we’re anywhere near ready to board.
“Today, tomorrow, whenever. If Baku uses African minutes we should get out our tent and sleeping bags,” Laura remarks, jumping around in circles to keep warm. “My nipples are freezing off!”
Still, we won’t complain too much. Just a few days ago we were starting to worry we’d never be able to cross the Caspian at all. And we do have some positive news. Our ferry will be the Barda, the pride of the Caspian freighter fleet, and not one of the rusting hulks built during the Soviet days. One such ship is currently moored in the bay adjacent to the Kazakhstan terminal. It has just arrived from Turkmenistan and is listing precariously to one side. As the lorries and freight trains roll out of the hold, it temporarily rights itself, then starts tipping in the opposite direction. Even somebody who’s not a shipwright can see that such vessels were not designed for the high seas. Though more than 150 metres long, the span is far too narrow to cope with heavy storms. These top-heavy ships sway like drunken sailors when waves begin to roll. In 2002, a ship just like this one – the Merkuriy 2 – sank on its way from Kazakhstan to Baku. Gale-force 8 winds combined with six-metre waves caused 16 tanks of oil to break the tethers holding the cargo in place. The containers shifted, the 12.320-ton Merkuriy 2 became unbalanced and it sank. Of the 51 souls on board only nine were saved.
In light of this, we decide it may be worthwhile to wait for the Barda, regardless how long it takes. It was built in Croatia only a few years ago; not only is the design more seaworthy, the interior is said to be quite modern. Reports by other travellers who sailed on the older vessels mention how they had to share cabins with intoxicated lorry drivers. The communal bathrooms had no running water to wash or flush the toilets, which apparently hadn’t been cleaned since Stalin last took a dump. At least on the Barda we’ve been promised a private en-suite cabin all to ourselves.
Not so modern is the whole ticket-booking system. Laura and I are vaguely reminded of our experiences on Lake Aswan, when we shipped Matilda from Sudan to Egypt. If you want to sail from Calais to Dover all you have to do is check the timetable, pay the fare and drive onto the waiting vessel. Here in Baku there is no timetable: the cargo ships plying the ominous Caspian Triangle – Turkmenistan–Azerbaijan–Kazakhstan – leave port only when there is sufficient cargo to justify the voyage. Many overlanders have been forced to wait days, sometimes even weeks, sleeping in the parking lot at the terminal until a boat can take them. In bad weather ferries will go nowhere to avoid a repeat of the Merkuriy 2 disaster. Thus, tickets are only available a few hours before departure, not days in advance.
To complicate matters, the person who holds the supreme power to sell these tickets to you is a woman in her mid-forties who leaves customers with the distinct impression that she has better things to do than talk to lesser mortals. In effect, she’ll only give you a ticket if she’s in a good mood. When we entered her sovereign domain earlier in the day we found the sea-priestess of Baku cursing in Russian and banging her office television set, which was only showing static. Her attempted repair did not look promising, so neither did our chances of persuading her to attend to us.
“Allow me,” I offered, looking behind the set. I immediately recognised the problem: the cable to the aerial was not plugged in. Fearing I might make her look stupid if I “repaired” the television in two seconds flat, I took out my pocket screwdriver and pretended to turn imaginary screws on the rear panel for a few minutes. “There you go; that should do it.”
“Ahh … thank you so very much!” the priestess exclaimed with a huge smile, switching the channel to her favourite Azeri soap opera. “How may I help you?”
Soon we had our vouchers, together with some farewell advice: “Pack lots of food. The crossing is only 350 kilometres, but it can take anywhere from 20 hours to a week.”
All of a sudden, at about one in the morning, a burst of frenzied activity in the parking lot tears me from my reverie. “Now, now, fast, fast!” the port guard calls out to us. “Get your bikes onto the ramp.”
Laura and I ride into the Barda’s hold and park between the railway carriages and lorries. We had better tie down Puck and Pixie well, lest they break loose from their tethers and capsize the boat. A deckhand ushers us to our cabin, a relatively large double room with a private shower and toilet. The hygiene levels aren’t great. Our mattresses smell of lorry-drivers’ feet and have a few unsavoury stains, but we’re so deliriously exhausted we really couldn’t care less at the moment. We collapse into our bunks and are fast asleep within minutes. Sometime during the night, the Barda weighs anchor and sails into the darkness.
Because our cabin has no porthole we awake with pounding headaches. Venturing outside onto deck for a breath of fresh air, we are greeted by a bright, welcoming sun. We decide to have a nose around and see what distractions our “cruise liner” offers. It appears we’re free to wander wherever we please: down to the vehicle deck, into the kitchen, the machine room and even the bridge after obtaining permission from the captain. A cocktail bar is missing, but we do locate a common room where the rest of the passengers are enjoying beer for breakfast. All are lorry drivers from Russia, Latvia and Georgia. Apart from us, no other tourists are on board.
We prefer our morning coffee. Retreating to a corner of the deck protected from the wind, cups in hand, we spend the rest of the day reading, writing, and tanning ourselves for the first time this year. Out at sea is nothing but a great expanse of water and a few birds following in our wake. Other travellers have complained of boredom; we find the experience invigorating. I think to myself, I could easily spend a week on our fairy-tale “sailing carpet”. Problem is, sometimes in life you get precisely what you ask for.
This time, the rattle of the anchor does wake us. If my inner clock is correct, it’s close to midnight, and after 20 hours of smooth sailing we should have arrived in Aktau. Quickly dressing, we run outside to catch our first glimpse of Kazakhstan. There it is, but not where we hoped it would be. The Barda isn’t at the terminal but more than a kilometre offshore. Apparently we’re waiting for clearance to dock, but that’s all the information the captain can give us. Nobody has an inkling how long it will take, and nobody really seems to care as long as there’s a stash of vodka and beer on board. Maybe tomorrow; perhaps not.
On the morning of the third day we’re still bobbing around like a dead duck, precisely where we were yesterday. By now Laura and I are so well rested we resemble two comatose zombies. Yet there’s still absolutely no sign of clearance. In the meantime more boats have joined our flotilla of “Flying Azeri-men”, destined to spend all eternity as offshore ghost ships. All we can do is wait. While Laura has taken a great liking to her sunbathing spot, I feel more at home in the engine-room dungeon inspecting its two 2,000-kilowatt MAN ship diesels together with my new friend, Ali. He’s the second engineer, was born in Azerbaijan and speaks a smattering of English.
The moment Ali found out that I’m a former shipwright I became something akin to a trusted colleague. After a litany of mechanical chitchat about piston sizes, sea valves and what-not, I take the opportunity to again ask a local what he thinks of his president. A framed photo of Ilham is hanging above the machinist’s engine-control panel.
“I love him! He’s a great leader and very popular in our country”, Ali exclaims, placing one hand over his heart.
“What about the fact that election results are released before voting even started? Or Ilham’s money laundering and the poverty I saw on the road to Baku?” I ask.
“No, no. You have it all wrong. The English are to blame for our country’s troubles. All Azeri oilfields are owed by Western companies that pocket the wealth of our nation, leaving nothing for us. You take what’s ours, do not compensate us and that’s why there are so many poor.”
I’d better be more careful with my words. Ali may have started with “the English”, but he then reverted to the pronoun “you”, implicating that I’m at fault for his country’s woes. Nonetheless, I continue to dig myself a hole.
“Well, for one thing, your government owns one-third of these companies’ shares. That’s how the Aliyevs earned their billions.”
“That’s Western propaganda. All lies! Only the West wants to discredit our president. I have faith he will right the wrongs done to us. He’s a good person. He’s brought stability to our nation.”
It’s not the first time I’ve heard this opinion, and maybe I should be quiet before I’m keel-hauled. Better I change the topic and talk about ship’s engines again.
“Um, yes … how big are the pistons, you say?”
Propaganda is a powerful tool. You can sell anything to the masses if your voice is eloquent, loud and repetitive enough. In the case of Azerbaijan, even if there were democratic elections, I suspect Aliyev would win. He does seem to be popular, and criticism comes mainly from abroad. The question I ask myself is, “What right do I have to lecture locals on their country’s internal affairs?” Ali earns a pitiful $15 a day – and a little bit of drug money on the side (marijuana sells for $70 a gram in Azerbaijan, but only $2 a gram in Kazakhstan). If he is not overly bothered by corruption and his nation’s human rights record, why should I be? I tend to apply European civil rights’ standards when travelling around the world; Ali compares the situation in his country to neighbouring Iran and nearby Afghanistan. If that’s your reference frame, then Ilham is indeed a great president! I climb back onto deck and join Laura to watch the sunset. We sleep a third night on the Barda, and then a fourth.
Our fifth day on the high seas, and the meals prepared for us by the kitchen staff have noticeably dropped in both quantity and quality. It appears we’ve been put on half-rations. To top it off, our toilet waste pipe cracked, and our cabin floor is now covered in a festering puddle of water.
“Scurvy! That’s it!” Laura exclaims suddenly at the dinner table. “I’ve been racking my brains trying to remember what disease one gets when stuck at sea for months without veggies and vitamins.”
“I have even worse news,” I respond. “The kitchen has run out of beer, and you know what that means.”
“What?”
“Cannibalism.”
Fortunately, we do not need to nibble on lorry-drivers’ feet, or they on ours. Unexpectedly, the water glasses on our table start vibrating as the anchor is weighed for the final time and we feel the gentle sway of movement. 120 hours after getting on the boat, the gangway at Aktau is lowered. However, this doesn’t mean we’re free to hit the road just yet.
As we ride our bikes off the freighter we’re immediately greeted by two Kazakh officers the size of professional wrestlers. I’ve seen a number of impressive people on my trips – Russian border guards or Congolese military commanders, for example – but these guys are in a completely different league: they look like Chinese on steroids!
“Welcome to Kazakhstan,” the less intimidating officer says gruffly in broken English. “Where are you from?”
“Germany and Italy,” I reply.
“Hitler Mussolini Adriano Celentano. Good.” For the briefest moment, he flashes his teeth, an expression I hope is the local equivalent of a smile. Either that or he wants to eat us. We’re ushered towards the passport-control building, where another duo sets about examining our documents. Laura’s is processed quickly, but with mine immigration has difficulties. The reason is obvious: whereby Repubblica Italiana is comprehensible in most languages, Europäische Union Bundesrepublik Deutschland is indecipherable, unless you know what Germans call their own nation. I imagine citizens of Finland (Suomi), Hungary (Magyarország) or Japan (Nippon) face similar problems at borders, should the English translation not be mentioned on their document’s cover.
