Uzbekistan 5th - 12th June

Its hot. 44 degrees in the shade. We've been in proper desert country since we hit Turkmenistan. Sand and scrub bushes as far as you can see. The air conditioning is running constantly as is the sweat. Its safe to say we're all feeling it. Tan lines and mosquito bites are strewn randomly across our bodies. We are permanently scratching. Last night my bites swelled up and I looked like I'd been in a fight thanks to some beastie that bit my eyebrow. Giant locusts keep on flying into me like drunken idiots. They jump, flap, and bank like broken planes into my face.

I am not liking insects.

Last time I wrote I was in the air-conditioned bliss of the 5-star Absheron hotel in Baku. The calm coldness of the foyer was a welcome oasis from the blistering sunshine of that coastal town. We had arrived through a desolate wasteland of cloying dust and pools of petroleum. Baku provided half the world's oil at the start of the 19th century before the Russians took over. They were exploring Siberian oil fields at the time and heavily invested in agriculture for the area around Baku. Fertilisers, poor farming techniques and pesticides wreaked an ecological disaster on the countryside. Now it resembles some post-apocalyptic desert. Giant pylons disappear into the sandy wastes. Dust blows like the last breath of a dying smoker into the glistening sea. Black oil laps up against the shore before the wind blows it back in slimy waves. On the way a billboard stands in sharp contrast to the wasteland. A family stand smiling into the camera, a supposedly happy advert for future homes to be built. Sand and sun has eroded their features and they don't look human. Their bleached white faces have no features, just eyes and a mouth staring from blank white ovals across the wasteland.

If oil is the heroin of the world economy then Baku is the diseased hole in its vein. On the coast huge rigs squat like steel mosquitos, sucking black blood from the seabed. That oil will be sold to the west in barrels to fund our petrol crisis back home. According to the BBC World Service Britain is in the throes of withdrawal as its main drug is just too expensive. Not surprisingly America, the biggest dealer of them all, has invested heavily here. The town centre of Baku is massively westernised with posh designer boutiques rubbing shoulders with Italian restaurants. $200 dollars for a shirt. £4 per beer. Fairground rides ring the beach to the Caspian sea. We had two nights to spend in this city whilst Pete bartered with the ferry master to try and buy passage to Turkmenistan.

The city was more expensive than London for most things. A massive drinking session was probably not a wise idea, but we did it anyway. An Irish Pub furnished us with expats, several pints of Guiness and Rum. A short taxi ride brought us back to the shiny foyer, now furnished with hundreds of Korean tourists. We decided on a few drinks before bed at the hotel bar. Spotting the shiny smooth floor I thought it was a good idea to run and slide through the doors. Utilising the sliding technique I learned many years ago in Flares in Halifax, I launched my move at least two metres before the door and skated at full speed, arms up, into a crowd of surprised faces in the full hotel bar. After the wind had finished rushing through my hair, and I slowly slid to a halt, I realised I might look slightly odd. I stood up quickly and whistled in innocence. I think I got away with it, however Pete's attempt fared less well. “CROFTY” he shouted, “WATCH THIS!” Taking his run up in front of the Korean crowd he foolishly opted for the belly slide, sprinting and flopping in the middle of the bar entrance. There was no movement at impact, just a massive slap followed by a low groan. “MY BALLS” he cried, stumbled to his feet, wove slowly towards the bar. I tutted into my rum and coke on my bar stool. Some people have no manners.

We spent one more day in the hotel before we got the call for the ferry trip. Packing our bags we taxied down to the port and sat at the dock whilst customs checked us through. Train carriages were shunted past us straight onto the massive boat, alongside lorries full of goods. Having finally made it through the customs check we walked forward to the stairs to be greeted by a large man who explained in broken English there was no entry to the boat yet. He seemed very personable and we got onto the customary conversation of English football that happens in this part of the world. Basically you name football clubs and then name the players. Chelsea. Ronaldo. Beckham. Gerrard. Henry. All of these are passports to friendly nodding and hand shaking. We conversed like this for at least 10 minutes before he and I ran out of players.