“This is European passport?” I’m asked, five times in a row.
“No, it’s a German passport,” I respond just as often. Then, since our discussion is going nowhere, I expand my explanation by sighing, “You know: Hitler.”
“Ah! Hitler-Germany!”
Just when I think everything has been clarified, and I can finally get my stamp, the immigration officer surprises me with one final question:
“Is this East German or West German passport?”
Oh, dear me. Not only do the minutes run differently here, but also the decades.
Customs control is no less problematic. The officer in charge has difficulty transcribing all our vehicle details from the Latin alphabet into Kazakh Cyrillic. In Kazakhstan, the script has been amended numerous times over the past century: from Perso-Arabic to Latin in 1929, from Latin to Russian Cyrillic in 1940 and then to a modified version. Recently the idea was raised to revert back to Latin, but apart from the immense cost of reprinting every sign, textbook and government record in the country, such conversions carry an additional predicament: the population becomes illiterate overnight. Hardly anybody in the country today can read a book printed before 1929!
Finally we’re allowed to proceed, and are now ready to explore a small part of one of the largest countries on the planet. The westernmost region, that’s to say the territory left of the Ural River, is usually considered to belong geographically to Europe. To the east, if we didn’t have the intention of touring through all the other “Stans”, we could cross directly from Kazakhstan into China.
Aktau, Kazakhstan’s major seaport and our gateway to this vast nation, is regrettably one of the most uninspiring cities I’ve ever seen. It only attracts expat oil-company workers, and saying “attract” is an exaggeration. Aktau has but few diversions for those unfortunate enough to be transferred or born here: an open-cast uranium mine complete with a currently defunct fast-breeder reactor; a desalination plant to provide drinking water so visitors can wash down the desert dust lodged in their throats; and a MiG-21 jet monument. Laura and I park in the shade of the latter and wonder how many residents have wished the old fighter could rise and carry them off to more promising lands. Probably more than a few. Nearly half a century ago the people of Aktau buried a time capsule in the town centre containing messages for future generations. The sealed metal cylinder is due to be opened in 2017, and it wouldn’t surprise me if half the letters simply read, “Get me outa here!”
The city planners didn’t even bother giving names to Aktau’s streets! Instead, addresses are based on coldly numbered microdistricts and building-block codes. In my opinion, if you’re going to construct a city in the middle of a wasteland at least create an illusion of beauty by calling the streets “Meadow Lane”, “Rose Boulevard” or “Tulip Promenade”. The Mennonites did that in Paraguay’s desolate Chaco region with their end-of-the-world settlements of Kleefeld (Field of Clover), Lichtfelde (Field of Light), Blumenort (Place of Flowers) and Schoenau (Beautiful Pasture). These names are more wishful-thinking than a description of reality – neither many flowers nor clover grow in the Chaco – but hey, the Soviets weren’t Mennonites and apparently didn’t think along these lines. After stocking up on fuel and edibles, we leave Aktau almost as soon as we arrive. I find myself humming U2’s famous song “Where the Streets Have No Name” under my helmet as we drive off.
Ahead of us is a 600-kilometre stretch through the Mangystau Desert. Signs of human civilisation soon disappear and the inhabitants turn ungulate: thousands of camels are roaming the arid plains. Cyclists often claim that the route from Aktau to Beyneu and the Uzbek border is a contender for the title of “worst road in the world”. Complaints include the never-abating strong headwinds, long distances between water and food sources, lack of scenic variety, appalling road conditions, and difficulties finding suitably sheltered places to set up camp. Some end up sleeping in the culverts beside the motorway for respite, or in the large concrete drainpipes dug beneath. Basically, it’s said to be non-stop suffering. Many who come from the opposite direction even declare that Aktau seems like paradise after the long ride through the desert. Now that says it all!
As bikers, we have a more positive opinion and enjoy the remoteness. While it’s true that the winds are fierce, they can only wobble us, not slow us down. We don’t lack provisions en route, because we can carry in excess of 20 litres of water without the added weight causing us to break into a sweat. Potholes and sand-traps are bothersome, and steel rebar jutting out of poorly maintained concrete-slab road surfaces can puncture our inner tubes, but the deplorable state of this route also has a few advantages. At the roadside we find an assortment of lorry parts that have rattled loose, some of which I can use as emergency spares for Puck and Pixie. And when it comes to finding somewhere to camp, we don’t think twice about veering off-road for a few kilometres. While there may be only sparse vegetation to hide behind from the wind, there are plenty of rocky outcrops in the distance. Or camels, provided they lie down and don’t move for the night.
A significant amount of traffic plies this route, and all drivers have three things in common: an overabundance of curiosity, a desire to offer unwanted assistance, and 200-decibel compressor horns. With impeccable timing, they always manage to blast fanfares into our ears the moment they’re in our blind spot. The occupants, including the drivers, then usually throw half their bodies out of the window and frantically wave to catch our attention. I’m accustomed to differing attitudes towards personal space around the world, ranging from five kilometres in Germany to five millimetres in India. However, I do prefer to maintain greater distance while I’m riding my motorcycle. Some drivers also get us to stop by pointing to the roadside and braking directly in front of us. After shaking hands and exchanging the standard pleasantries with all the occupants they pull out their iPhones, grab my helmet without asking, and demand to sit on my Yamaha to have their photo taken. Laura is usually spared these antics – apparently no Kazakh man wants to take a seat on a girl’s bike.
The trickiest bit is leaving the road to hunt for a suitable location to camp without the locals noticing us. If we’re spotted and the terrain allows the drivers to follow us, they will do so to ask if we’ve lost our way. I can now almost understand why Sacha Baron Cohen chose “Kazakhstani” as the nationality for his eccentric, annoying, yet somehow likeable film character Borat. The only way of finding a place to sleep without attracting unwanted attention is to wait until there’s a large gap in the flow of traffic and then swiftly make our escape before a car appears on the horizon. Oh, and if possible, always select a camp to the west of the main road. As anybody who spent their childhood reading Jack London knows, by riding into the glare of a setting sun you become nearly invisible to casual observers.
What we cannot find in Kazakhstan, no matter how hard we’ve tried in the past week, are the amazing spring colours said to briefly paint the desert in yellow and red during its annual bloom. This is supposed to happen at the end of March. Did we miss it? The whole landscape is a bland beige-brown, and we’re already well into April. At this time of the year, temperatures in the Mangystau are supposed to be around 20°C, yet here we are, still riding in our full winter gear.
When we finally see a chaihana pop up on the horizon, we twist throttles and accelerate. Chaihanas are teahouses, and the closest thing to motorway services you’ll find in Central Asia. They’re usually not very glamorous, but the meals dished up for their prime clientele, namely hungry long-distance lorry-drivers, are both cheap and filling. Better still, they’re served with a side plate of shade from the wind. Huddling in front of a stove, we munch on our shashlyk (mutton kebabs) and peer out the window. What we see – or to be precise don’t see – is unbelievable. Outside, the weather has taken a turn for the worse. A violent sandstorm is brewing and the visibility has dropped almost to zero. Crazier still, the winds are carrying snowflakes along with the sand! We need to quickly set up camp. Paying the bill, we hop back onto our bikes, ride behind a small hill and struggle with our tent. For once we needn’t concern ourselves about being spotted by locals: we can hardly make out the nearest camel. A final look at Puck’s thermometer and we dive into our abode. It reads −8°C.
The following morning we awaken to a surreal landscape. The sun is out in full force in a perfectly clear sky, but the desert is blanketed in white, fluffy snow. The camel we saw last night is still there, taking shelter behind a boulder. Its two humps have white caps like miniature Alpine peaks. I wish I could share these images with my family, but in the desert there’s no WiFi connection, of course. Camels don’t Skype.
While the freak storm may have disappeared, so has the dirt road to Beyneu. Thanks to the drastic rise in temperature and ensuing snowmelt, it’s turned into a mud track so sludgy we only manage to cover 50 kilometres during ten hours of riding. Every few minutes one of us either gets bogged or flops the motorcycle over onto its side. Our tyres and brake discs are soon encased with so much wet clay, they no longer rotate freely. For once the tides are turned and a lightweight bicycle would be handier. Ride, slide, stop; remove mudguard, clean. Ride, slide, stop; remove mudguard, clean. Over and over we repeat the procedure until we eventually hit tarmac again. The border to Uzbekistan is now only a day’s ride away – unless we encounter a few blizzards, tornadoes or tsunamis en route.
Nature is unpredictable, a truth we’ve just been made acutely aware of. So is mankind, as we’re about to witness, for within Karakalpakstan, the easternmost region of our next country, lies what is perhaps the worst environmental disaster the human race has ever created: the Aral Sea tragedy.
Karakalpakstan – 1 May 2014
I’m not sure why we have to drive through a puddle of disinfectant before crossing the border into Uzbekistan. The country is surrounded by neither wall nor fence. No barrier prevents the herds of camels or stray dogs from passing to and fro; no barbed wire can catch airborne rubbish, blown from the dumps on either side of this desolate frontier – but just as in any country around the globe, government protocols are there to be followed, even those that are nonsensical.
Upon our arrival, we see an endless queue of private cars and lorries waiting their turn to enter the border compound. The reason is the obligation for drivers to pass every piece of luggage and personal belonging through the customs office x-ray machine, item by item.
“Everything on your bike must be removed!” the official barks at us with a ghost of a smile. I somehow suspect a bribe would entice him to speed up the process. Not from us. If they want to play strictly by the rules, we’re more than willing to oblige. Laura begins by carrying our bag of spaghetti to the scanner, returns and follows up with her toothbrush. Meanwhile, I’m having fun deciding what I should put first on the x-ray conveyor belt. My number 13 spanner perhaps? A spare spark plug? However, it never comes to my turn. By the time the customs officers see five tampons slowly wandering right to left on their video screen, they’ve had enough.
“You can go! We are finished!”
The exit gates are unbolted and the view opens up to a flat and contour-less expanse of dust, with a dead-straight highway bisecting the scenery into symmetrical halves all the way to the horizon. The tarmac provides the only splash of colour to the setting, if one calls black a colour. So this is the autonomous region of Karakalpakstan, our home for the next weeks. No wonder few in the West have ever heard of this Stan. It almost doesn’t appear to exist.
After a day of very leisurely riding, I can see that Laura is beginning to get bored. We’ve covered more than 100 kilometres and have yet to find a notable curve.
“Chris, my elbows have fallen asleep. Can’t I just lock the handlebar into a straight position and take a nap?” my girl says during a cigarette break.
“But you lived half your life in Australia, the flattest continent on earth! This is nothing compared to the Eyre Highway across the Nullarbor Plain.25 So why don’t you like it here?”
“At least in Oz one has jumping kangaroos to provide some distraction. Here the most exciting things are the potholes in the road.”
I take a final drag and look around. Fair enough, as far as striking scenery goes, the Karalkum Desert is not the Gobi or the Sahara, but I still find desolate landscapes beautiful and love how they play on the senses. One comes to appreciate minute details, often overlooked in a lush environment. When in a tropical jungle, the idiom “you can’t see the wood for the trees” holds true, as does the reverse form “you can’t see the tree for the wood”. In a desert, every feature stands out and appears magnified, as if one were constantly peering through binoculars. A bunch of shrubs in the distance becomes the Amazon rainforest and any rise of a few metres the Matterhorn. Deserts slow down time and have moods that affect my own emotional state. In this vast emptiness, the feeling of solitude reveals to me where my priorities lie. Nearly void of life, the living take precedence. I understand intensely how much I should cherish friends, family and Laura, my sole companion. Nothing can be taken for granted – not people, not water, not even personal survival. On a day like today, when the sky is overcast, I aim for the edge of the cloud cover, where I might fall off the world’s rim into the blue. Ancient mariners who believed the earth was a flat disc feared the prospect of plunging into the heavenly abyss if they sailed too far. Not I; I can be the Greek hero Bellerophon and Puck my Pegasus if I hallucinate enough.
No, I’ve not succumbed to boredom just yet. I do not require a constant influx of extreme stimuli. Travel, according to my definition, is not about excessive sightseeing or adventures. It is movement from one physical, intellectual or emotional state to another, no more, but also no less. Sure a hike through the Grand Canyon is intense, but so is a pleasant song you might hear when sitting at a Sydney café with your travel diary. It can affect how you feel, what you write about and how you see the world. Deserts impart a similar type of subtle inspiration, for those willing to listen to the melody.
“Don’t worry,” I comfort Laura as I fasten my helmet. “Not all of Uzbekistan is this flat. There are some huge mountains to the east on the border with Tajikistan. The highest is called Peak of the 22nd Congress of the Communist Party. Or was it the 21st Congress?”
“Gosh, don’t the Russians have a creative imagination? Soviet architecture, mountain names … I bet they built this bloody boring desert!”
Laura’s sarcasm will pass, I think to myself. Besides, women are entitled to foul moods every now and then: it’s one of their prerogatives. The Karalkum has apparently affected her emotions as well, just in a different manner.
Back on the road a while later, I notice how Laura suddenly stands up on her pegs and accelerates. I match her pace to find out the cause for excitement. A speck has appeared in the distance, growing larger with every kilometre we ride. It’s probably just another roadside necropolis: an ancient cemetery resembling a miniature city with magnificent domed mausoleums as its buildings. They’re always very picturesque with carvings of rams adorning the gables, and elaborate stone stelae called kulpytas, but instinct tells me Laura is hoping for something different.
“It’s a chaihana!” I hear her scream above the noise of our engines. “Let’s eat!”
Several minutes later, we pull to a halt in front of a roadhouse in the middle of absolutely nowhere.
Once upon a time, this particular chaihana may have been near a great caravanserai, built to support the flow of commerce along the Silk Road. Nowadays it exists primarily for the employees of a gasfield and jail in the desert community of Jasliq, a bit further down the highway. If it wasn’t for the two lorries parked out front I’d swear the place was empty. It has a vaguely Wild West feel to it, complete with a creaking metal advertising sign blowing in the wind and native tumbleweed rolling around in the dusty car park. Clint Eastwood would feel right at home.
We don’t care much about ramshackle appearances. Last night we devoured our last package of instant noodles and are ravenous. Whatever is available, today I’d eat it. The owner of the chaihana greets us with a toothless “Assalomu aleykum” as we enter, then points to a seating arrangement in the dining room. The little man is so old he may well have personally served Marco Polo a shot of camel milk during his last visit. Next he turns up the radio to full blast, as is often customary when new guests arrive.
Contrary to the outside, the interior decor is not that bad, if one ignores the plastic flowers hung everywhere to provide some greenery to this colour-deprived world. There are no chairs, just tapchans: bedlike platforms covered with carpet and cylindrical pillows, ideal for taking a nap after a hearty meal. One must remove one’s shoes before hunching cross-legged at the small table in their centre. There’s also no menu. As in most chaihanas, and indeed in all Central Asia, the selection of main courses is so limited, listing them would be a waste of paper. You definitely don’t come to this part of the world for culinary experiences. You usually only find kebabs, laghman (a noodle-based soup with fatty meat, onions and tomatoes), somsa (as the Indian samosa – a dough pocket with meat or potatoes inside), manti (similar to ravioli, stuffed with meat) and occasionally Russian fare, tasting of the old USSR. Oh, and don’t forget plov, Central Asia’s staple food and the bane of our existence. Oh dear. What can I say about plov? I have this theory that a relationship exists between the name of a meal and its taste. If you visit France, for example, and spot something like Moules à la crème Normande or Joues de boeuf braisées on the menu, just order, even if you haven’t a clue what it is. When the mere sound of a dish rolls so exquisitely over your tongue, imagine what the food will do to it! It must be good, no? And now take Central Asia’s plov. What in heaven’s name could that be? It sounds like the noise a cow would make if dropped from a helicopter 4,000 metres up onto Times Square in New York. Oh, it’s not that bad. Plov is a rice dish cooked in a kazan (cauldron) and garnished with a small dollop of meat and a few slices of onion or carrot. It’s only when you’ve already eaten ten times your body weight of plov over the course of a month, because nothing else is available, that you whimper for something else.
What’s with this utter lack of ingenuity in the kitchen? How can a country bordering several other nations, with the culinary masterminds of India and China living just around the corner, and the mother of all trade routes – the Silk Road – connecting it to places even further afield, not have a more varied cuisine and knowledge of spices? The situation vaguely reminds me of my years in Africa, where the staple diet of sadza relentlessly followed me from Cape Town all the way to Nairobi under a variety of guises – pap, nsima, ugali, isitshwala, mealie-meal: it’s all the same dish, cornmeal porridge.
The reason is simple: many in Central Asia practise transhumance, moving their livestock seasonally to find new pastures – as they have done since their ancestors migrated from Mongolia with Genghis Khan’s hordes. A proud people, they have kept their traditions and independence, and some can even trace their lineage back to the great Khan himself! The Soviets put an end to all this moving around in the early 1930s, when they forced the roaming clans to settle down and become pastoral farmers. Today only 0.5% of this region’s inhabitants lead a nomadic life, but many traces of the olden days remain – first and foremost the food culture. The nomads’ diet was based upon availability and necessity, not taste. In a region where temperatures can peak at 50°C in the western deserts and easily drop to −40°C in the mountainous east, not too much grows: farming is mostly limited to grains. Far more prized than noodles and rice was animal-fat due to its high calorie content. Without this, the nomad could never survive under these harsh climatic conditions.
We can still consider ourselves fortunate. We could be vegetarian. If our selection on the menu is meagre, theirs is minute. Everything is prepared with an animal product. Even the flatbreads, baked in a tandoor oven, often have melted sheep-fat mixed into the dough, as do the potato somsa. The laghman noodle dish is not an option either, since the broth is meat-based. If you try to order a serving without meat, two things will happen. First, since the concept of vegetarianism is so alien to Central Asian nomadic culture, the restaurant owner might be offended. He’ll probably think you’re a cheapskate foreigner who only wants to save a few pennies by omitting ingredients. And second, he’ll fish out the blubbery chunks best he can. What else can he do? I guess the vegetarian could buy some walnuts, order pickled tomatoes and cucumbers, spoon jam directly from a jar and drink from a ketchup bottle, but it wouldn’t be very filling or healthy: the whole region still uses genotoxic DDT as an insecticide on the crops and fruit trees. The only really viable option is to purchase Western tinned food at the bazaars and cook it yourself. Maybe it’s wiser to change your eating habits temporarily and follow the customs of the country you’re visiting.
Being picky about food abroad, regardless of whether the traveller refuses to eat meat, sadza or plov, can have another effect: you might deeply upset your hosts. The privilege to be fussy about what you eat is very much a luxury and a sign of opulence, not always understood by the indigenous population in the developing world, where some would give their left foot for anything to eat at all. As I mentioned before, in rough environments nothing can be taken for granted. Hence I can’t help but cringe when – as has happened so many times on my journeys – I join a group of travel acquaintances at a local’s home where the diet is predominantly animal-based, and one of the group won’t eat meat. Invitations are often impromptu, leaving the vegetarian no time to inform his host of his preferences beforehand. It can be quite a challenge in parts of Northern Africa, in Arctic regions, the Middle East, far Northern Russia, Tibet or Mongolia to reject a host’s lovingly prepared offerings of food without appearing rude, especially if his resources are meagre. If this were Europe, no worries. The traveller could explain his food ethics or tastes and be excused, but in a remote nomadic society or Arctic indigenous community? Unless the locals have had lots of experience with fussy Westerners and there’s no language barrier, it is nearly impossible for a vegetarian to get their point across.
Ever since these experiences, I vowed to eat what’s on the table as a guest, even if I’m served warthog testicles – or plov. So Laura and I feast at the chaihana until our bellies pop out, and we have to change our sukhasana yoga positions to less elegant reclining-Buddha postures on the tapchan. Our host observes our inability to move and offers us a room out back. The caravanserai has accommodation, which we accept without hesitation. For more than a week we haven’t taken off our socks and Helly Hansen long johns.
The Aral Sea is in Karakalpakstan, and it’s been a lifelong dream of ours to visit it. Once the old chaihana owner hears of our plans, he makes a suggestion: we could take the shortcut through the desert to the western shore instead of continuing along the highway to Moynaq in the south.
“Follow those power lines behind the inn for about 150 kilometres,” are his only directions.
Laura and I look at each other and nod. Why not? The weather doesn’t look too bad, and the roadless terrain is so flat we wouldn’t fall far from our bikes anyway if the going gets tough. Petrol might be an issue. We haven’t seen a functioning filling station since we crossed the border and our tanks are nearly empty, but here, too, our host can assist us.
“I can sell you as much as you need. Out in the shed I have drums of 80 octane, 91 octane and diesel.”