The night was dark and there wasn't much light from the boat. Somewhere fireworks were exploding in faint crackles, showering the tall engines above us with blue and red light. An old woman, clutching a white bag on her shoulder, walked past us and up the stairs to the deck. The man I was talking to shouted something up at her, then another crew member appeared. Small, wearing a baseball cap and dressed in black, he shouted something down to the big guy. The woman continued to climb. The big guy shouted something back, obviously getting angry. I turned to chat to one of the girls who had placed their bags near mine, and then suddenly turned back at the sounds of violence. The small guy had come down the stairs and the big guy had jumped on him. They were both now locked in a proper fist fight, pulling each other to the ground and rolling, kicking and punching. The small guy was getting in a few good punches but the big guy had the weight, holding him steady and landing huge smacks that sounded like lead dropping in dull thuds. Suddenly another man appeared and tried to separate the two, but the big guy was having none of it. More kicking. More punching. This continued for at least five minutes, from the foot of the stairs onto the duty ground, as we watched in surprise. As soon as they'd separate and walked off, one would say something and they'd start again. I was reminded of the dog fight in Georgia, only this time there was less teeth and no blood.

Eventually it petered out. The big guy's shirt was off and he was strutting around, fuming. The little guy had been whisked away by his friend. These were the crew we would be spending the next 24 hours with, and who we would be relying on us for safe passage. We were understandably worried (Pete informed us that last year the crew tried to break into cabins to get to the women). Fortunately 20 minutes later they were friends again. Is this how this are settled on the high seas? (Mental note – don't disagree with the crew.) We all clambered up the stairs to more passport checks, our little cabins, and another drinking session – this time to celebrate Andrew's birthday. Vague memories of flip flop curling, a vodka drink we named Sprios, play fighting with Edel after she wedgied me (yet another pair of pants sacrificed to the wedgy god,) gashing a large chunk of skin off my big toe when running through a door, getting said toe sterilised with vodka by Maura and Ann, wearing a cowboy plaster on it (thanks Ashmole English Dept) and other crazy shennanigans which I don't remember. Oh yes and toilets. Very bad toilets.

We arrived outside the port on the other side of the Caspian after about 12 hours of sailing. We had been told it could take a while for us to get processed on this side. We didn't think it would take another two days. Turns out there was no locomotive to take off the train trucks on this side, and as we sat and waited 12 other boats took their places in the queue. It is quite an interesting feeling being enclosed on a boat that doesn't move. Its like its own world, with its own times and rules. And behaviours. We satisfied our boredom with games of Uno, vodka, and afternoon sleeps. Pot noodles were the order of the day for food. Yet another drinking session and a game of “Never ever have I ever.” (We are all now very familiar with each others' pasts.) The next day cabin fever started to kick in and we decided C would be the best person to eat first if we ran out of food as she ate the most meat. Richard would be dessert as he ate the most ice cream. Maura would be the side dish as she eats mostly potatoes (“fiddledeedee” she might say in her Irish accent.) Nobody fancied a hairy monkey dish. Thankfully the next day the locomotive arrived and we disembarked through a protracted visa process without much water in the baking desert sun. Turkmenistan was going to be very hot indeed.

Our next stop was several hours away and we were in a massive rush – the 3 days on the boat meant our visas would run out before we could get to the border. Whilst the crew phoned ahead to try and arrange an extension on our visas (something never to have happened in the history of tourism in Turkmenistan) we settled down to a night drive towards our destination: the 5 star hotel Nissan in the capital Ashgabat. The city was demolished by an earthquake many years ago (1948 I think) and the soviet ruler Turkmenbashi decided to rebuild the city to his liking. Having rebuilt the city he then in his wisdom decided it didn't have enough “flair” and he demolished it again, importing lots of French architects and white marble. Now it glittens in the middle of the dessert, a massive monument to the vanity of its dead ruler.