Uzbekistan has suffered from a petrol shortage ever since its political relationship with most of the world’s oil-producing nations broke down and nearly every foreign petrochemical investor pulled out. The government was quick in finding a solution: although Uzbekistan doesn’t have large domestic oilfields, it does have huge quantities of gas. Soon enough, the locals converted the majority of vehicles – including lorries and buses – to LPG, and butane/propane filling stations sprang up across the country. For the few remaining cars where conversion was either impossible or impractical, petrol is imported from Kazakhstan and Turkmenistan, albeit irregularly and at steep prices which fluctuate seasonally. It can be twice as expensive in winter as it is in summer!
Many locals recognised the potential to benefit from the energy crisis. Black market dealers – like the owner of our chaihana – began to collude with the petrol-depot owners by purchasing the imported fuel before it could be sold at the filling stations. These dealers buy petrol for 2,700 Som ($0.68) at the source, and sell it on the streets for 3,000 Som ($0.75) to customers. At a proper petrol station, the price should be 2,500 Som ($0.63), but they’re all closed in Karakalpakstan, without a single drop of fuel in their holding tanks.
“My petrol is pure,” the old man assures us. “Watch out though, when you buy from roadside dealers. They sell their fuel from plastic water bottles. To make an extra penny they sometimes stretch 91 octane with cheaper 80, or even water!”
This trick isn’t new to me: they do the same in Brazil and parts of Africa. In Zimbabwe up to 10% of the petrol was water, and in Brazil 25% was ethanol! Matilda could cope well with low quality fuel, even with 76 octane in Russia and Mongolia. Puck would have bigger problems.
Waving goodbye, we veer away from the highway, line up our bikes between the double rows of power lines, and set off on our sandy ride. What we’re doing is actually a common form of wayfinding in the desert regions of our world. Every power line, set of telegraph poles or gas pipeline will eventually lead to a town. Six hours of pole-following later, we reach the only village en route to the lake: Komsomolsk na Ustyurte. Like Jasliq, it only exists because of a nearby gasfield. The 200 inhabitants reside in identical shacks aligned in four 200-metre-long rows. A fence of sorts surrounds the compound and there’s a dilapidated playground for the workers’ kids behind the main entrance. We see a few older youths riding again and again in circles around the town’s perimeter on ancient Jupiters – Russian motorcycles without exhaust pipes. I struggle to think of what kind of childhood they have growing up in a place like this. I know of abandoned gulags in Russia that had more flair.
Beyond Komsomolsk the poles stop, but our destination cannot be much further to the east. A short while later, we ascend a hill, mount its crest and behold! Lake Aral: the famous “Sea of Islands” and fourth largest lake in the world. Well, not quite. The only thing we perceive is a steep embankment from the pre-1960s’ shoreline and a dry desert stretching as far as the eye can see. Water, which is normally the quintessential characteristic of a lake, is absent. Equally missing, if you follow the same logical argument, are the 1,534 isles that should have been visible. Damn!
Back in the 1960s Lake Aral had been reliably fed by two mighty rivers flowing down from the Tian Shan and Pamir Mountains: the Syr Darya in today’s Kazakhstan and the Amu Darya in present-day Uzbekistan. But the Soviets needed cotton … lots of it. New plantations were established and both rivers were partially diverted to irrigate the thirsty crops. Soon enough, Russia became the second largest cotton producer on the planet, just after the United States. Politically, it was a huge success. Moscow was able to bind its wobbly Central Asian republics more tightly to the government. By designating each republic with the production of a limited range of goods – mainly cotton in the case of Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan – they couldn’t survive economically on their own. The same tactic was used in the Ukraine with coal, in Azerbaijan with oil and in the Urals with iron ore.
Viewed from an environmental perspective, however, the cotton enterprise had disastrous consequences. In 1960, the Aral Sea measured 435 by 290 kilometres. It had clean water, lovely beaches, a handful of resorts, and a healthy fishing industry in the cities of Moynaq and Aralsk, both connected by a regular passenger ferry. Three decades after the two rivers had been diverted so that only a trickle ever reached the sea, the water level had dropped by 16 metres. By 2005, the Aral’s surface area was only 10% of its original size and it had split into four separate “ponds”. It was literally as if the plug had been pulled out of a bathtub. Before the fisherman knew what was happening, both Aralsk and Moynaq were more than 100 kilometres from the shoreline. The fish? They died, when the water’s salinity grew out of all proportions. The locals? They sometimes died too, or at least many became seriously ill, with all the cotton pesticides being washed into the lake and entering the food chain. Even the regional climate has been affected: residents say the summers are drier and winters longer than a few decades ago. The world’s worst man-made environmental disaster was complete.
Humans have this fascinating tendency to jump into action only when a situation becomes so dire and intolerable it’s almost too late. Kids at school will ignore exam results until they’re about to fail the grade, then they’ll start to study like maniacs. Grown-ups postpone realising their lifelong dreams until they suffer the first stroke. Hell, I’m a smoker and know of the risks associated with my little passion, but I’ll probably only ever quit the habit when I develop a hacking cough. If we’re all like this, how can we expect governments to behave any differently when it comes to making decisions about our environment? After all, they are made up of people.
In Kazakhstan, great efforts are now underway to reverse the demise of the Aral Sea by practising better water management and building dams to block any drainage from the northern (Kazakh) Aral into its southern (Uzbek) sister. The project is already showing positive results. Sea levels are on the rise in the north, and perhaps in a few years Aralsk can function as a fishing port again. Freshwater fish have been successfully reintroduced and the shoreline is now only 12 kilometres away. Uzbekistan, though, at first glance, seems not to have learned its lesson. The country continues to grow cotton, with the effect that the southern half has now, in 2014, virtually disappeared. From the rise where we are standing, we see only salt flats and dry mud, cracking like a spider web under the sun.
There is, as always, another side to the coin. It’s easy for Western nations to condemn Uzbekistan, frantically wave “Save the Sea” banners and boycott Uzbek cotton products – though the latter measure is more about the country’s violation of human rights, not the lake’s rights. The lake itself probably doesn’t care that it’s drying out. Every year during harvest season many ordinary citizens – including minors – are legally obliged to pitch in with work on the plantations, usually without pay. Western governments call this “forced labour”. Most Uzbek citizens call it “aiding their nation”. Working on kolkhozes for the greater good is viewed as a national duty, not a violation of rights.
What protesters forget is how the situation in Central Asia cannot be compared with Europe. A full quarter of Uzbekistan’s GDP relies on cotton exports. Converting to a different crop is risky; you can’t just plant cabbage and tell your trading partners to buy that instead. Besides, according to researchers, all water extraction from the Amu Darya – whether for irrigation or other purposes – would have to be halted for at least three years in order to refill the southern Aral. Can you imagine what that would do to the economy? First kill off the fishing industry, and then the cotton plantations as well?
Laura and I pitch our tent below the 1960s’ shoreline for a highly unusual seaside holiday. We should now, had history taken a different turn, be resting a dozen metres underwater amongst the fishes. Instead, we have the largest beach imaginable, without a single resort in sight. Although the devastation to this region is certainly tragic, the landscape with all its ravines, craters and colours is magical. Even my staunchly anti-desert Laura’s jaw drops during sunset, when the various minerals in the soil glow in a thousand vivid hues of red, brown and purple. Much like the Valley of the Moon on the outskirts of San Pedro de Atacama in Chile, it feels like we’re exploring a different planet.
“OK, I’ll retract my earlier desert comments. This is spectacular!”
“I agree. Cast aside the history of this area, and that I can’t know what it looked like a few decades ago, and I’d say it couldn’t possibly be more beautiful.”
“And it’s so peacefully quiet,” Laura whispers. “Listen: not a sound! Except for when I say it’s quiet.”
Of course, what is beautiful and what is not will always remain a subjective opinion. Yet wouldn’t it be ironic if nature’s “destruction” could sometimes actually enhance its splendour? However, to rejoice in the Aral’s extinction because of the ravishing landscape it left behind does seem out of line. It’s like applauding the melt of the Arctic icecap, because it would allow you to sail to the North Pole. I doubt many have such a positive take on global warming, though the viewpoint itself is absolutely valid. What do the Uzbeks think about their missing sea? To find that out we must head to Moynaq.
Three days later we set off from the “lake” shore, hopefully in the right direction. I have to use guesswork, since there’s no landmark on the horizon I can use for orientation. Traversing a flat desert is no different to crossing an ocean. According to my map, Moynaq should be 100 kilometres away on a bearing of 110 degrees, but a mistake by ten degrees over this distance means we will miss our target by 17.4 kilometres – something we particularly wish to avoid due to our limited petrol. We can use the rising sun to approximately determine east, but we cannot follow it throughout the day. If we did, we’d end up back at our lovely beach camp at sunset. Riding in circles has only one advantage: you can never get lost.
There are better orientation methods when you have neither GPS nor a compass. Best is to travel at night and use the North Star – Polaris – as a guide; at least it remains stationary.26 Far less reliable is the tree-moss method every schoolkid has heard about, only finding a mossy tree in an arid desert can be challenging. Analogue wristwatches are helpful if you have one. Holding it like a compass, aim the hour hand towards the sun. The point halfway between it and 12 o’clock will roughly indicate south (or north, if you’re in the southern hemisphere), but I doubt an accuracy of ten degrees is achievable using this method.
If you have lots of time to toy around with sticks, rocks and string, you can create marvellous sundials and use shadows to determine the four cardinal points. Back at our beach camp, I spent a full day erecting a miniature Stonehenge. By aligning two small boulders at sunrise, one in the shadow of the other, I had a rough east–west line.27 Over the next 12 hours, as the shadows gradually changed in length and direction, I placed further stone markers and made corrections. By dusk I had built a Neolithic Uzbek “clock” accurate enough to establish a heading to Moynaq to within a degree or two. The problem was I couldn’t take my timepiece with me on Puck. Maybe I should buy a GPS one day. Until I do, I’ll make educated guesses.
It seems my estimate was spot on. Shortly before nightfall after a full day’s ride, Laura and I see a few lights on the horizon. We’ve reached the opposite shoreline and sail into the harbour with our bikes. So this is Moynaq, the fishing village faced with an eternal low tide. The last navigation channels to open water were abandoned in the 1980s when 60,000 people working in the fishing industry lost their jobs. Their old boats are still here, beached between dunes and crumbling slowly to rust, below a bluff on the former shore. The only purpose they serve nowadays is to provide shade for livestock in a treeless world and as scrap-yards for individuals scavenging for sheet metal. It vaguely reminds me of the famous Train Cemetery outside Uyuni in Bolivia.
It’s superfluous to ask the people what they think of their current situation. Riding through the village, we witness tragedy at every corner. Moynaq is little more than a ghost town, compared to yesteryear. Half the houses are abandoned, and even the last hotel has now closed its doors. There are fading fish emblems everywhere, paint peeling from old monuments dedicated to a proud industry that no longer exists. The younger generation has moved elsewhere to search for work, leaving their parents and grandparents to wander the streets alone and ultimately die, between the rubble and dust.
We see them, worn out and defeated on the main thoroughfare. Grandmothers are sweeping sand off the cracked pavements with bundles of twigs in a futile effort to tidy up the town. Every gust of wind undoes their work. Grandfathers, who were born into well-established fishing families and who spent their youth sailing and swimming, are sitting idly on broken benches. I imagine they’ve told and retold stories of the Aral to their grandchildren, who have never swum in, or even glimpsed, a lake in their lives.
It’s rare that I feel pity for people I meet on the road, since I’m convinced that it’s not a very constructive emotion. All feeling sorry does is result in two people suffering instead of one: the local and me. Empathy, yes, that’s different, and even more important is practical assistance. In the case of Moynaq I can’t help myself. There’s no realistic solution, no heading to steer, and even guesswork would be in vain. Residents will just continue trying to survive here, in one way or another, for as long as they can. May the Aral Sea rest in peace.
Laura and I leave town, ride a few dozen kilometres and pitch our tent in a field of low desert shrub. The annual Lyrid meteor shower is currently at its peak, and late that night we spot hundreds of shooting stars streaking through the heavens. Stargazing always makes me dream and helps me look at the bigger picture. Whatever the future brings, though the world may have forgotten about Karakalpakstan and the Aral, our experiences have ensured that this is the one Stan we’ll remember the most.
I fear that I almost came across as an ardent environmentalist attempting to save the planet in the last chapter. The thing is, I’m not. I don’t vote for the Green Party or hug trees. I’m neither on a mission to rescue the endangered Arctic slug nor do I donate to Greenpeace. I’m not a hippie (though Laura sometimes says that things grow in my beard) and I’m not actively trying to reduce carbon emissions. How could I be a “greenie”? I’m riding a motorcycle around the world. For every 10,000 kilometres I travel, Puck requires 600 litres of petrol and emits 1,400 kilograms of carbon dioxide. By the time we reach Australia I will have contributed well over five metric tons of this harmful greenhouse gas to our atmosphere.
Of course I could argue that anybody who flies from London to Sydney is responsible for higher carbon-dioxide emissions: on average about six metric tons per passenger if the plane makes a stopover in Bangkok. I could also build my defence by providing evidence that the ecological footprint of UK and US households are many times the shoe size of an overlander who sleeps in a tent without power supply, fridge or flush toilet. According to recent reports,28 the average annual carbon-dioxide output per person in the UK is 7.1 metric tons (17 in the US) – over five times what I churn out. They also need around 150 litres of water per person per day for cooking, cleaning, washing clothes and showering (378 in the US) compared to a typical overlander with a 4x4 who will get by on 5–10 litres, depending upon his personal hygiene levels. With regard to electricity and waste, a UK citizen uses 1,200 kWh/year worth of electricity (2,598 in the US) and produces 405 kilogram/year of household refuse (712 in the US). My vehicle components are connected to the battery, and are recharged on drive days. As for rubbish, I produce very little. Overlanders are not consumers, since there’s insufficient room in a camper to stockpile goods. What you don’t buy, you can’t throw away.
I’m not going to fool you or myself. If I were overly concerned about the environment I’d swap Puck for a bicycle. Or I’d walk, since the manufacturing of a bicycle requires far more raw materials – some highly toxic – than a pair of sneakers. Just for the tyres you need synthetic polymers, reinforcing chemicals, silica, resins, antidegradants, paraffin waxes, adhesion promoters, curatives, activators, sulphur-processing aids, oils, tackifiers and softeners – and more. Bicycles are not ecofriendly, merely less eco-harmful than most other means of transport.
I guess if I were truly green, we would stop travelling altogether, build a cottage out of recycled timber and dig a composting drop-toilet. It’s not a bad green idea for those residing in the back of beyond in Canada or here in Uzbekistan, but in many Western countries the situation is more complicated. Even if you are lucky enough to own a cosy cottage on a private property in the woods, it doesn’t necessarily mean you’re allowed to shit on it willy-nilly. Depending on the country you live in, composting toilets must comply with municipal sewage laws, compost ordinances, building codes and more. In other words, you need government approval before you can take a dump. As for the majority of the population, namely the city folk, they couldn’t make their apartments ecofriendly even if they wanted to. You can’t have pit toilets in a skyscraper.
What a sad and sorry conundrum we’re in. We can’t get it right no matter what we do. The 100% ecofriendly human is a unicorn, a mythical creature, a fairy tale just like all those “eco-lodges” popping up throughout the world. Millions of tourists fly in from halfway around the globe, spend a few weeks hiking trails slashed through previously pristine jungles, and when they return home, leave far more than just footprints and toilet paper behind. The only environmentally friendly lodge is the one that’s never built; responsible tourism means not travelling at all and the human race as a whole can only be at one with nature when we’re all fertilising it from six feet under the ground.
The only thing each of us can do is reduce the detrimental impact we have upon Mother Nature until it reaches a level compliant with our conscience. The question will never be whether we as individuals damage the environment or not, but which areas of the environment we mind damaging the least, because they don’t affect our aims and desires directly.
Everybody’s conscience says something different. As far as my level and conscience are concerned, I’ve developed into a pragmatic environmentalist over the years. When dealing with nature on the road, practical considerations take precedence over any ideological notions. I love the great outdoors and camping in the wild – preferably in pristine surroundings, but not exclusively. For example, should your overland vehicle break down in the middle of nowhere, there’s nothing more delightful than finding a campsite full of rubbish – discarded cans, metal wire, the spring in a ballpoint pen, anything that you can use for an emergency field-repair. So while I do my best to keep my immediate surroundings tidy, to the extent of stuffing into my pocket not only my cigarette butts but also those dropped by others on nature trails, my conscience doesn’t scold me because I’m contributing to global warming with every new kilometre I ride. As a traveller, I want the world to be as green and clean as possible, without introducing a ban on motorcycles, Land Rovers and freedom of movement. This needn’t result in a dichotomy between my selfish interests and the natural world, but a compromise, so we can live together happily.
Many Westerners are of the opinion humanity should have the biosphere on the top of their priority list at all times. This is easy to say if you reside in an affluent society. I, however, am mostly travelling through the Third World, where the majority of the population couldn’t care less about blue whales facing extinction. They often have barely enough food on the table to feed their families, wars unfolding on their doorsteps and children who’ll never survive to celebrate their fifth birthday. To tell them they should opt for a greener lifestyle by swapping their home’s single incandescent lightbulb for an energy-saving florescent lamp seems more than a little patronising. Worrying about the environment is a luxury that can be indulged in by the well-off. Moreover, since the industrial world has reaped the benefits of energy-wasting consumerist commodities for half a century we can hardy dictate how the Third World should behave.
Fortunately for the planet it’s a survivor – many times over – of global catastrophes far exceeding any havoc mankind can wreak. When a massive asteroid impacted Earth during the Permian-Triassic period 251 million years ago and then another did the same in 65 million BCE, Earth barely received a dent. A crater, some 180 kilometres wide hidden beneath the Gulf of Mexico, is the only evidence that a cosmic traffic collision ever occurred. The world’s passengers at the time viewed the crash differently: ensuing volcanic eruptions and/or climate change led to the extinction of 95% and 75% of all species respectively. Interestingly enough, our planet’s biodiversity returned to previous levels within ten million years following both events. Elimination of the dominant species from an ecological niche allows for new organisms to fill the gap – as strange as it may sound, such disasters have the potential to accelerate the evolutionary process.
Our present geological epoch is the Holocene, and we’re the ones who dominate it. It, too, is witnessing a rising rate of global extinctions. This time, we cannot blame another asteroid that refused to budge from our orbital highway, but only ourselves. From the moment our species took central stage we’ve treated all the other actors like extras, but sooner or later our career in the limelight will be over and we’ll be replaced by an understudy willing to play our part. When this will happen is anybody’s guess. Mother Nature doesn’t mind one way or the other as long as the show goes on – which it will for another seven billion years, until our sun leaves the main sequence, enters its red-giant phase and swallows the Earth whole.
Saving our planet is a pointless ambition; it’s only the human race that needs to be rescued. It won’t be easy. Even though I’m a diehard optimist, I’ve seen too much on my past voyages to have any faith in our species’ overall kindness, capacity to be altruistic, desire to show more empathy and willingness to reject violence. I only have faith in one human trait: our ingenuity.
When Laura and I were journeying through Italy I mentioned the duomo in Florence. This wonderful cathedral was designed in the 13th century by architect Arnolfo di Cambio. The dome he wished to build would be the largest and most splendid in the world: it would be 46 metres wide, consist of four million bricks and weigh 37,000 metric tons! The problem Arnolfo faced though, was that neither he, nor anybody else on the planet, had even the faintest clue how to construct it. All he had was his faith that one far-off day mankind would develop the technology to complete his utopian masterpiece. So instead of throwing his designs into the rubbish bin and satisfying himself with building a mediocre cathedral, he ordered work to begin in 1296. Arnolfo di Cambio died only a short while later. It took another five generations and 124 years before physics and mathematics had matured sufficiently that the Florentines could attempt to crown the gaping hole in their basilica with a cupola. A man by the name of Filippo Brunelleschi invented new technologies for calculating stresses, pulley systems to keep the walls from collapsing inwards, and hoisting machines to lift the heavy building material off the ground. In 1436 the dome was finally completed, amid cheers from the crowds and the tolling of church bells.
Let’s not despair and believe the lives of future generations will be bleak due to our intrinsic, often destructive, nature. I much prefer to think like Arnolfo and rely on humanity’s resourcefulness, especially when times are tough. There’s a viable solution just around the corner that will allow our great-great-great grandchildren to travel the world in 2138 with an emission-less hoverbike and experience as much natural beauty as we enjoy today. I’m positive about that.
“Because in building, only practical experience will teach that which is to be followed.”
Filippo Brunelleschi.
Uzbekistan – 14 May 2014
“Something is wrong!” Laura worries, pulling over onto the embankment. “Pixie won’t go faster than a Vespa and is peeing all over the ground.”
I dismount to have a look. We’ve escaped the desert, reached the fertile Amu Darya valley and are on our way to fabled Khiva. “Finally a proper road!” we had celebrated as soon as our wheels touched the tarmac following our Aral Sea detour. It would allow us to get some serious kilometres under our belts so we could enjoy the promises of civilisation: a hostel, bed and running water. Laura and I are covered in dust, smeared with sweat and have attracted a very healthy colony of sandflies. As fate would have it, as soon as the riding conditions improved our bikes started to misbehave.
“Oops. This doesn’t look good. Your carburettor has a leak and your clutch is slipping. But I’ll see what I can do. It will take longer than patching up my flat tyre did this morning.” Opening up the engine’s side-cover, I notice how all seven clutch plates are worn down to bare metal.
“This will have to wait till Khiva. We’ll need to putter the next few hundred kilometres at a steady 30 kph.”
“I think I might need a little repair too,” Laura mumbles, two fingers stuck in her mouth. “I just broke a piece off my tooth.”
It’s strange how this always happens on an overland trip to man and machine. Just when you think you’re out of the woods, one last tree root snags your foot. I’ve been on week-long wilderness outings, dragging myself through wailing winds in Patagonia, apocalyptic rains in Asia and unforgiving cold in Russia. I’ve camped, huddled in my bivvy-bag, in mountain crevices, waiting days for the storms to clear so I could descend to lower altitudes. All the while I remained fit as a fiddle – miserable, tired and hungry, perhaps, but never ill. As soon as I return to civilisation and lay my eyes on a warm, cosy hostel bed, I catch a severe cold. With injuries it’s much the same. Laura once broke her ankle on a white-water rafting trip. Not during a downstream flip in a grade-five rapid, but by tripping over a kerb on her way back to the tour bus after the excursion. If Puck and Pixie were human, I’d say they suffer from so-called “leisure sickness” as soon as they’re allowed to take a holiday from off-roading.
A few days later, we roll into Khiva and find ourselves a nice hostel. This is the first of Central Asia’s three most famous cities. Bukhara and Samarkand we’ll visit on our way to Tajikistan – if I can repair Laura’s bike, that is. Certain priorities need attending to before we explore all the wonderful minarets, mosques and bazaars this prominent Silk Road pit stop has to offer: not Pixie, not Laura’s tooth, nor a hot shower. Gorging on hamburgers tops our list. As a tourist hub, Khiva’s restaurants have more than just plov on their menus. At long last, we find some dietary respite.
While the day-trippers exit the tour buses armed with cameras to storm the citadel, we locate Uzbekistan’s closest equivalent to a hamburger joint. After the third burger and a beer, all our weariness miraculously evaporates. I know, I know: here we are, having travelled all this way to one of the most significant historical sites in the world and all we can think about are dead cows in a bun. When I relate our motorcycle journey to those at “home”, they expect me to praise the amazing Islamic architecture with its domed roofs and turquoise tiles, or to speak of the immense fortified walls surrounding the shahristan (inner city), built to ward off vicious assaults of invaders and protect the inhabitants from unrelenting desert storms. Or perhaps the Kalta Minor Minaret, designed to reach a height of 110 metres. It was never completed, and the stump looks like the world’s loveliest nuclear power plant cooling tower. No, I’d mention none of the above. Instead I’d say, “Well, the tile mosaics are surely grand, but what I remember most is my first bite into that juicy burger at ‘McKhiva’. You just have to go there!”
Priorities are different for everybody, and if you live your life on the road, yours and a two-week holidaymaker’s will be very dissimilar.
My belly could use a rest, but I ought to throw myself under Laura’s bike first. It’s been a while since I had to rack my brains over any serious mechanical problem – the last time was almost four years ago, when I was still behind the wheel of Matilda. Back then, I held a spanner more often than I did a toothbrush, but I was attached to her. I didn’t care about her bad smoking, drinking and oil-dripping habits, nor that her engine sounded like a dreadfully sick camel with a wheezing cough. Nobody’s perfect. Puck and Pixie are different. Sure, they’ve had a few hiccups, but all repairs so far have been standard maintenance issues such as renewing the brake pads or changing oil. The worn-out clutch plates are trickier. I guess I could just rivet the seven old ones together. Shifting gears would be a tad challenging and Pixie’s gearbox might break, but we could worry about that later. At least the clutch would no longer slip. No. There must be an alternative solution.
Taking Puck, I head out towards Khiva’s industrial district, where I hope to come across a few motorcycle parts. Not much is available. Russian-made Urals, Dnjeprs, IZH Planetas, Jupiters and Czech Jawas are basically all you will find in Central Asia. Should you be hunting for car parts, your selection is even more pathetic. In order to protect the local motor industry, Uzbekistan imposes such insane taxes on foreign imports only the nouveau riche can afford them. Locally manufactured vehicles are limited to Korean Daewoos, American Chevrolets and Japanese Isuzus. I can forget about asking for BMW spares, but I do find something else at the bazaar: a thin ebonite board. Ebonite is a durable, hard rubber, and if I can locate a workshop with a lathe I might be able to make my own discs!
Two hours later, I’m inserting the newly forged plates.
“You had better work,” I mumble to Pixie, lost in my little mechanic’s world. It’s said that almost 60% of car owners talk to their vehicles, so I needn’t worry about my sanity. Laura walks over with a cup of coffee.
“Are you talking to Pixie again?” she smiles. “Try kissing the petrol tank; that’s what I always do when she misbehaves!”
Absorbed in the work, I let my coffee go cold. Somehow I’ve never developed the ability to multitask. Laura can cook, watch television, chat on the phone and answer emails while part of her mind philosophises about epistemological solipsism. I, in contrast, have never been able to think about two things at once – sometimes not even about one. When I write, I write; when I rock-climb, I climb; when I eat, I feast; and when I repair an engine all senses and thoughts irrelevant to the task at hand shut down.
“That’ll do,” I grunt, mission completed and satisfied with the result. “We’ll order original BMW clutch plates, UPS them from Europe to a major city on our route and pick them up when we pass through. Until then, I believe Pixie will make it over the Pamir Mountains. Now it’s your turn to visit the mechanic and get your tooth fixed.”
Uzbek dentistry is the last thing Laura is looking forward to. Half the people in this country – male and female – bear a strong resemblance to the assassin “Jaws” in the James Bond movie The Spy Who Loved Me. The villain, if you recall, had massive steel-capped dentures, and could bite through arm-thick cables (or James’s neck) as if they were brittle twigs. In Uzbekistan they take it one step further: instead of steel they use gold. Not one tooth, not a hidden molar in the back, but often the whole set, top and bottom, are replaced. Uzbeks are, generally speaking, an extremely hospitable and friendly lot who love to smile, but when they beam at you, and the sun is shining at just the right angle, you almost need to wear dark glasses to look at them.
The reason for the Uzbek fascination with gold teeth is unclear. Perhaps it’s a regional aesthetic preference. Some local women told us they have even had a few healthy teeth extracted and replaced with gold bridges to enhance their beauty. Gold is a sign of wealth as well, and its display illustrates your status in society. My guess is the shiny oral caps and crowns, for the most part, are the result of five interconnected issues: a sugary, tooth-decaying diet, poor dental hygiene, the lack of professional practitioners, no modern orthodontic hardware and, last but not least, a financial incentive. Extracting a tooth and bridging the gap with a gold replacement costs only $30; remedial work is much more expensive.
Laura clutches my arm as we walk up the flight of stairs leading to the public hospital’s dental department. All those who are descending are visibly in great pain. Pressing ice bags to their cheeks, some are drooling droplets of blood onto the staircase. A nurse ushers us into a room full of people that functions simultaneously as the waiting area and surgery! Six dental chairs with patients are positioned in full view of those next in line. To my surprise, there are almost no screams as teeth are being extracted – maybe those receiving treatment are trying extrahard to put on a brave face for the spectators.
Let me stand corrected: there is one scream, namely Laura’s. “No, no, no, NO! I don’t want my tooth pulled or a gold crown! Just a simple repair with some resin or ceramic!”
The nurse looks perplexed. “Why? Your tooth is chipped. We take it out, and you have no problems. Only three dollars, takes five minutes.” My arm is now turning white from Laura’s grip. She’s cut off the circulation.
The nurse shrugs and leads us to the furthest reaches of the corridor. The large hospital does have one room for “complicated” surgery, staffed by the head dentist himself. It’s furnished with antiquated but serviceable Russian medical equipment. All goes well, Laura’s bright smile is restored, and back on the streets of Khiva we can finally play tourist.
In Bukhara and Samarkand, a while later, we do the same. Both cities are famous throughout the world for their historical significance, but I arrive without expectations. Too dangerous is the prospect of disappointment, when the mind conjures fanciful ideals reality cannot live up to. If you arrive by flying carpet, carrying nostalgic dreams of yesteryear’s Central Asia as baggage, you might crash-land when your visions shatter like glass.
Jade, gold, silver and ivory; silk, porcelain and precious stones – all the treasures hauled to the bazaars of Bukhara and Samarkand on the backs of camels and slaves from distant lands are no more. Neither are the trade markets filled with the scents of spices, incense, herbs and perfumes. The arcades are still there, and many of the wares sold originate from the same countries as were situated at the termini of the Silk Road a thousand years ago: China and Turkey. But the goods are no longer precious – cheap Chinese electronics, polyester clothing and plastic household products now dominate the bazaars. In the past, items had to be valuable, exotic and easy to carry. Today they must be low-cost, mass-produced and easy to sell. The camels can take it easy, the slaves can remove their chains – transport in the 21st century is by Kamaz lorry convoy, not caravan.
Palaces, mausoleums and mosques glow brightly under the sun when the blue tiles and gold-leaf roof ornaments scatter the glare of daylight. These structures, I imagine, might even be more beautiful in 2014 than they were hundreds of years ago. Invading Turks, Mongols, Arabs and Persians once had a nasty habit of razing to the ground conquered cities along the Silk Road. Today, Bukhara and Samarkand’s citizens can relax. The architecture can be renovated and fanciful calligraphy repainted without concerns about potential invaders undoing all the hard work. During the course of these restorations, however, most buildings have lost their original purpose. Sometimes, behind the intricately carved wooden doors that identify a madrasa, one finds air-conditioned souvenir shops. The dwellings of wealthy merchants are now museums, and what might have been an old caravanserai is today a hamburger restaurant. The Nadir Divanbegi – formerly an Islamic school on Bukhara’s main square – even puts on a nightly folklore performance, complete with borderline erotic dancers, for international tourists. After dark, the whole inner city is illuminated by powerful green spotlights, shining on more than just the mosques. Green pedestrians walk the green pavements clutching green ice-cream cones.
I wonder what Timur – the great 14th century ruler of Central Asia, perhaps better known as Tamerlane – would make of his chosen capital Samarkand today. Once, he gathered artisans and craftsmen from Damascus to Delhi to design and construct some of the most impressive architectural masterpieces the world has ever seen. What would he say of the hideous Soviet structures encircling the Registan (central square) and Bibi-Khanym Mosque? We will never know. Timur no longer walks the streets of Samarkand. He rests now as a bronze statue overlooking the traffic on the city’s busiest thoroughfare, while pigeons shit on his head. As much as he may like to, he cannot turn off the green lights.
The world has changed to the dismay of many travellers. Should you hold on too tightly to nostalgia, and desire a Central Asia without plastic and made-in-China gadgets, disappointment is almost inevitable. If you wanted to experience Timur’s Samarkand, you missed your flight by 700 years. But please, don’t be too harsh on the present if you dislike what you see. When you come across a yurt camp in Uzbekistan that offers camel trekking tours and accommodation in round tents with electricity, air-con and WiFi, don’t call these nomads unauthentic. They are as genuine now as they have been at any other point in history. People and their lifestyles, cities and their vibes – wherever you set foot on your travels – always carry a 100% guarantee of authenticity. Our planet and its inhabitants, including the nomad with an iPod, have merely been updated to Earth Version 2014; all previous editions have been irretrievably erased from the hard drive. And this is OK.
As Laura and I walk hand in hand around central Samarkand late one night, complimenting each other on our green complexions, we feel completely at peace with the world and ourselves. It’s our final evening in Uzbekistan; tomorrow morning we’re off to our next country. We’re not sightseeing any more or attempting to hunt down historical monuments and museums we may have overlooked during the past few days. Playing tourist was enjoyable, but has tired us out. Due to the abundance of sights, both of us are now suffering from madrasa-burnout. So instead, this night will be solely reserved for Fortuna. She can be our guide, not the tourist map. And Fortuna does her guiding job well: she flows aimlessly, meandering sometimes here, sometimes there. We follow her through alleys, around corners and beneath arches. She shows us a moonlit doorway, where I can secretly steal a kiss from Laura, without anybody noticing us; then a narrow passage full of stray cats seeking attention from our hands; finally, a courtyard, which catches the soft evening breeze and allows us to cool our skin. None of these locations are mentioned in guidebooks or are protected by UNESCO, yet I believe such places are as old as Timur’s mosques and, in their own special way, no less magnificent.
Tajikistan – 1 June 2014
Shortly after Samarkand, we cross what many regard as the halfway point on the Silk Road. We’re now geographically midway between Istanbul and Xi’an, the classical endpoints of the world’s most famous trade route. By air, both cities are 3,500 kilometres from where I’m currently standing, but it’s difficult to pin down a precise centre. For in truth, the Silk Road never existed. The plural Silk Roads is correct. This ancient economic lifeline connecting East and West was neither a single thoroughfare, nor was its entire length often traversed in one journey. Instead, it was a complex and ever-changing network of separate routes with multiple side-branches shooting off in all directions. Politics and wars dictated where caravans journeyed and profits determined how far. To give this spider’s web a halfway point is clearly nonsensical.
The route’s timeline is easier to define. In the second century BCE, a mercantile alliance between China and the West was forged. Trade traffic grew over the next thousand years, peaked around 750 CE and then slowly began to decline, as an increasing number of merchants began to favour sea routes to ferry their wares around the globe. The cumbersome camel caravans were simply no match against faster and more cost-efficient sailing vessels. By the year 1600, traffic on the Silk Road had all but disappeared.
Today, it’s back, bustling and open for business again, awoken from its four-century slumber. Maybe we ought to update its name to the Silk Superhighway, although nobody really cares about silk any more. Energy is now the most important trade commodity. Oil and gas are siphoned out of Central Asia – where select fields have greater reserves than all of the United States’ fields combined – and exported. Europe is provisioned via the 1,774-kilometre-long BTC (Baku–Tbilisi–Ceyhan) pipeline from Azerbaijan to Turkey. China has its own pipe: it already connects to Urumqi, and plans exist to extend it all the way to Japan.
The emergence of such large-scale projects will impact the lives of people residing near the conduits. There will be a regional construction boom, new employment opportunities and an improvement of road and rail links to and from China, but the big bucks will be siphoned into the pockets of local regimes, foreign governments and international energy concerns. Ali, the second engineer from the Baku ferry, was correct on one point. Though he downplayed his own government’s role, we – the “English” – are mingling in Central Asia, as are India, Pakistan, Turkey, Russia, the United States and China. Everybody is hungry for a slice of the oil and gas pie, and all compete for contracts to build the necessary pipes, roads, rails and tunnels. If Genghis Khan was the menace of the Silk Road in the past, foreign companies are its invaders today.
Overlanders have nothing to be afraid of. On the contrary – with the strengthening of trade relations between East and West, new borders are being opened and travel restrictions relaxed. For the first time in centuries, Western nomads can be seen wandering the Silk Road in the footsteps of Marco Polo, exchanging ideas and knowledge between our mutual civilisations. This, above all else, I think is pretty damn good.
Long before we arrive at the Tajikistan border we glimpse mountains scraping the sky in the distance. At last, after riding thousands of kilo metres through flat, desert topography, all the way from Aktau in Kazakhstan, the landscape turns greener and develops contours. Crossing the frontier is hassle-free, and soon we find ourselves puttering between rainbow-coloured hills decorated with blossoming fields of poppies and sage. We select a random meadow and pitch our tent amidst a bed of flowers. A crystal-clear stream flows gently nearby, and while I meander down to fetch water for coffee, Laura has discovered wild thyme growing in abundance around our campsite. Grabbing a few handfuls, she stuffs her pillow with the aromatic herb. According to an old wives’ tale, the wonderful scent is supposed to ward off nightmares and help you fall asleep. While I graced the beauty of the desert with a lengthy eulogy earlier, I must admit that travelling in a luscious environment has a few advantages, too. For one thing, herbs in the tent are infinitely preferable to desert scorpions under our pillows.
As our senses awaken from our long rest, so do our bellies. We quickly pack up and hit the road in search of something to eat. Thirty kilometres pass without spotting a single roadside chaihana, until Laura, who has a far more sensitive nose than I do, suddenly claims to smell barbequed meat. “We’re gonna have us some shashliq!” she cries. “I’m already salivating into my helmet.”
Sure enough, just behind the next bend we see a homestead with outside tables, chairs and a massive charcoal grill billowing smoke into the sky. The front lawn is heaving with people. Yet I’m sceptical – the house doesn’t quite look like a normal restaurant.
“It’ll be fine. C’mon, let’s ride in!” Laura insists.
We proceed up the driveway, dismount, shake hands with the man in charge of the BBQ, and without undue delay, order two servings of shashliq and coffee.
As you’ve probably gathered, the establishment isn’t a chaihana. Instead, we’ve managed to gatecrash a local family’s private Labour Day luncheon. Our embarrassment shoots through the roof, but as much as we try to apologise for our colossal cock-up, it’s futile. Tajiks are renowned for their hospitality, and if you think we’d be permitted to ride away without first being fed “ad burstum”, you’d be very much mistaken. Laura and I are introduced to the entire family clan and shown to a laden table on the veranda. We try desperately not to look like we haven’t seen food for a month. Everybody appears to be so delighted about our “mistake”, the grandfather of the house offers to slaughter a sheep in our honour. We decline the kind gesture without causing offence, and three hours later are sent off on our merry way again with a ton of leftovers and a week’s worth of homemade bread. It’s a local custom never to let guests leave without a healthy doggie-bag. I love Tajikistan already.
Then again, if I lived here I might view the country differently. Tajikistan, more than any other Central Asian republic, is made up of rival clans and factions contesting for political influence. These tensions resulted in a civil war shortly after independence, in which an estimated 100,000 people were killed. The brutal conflict ended in 1997, but small-scale acts of militant violence still persist today. Tajikistan’s relations with neighbouring nations could also use improvement, particularly with Uzbekistan.
Both countries have been engaged in a cold war since the dissolution of the Soviet Union, fuelled by a strong sense of patriotism. Moscow is mainly to blame for this mess. Back in the 1920s, the Russians sought to strengthen the cohesion amongst the various peoples of Central Asia. They hoped the clans would view the newly created Soviet Republics as homelands they could be proud of. To achieve this, Moscow began promoting the concept of ethnic self-consciousness and contrived clearly outlined Tajik, Uzbek, Turkmen, Kyrgyz and Kazakh profiles and histories – a division that previously didn’t exist. Prior to the 1920s, for example, you defined yourself as Tajik if you belonged to a range of Persian-speaking people of Iranian origin, and Uzbek if you could trace your lineage to Turkic-speaking groups. The idea that you could feel proud about your ethnicity was basically unheard of. The identity of an individual was determined by his position in the social hierarchy, clan affiliations and lifestyle – meaning settled, nomadic or semi-nomadic – and little else. Moscow’s ploy worked: over time, their propaganda machine was able to re-educate the masses in all Stan republics and turn them into ardent patriots.
When a people develop a strong sense of patriotism or pride in their ethnicity, the outcome rarely bodes well for international relations. The Soviets probably never thought their union could collapse, and consequently never considered what might happen should their republics gain independence. Uzbekistan and Tajikistan got off to a bad start in 1991. Minefields were laid along the mutual frontier, cross-border traffic was halted, and economic blockades were introduced along with severe visa restrictions. An additional complication is that Tajikistan was never meant to be economically viable without union with Moscow. The country needs to import 95% of its gas supplies from Uzbekistan, the enemy, whose government regularly uses this dependency as a tool of political blackmail. So in order to achieve some level of energy self-sufficiency, Tajikistan plans to construct a large hydroelectric dam on the Vaksh River. Regrettably for Uzbekistan, the Rogun Dam Project will block the water source they rely upon for irrigating their cotton plantations. Ouch! Now pressure can be applied in two directions, and the countries can play blackmail ping-pong.
There’s a side effect to all this squabbling that affects the traveller. Have a look at the map: whoever held the pen when the Soviet Border Commission drew Tajikistan’s frontiers must have had one too many vodkas. The wiggly border with multiple enclaves, some only dots of land a few kilometres across, is insane! Soghd Province – the one we’ve just entered – accommodates one-third of the total population, yet its northern half, where the provincial capital Khujand is located, is almost completely surrounded by Uzbekistan. Only a hairline corridor, blocked by a wall of high mountains, connects it to the rest of the nation. Laura and I are on a terrestrial peninsula, and need to find a way to get to Dushanbe and the Pamir Highway. We could travel via the 3,372-metrehigh Anzob Pass, but it’s currently hidden under deep snow. Luckily, there’s another option. Work on a five-kilometre-long tunnel through the mountain range blocking the corridor began in 2003. The massive undertaking was contracted out to an Iranian consortium and scheduled to take 20 months to complete at a cost of $110 million. These estimates were slightly off the mark. Though the first car did squeeze itself through the manmade hole as early as 2006, the Istiqlol (independence) Tunnel project is still not finished today. The price tag has inflated to more than $2 billion – a hefty sum for the poorest nation in Central Asia.
The tunnel has now been unofficially renamed: locals and foreigners alike call it either Tunnel of Death if they are pessimists or Tunnel of Fear if they have a more optimistic approach towards life. The project’s initial design revealed so many flaws, suggestions were made to simply abandon the burrow and restart excavation from scratch. Yet I guess it would have caused too great an embarrassment for the government of Tajikistan if the president had appeared on television and said something along the lines of: “Oops. We made a boob. Sorry to tell you this, but we squandered almost half our nation’s GDP on a useless hole.” Instead, Chinese tunnel contractors were called in to perform a miraculous repair. In the meantime, traffic was allowed to flow through the construction site – up until recently, with only one condition: road users had to sign a waiver, promising not to hold the government or contractors liable for damages should they enter the tunnel alive, but not exit.
Soon after we reach the snowline we see it: a dark, gaping hole in the side of a rugged, grey mountain. I’ve seen coal-mine entrances that looked more inviting! $2 billion dollars? For this? Methinks somebody was ripped off. Laura is slightly nervous.
“It’ll be alright. Look: cars are coming out. If they survived, so can we,” I tell her. Laura silently nods, and thus we enter this masterpiece of Chinese/Iranian/Tajik engineering.
Oh my dear Lord Hades! Somebody should design a video game à la Indiana Jones Cave Run based upon this cavern. It would be a bestseller. The obstacle course starts as soon as we are swallowed by the tunnel’s jaws. On Level One we face the ground traps. The road surface is a jumble of potholes, debris and broken concrete slabs, with steel reinforcing rods sticking out at random. Chunks of plaster and rocks occasionally fall from the ceiling – we’d probably lose a life if they hit our helmets. As if this wasn’t enough, the visibility is minimal: only the light from our headlamps and the orbs of oncoming traffic allow us to weave our way between the hurdles. The tunnel itself is unlit. Needless to say, it’s also missing emergency phones, escape routes and smog extractor fans. Without any sort of ventilation, the air is thick with exhaust fumes and dust particles. A few people are said to have died of carbon-monoxide poisoning in this chasm when their cars broke down.
On Level Two are the water hazards. Laura and I are sprayed from all sides by jets gushing from fissures in the walls and miniature cascades surging from the roof. Pothole-pools and rivers need to be crossed, since the floods have nowhere to run off. Drainage canals have not been built yet. Midway into the tunnel we enter Level Three in the form of a traffic jam. A kilometre-long gridlock has cars and lorries backed up bumper to bumper due to construction works ahead. For whatever reason, nobody appears to consider switching off their engines; maybe they fear their vehicles, starved of oxygen, would never restart. Breathing is now almost impossible without having a coughing fit. But we are lucky: while everybody else is on Game Pause, we can swerve to the front of the queue. Here we find the reason for the delay: a bulldozer is completely stuck, wedged in by passenger cars and unable to move. Men in hard-hats are frantically gesticulating at the drivers to make way, while other workers continue with the Sisyphean task of mending and reinforcing the crumbling walls, before a whole section caves in. We spent thirty minutes of our lives in the Tunnel of Death, though it seemed ten times longer. The experience will be hard to forget – the pounding headaches we now have from breathing exhaust fumes will make sure of that. I really hope Tajikistan pays better attention to quality workmanship with their Rogun Dam Project.
There’s another breathtaking spot nearby, but in a good way. It’s called Iskanderkul, a high-altitude lake in the Fan Mountains and a popular weekend retreat for locals in summer. We find it blissfully deserted, apart from a few stray dogs, and opt to spend three days camping on the shore. Soon enough our headaches are cured and every pooch is fed with leftovers from our farmhouse-restaurant doggie-bag. Finally, the long-awaited spring has arrived and we can sit shirtless in our chairs, gazing dreamy-eyed over the expanse of turquoise water at the ring of mountains, mirrored perfectly in the lake’s surface.
It seems Tajikistan’s president is also fond of his country’s natural beauty. At the far end of Iskanderkul, he’s built himself a luxury mansion. On Emomalii Rakhmon’s infrequent visits, the lake is cordoned off to the public for his convenience, and only the dogs are allowed to remain. Naturally, he always arrives in his private helicopter, together with his bodyguards … not via the Tunnel of Death, as lesser mortals need to do. Emomalii has a few such luxury dachas scattered throughout his vast realm. We pass another one as we descend through the scenic Varzob River Valley on our final leg to Dushanbe. The villa is easily spotted: it’s the grandest in a 20-kilometre string of mansions belonging to Tajikistan’s nouveau riche, drug lords and most loyal government officials.
Dushanbe itself is not as extravagant. It holds the title of Central Asia’s most beautiful capital, but that really doesn’t say much. I’ve met many travellers who came to Tajikistan to enjoy the fresh mountain air or the hospitality of the people – but never a single soul who booked a holiday to the region to marvel at the local architecture. If you did, I guess you could salute in front of the world’s tallest flagpole. It beats the one we saw fluttering in Baku by a few metres and cost only $3.5 million to erect. That’s what I call a wise government investment; isn’t a 165-metre stick with a piece of cloth stuck on top what every impoverished person in the world needs? From the Palace of Nations, where the pole stands, you could then wander down Lenin Street and hunt for Soviet leftovers. Plenty of hammers, sickles, statues of Lenin and busts of Marx can be found throughout the city. Presumably the president intentionally left a few tokens in order to avoid offending his key economic allies in Moscow. I suppose you shouldn’t expect too much from a city called Dushanbe, which translates to Monday in English. The name was inspired by the weekday on which a local market traded, at some time in the distant past. The Russians renamed the capital Stalinabad when they were in charge, while Khujand received the honour of being called Leninabad. At times, the Soviet mind-set can appear very alien. Or could you imagine Great Britain ever changing London to Cameronabad? I didn’t think so.
Honestly, the only reason we didn’t bypass Dushanbe altogether was because we have a private invitation and a puppy. The invite we received when we crossed the squalid border into Tajikistan and spotted a young woman trailing a Ducati suitcase towards passport control. Dressed impeccably and with not a single hair out of place, she stood out like Angelina Jolie in a refugee camp. Laura speculated the woman might be from Italy – who else would make such an effort to cut a bella figura in the middle of nowhere? Laura wasn’t too far off the mark. After we mutually introduced ourselves, we were told that although she’s Tajik, her husband was, indeed, Italian. Our new friend, whose name is Maxima, invited us to her home for dinner, should we pass through Dushanbe.
The puppy? Well, that’s just one of those things that happens to dog-lovers when they travel around the world. Laura spotted the tiny bundle shivering in an open sewer. I could come up with a plethora of words to describe “Dusty”, as we decided to name him: cold, wet, hungry, mud-covered, afraid – but, above all else, adorable. We took Dusty to our hostel, gave him a bath, a 22-course dinner and lots of love. The only thing we couldn’t provide was a lasting home, but then Maxima came to the rescue: her family would be thrilled to adopt a pet – they’d been planning to buy a dog for months. Dusty was even more delighted.
On the day we visit Maxima, Laura dons her full regalia with a touch of make-up and a hint of perfume. I wear my black T-shirt No. 2, the one with fewer holes.
“What on earth happened to me?” Laura complains as we walk up Maxima’s driveway. “Overlanding, that’s what! I may be a full-blooded Italian, but most of the time I look more like something not even a dingo would drag out of a tent!”
“You look gorgeous whatever you wear,” I reply, then change to a far more important topic. “Do you think we’ll have lasagne? I’d really love some Italian food.”
Maxima opens the front gate, welcomes us warmly, then shows us off to her whole assembled family. When she’d mentioned that guests would be arriving, the news amongst friends, neighbours and relations spread like wildfire. I feel honoured to be invited, but in Tajikistan the host considers it a privilege to have foreign guests in the house.
Crouching around the tapchan, the pillowed floor-table common to most of Central Asia, Laura and I make ourselves comfortable. Maxima, her husband Fabio and half a dozen male relatives join us, while the womenfolk busy themselves preparing food. The main tapchan topic is the upcoming football World Cup.
“Just like in Italy!” Laura smiles. “The women are all working in the kitchen, the men talk footy.”
“Very true,” Fabio agrees, laughing. “In fact, the domestic differences between southern Italy and a secular Islamic country like Tajikistan are only minor. For many women, their prime vocation is to be a good wife and rear children.”
“Alongside our regular jobs!” Maxima adds with a wry grin.
I see it too: during all the months Laura and I toured Italy visiting relatives, not once did I ever see a man return even a single plate to the kitchen and give it a clean. Yet if it’s true that gender roles and traditional values in many Islamic and Italian households contain similarities, why does the West constantly appeal to Muslim women to stand up for their rights in modern society – but never make a similar plea to Catholic women in the Mezzogiorno (southern Italy)?
“Family is everything,” Fabio continues. “Perhaps ties and trust are even stronger here than back home. For example, it’s entirely possible that one of our small kids will go missing tonight after our get-together. Relatives might ‘borrow’ them for a few days without even asking! It’s OK, they’re always returned in one piece.”
“Or, taking it one step further,” Maxima jumps in, “if a woman is childless and can’t have kids, her sister might give her one of her own as a ‘present’!”
Just as my mind was working through all the ramifications of what would happen if children in a Western country were randomly “borrowed” by visiting relatives without informing the parents, a huge tray is carried to our tapchan from the kitchen.
“We first considered making lasagne for you, my husband’s favourite, but then we thought you should try something really traditional from Tajikistan!” Maxima beams at us.
The pot lid is solemnly raised, and in front of me I see a steaming hot mountain of … plov.