Arriving at night was a surreal experience. There are roadblocks every 50 kilometers or so, staffed by the compulsory conscripts of Turkmenistan. 18year olds with rifles. They would look stern, sometimes angry, until ur guide Atta would hop off the bus and we would be waved through – who knows what these kids with guns would do if we didn't have him. (I think torture is still legal, possible encouraged, in Turkmenistani prisons.) Entering the city was even stranger, the lumpy pot-holed road turned into smooth highways devoid of litter or dust. Giant white mosques loomed out of the night, lit up by white and green lights like some city in a dream. Stumbling bleary eyed from our sleep we entered the pristine hotel foyer, stinking and tired from four days without showers. I was given a room key and shuffled into the lift. Inside was a 6ft blonde woman wearing next to nothing doing her hair in the mirror. “Hello,” I croaked flopping my bags down in the corner. She eyed me disdainfully, this sweating, stinky, dusty, hairy monkey, from her heavily made-up eyes. I was to find out later that she was one of the hotel prostitutes for the rich businessmen and was on her way to her next client. I gave her a big grin from my bearded mouth and shuffled out at my floor. The lift hummed up behind me, taking her to her next payment, as I found my beautiful room, showered, and fell into a peaceful sleep.

The hotel was a massive contrast to the stinking ship we had inhabited for 3 days. Everything dripped money, including the pool we spent most of the next two days around. It was so refreshing to be diving into clear water whilst the desert baked in 44 degree heat. Hamburgers could be delivered pool-side, as could chilled water. It was like heaven. But in trunks.

Atta took us to the biggest market in central Asia, just outside the city. There we walked through mazes of carpet stalls, shirt shops, headscarves of every colour. People bustled round as we queued to change our money on the black market from serious-looking old ladies with wrinkled hands and soft voices. A bloated dead cat lay in the sun on the path, flies buzzing around its open mouth and staring white eyes. Later we wandered to the cattle market to see camels, goats and cows being exchanged for cash and then forced onto pick-up trucks. Much hilarity was gained from watching four men try to load a stubborn camel onto their vehicle. Others saw car boots full of chickens, or helped in the pushing of disgruntled dromidaries. I decided to splash out on a shirt (we were having dinner in the hotel that night for Jo's birthday) and got one for 5 quid. We then returned to the hotel for some chill-out time. More pool action. Snoozes.

Jo's birthday proved to be hilarious. After the meal we sat on the hotel couches drinking vodka and discussing whether to explore the nightclub in the basement. Elaine and I decided to do an advance party and descended into the depths. A large dark room awaited, full of faintly glowing seats from the UV lighting. We sat at the bar and ordered expensive cocktails, swiveling on the stools to take in the surroundings. Prostitutes sat on tables in twos and threes, glowing faintly blue and eyeing the new arrivals like predators. Men sat like poker players in the far corner, themselves staring at the women, weighing up their wallets and their chances. Disco lights span over us all, whirling in a chaos of glitter as slow eastern music played. Unnerving and surreal the club took off when everyone else from our group arrived. Never ever have I ever been in a club where whores stare like war veterans, Russian mafia hunch over lit cigarettes, and I dance with friends to “Cotton Eye Joe” like lunatics. We danced till about 2AM to a variety of remixed classics as a Russian guy stood in front of a mirror dancing and making eyes at himself like some parody of Narcissus.

The next day Neil and I walked briefly into town. Water fountains are everywhere, the typical sign of wealth in these desert countries. Guards stood every one hundred metres to make sure no pictures were taken of anything. This is a police state in action, with some buildings (like the Ministry of Information) holding a “go straight to jail” card if photographed. In the middle of the town a giant statue of Turkmenbashi shines in bright gold. Stood atop a white marble building and surrounded by a flag of gold, it rotates so that the sun always falls on his face. His outstretched arms are ironically welcoming, his police state isn't. We bought water and scurried between the shadows back to the hotel, taking pictures of fountains in secret.

That afternoon we left the modern metropolis for the desert for a bush camp. We rocked up to a series of tall dunes and set up tents whilst Atta went off into the desert to find a large Russian truck. This would be necessary to climb the giant sand hills towards the giant gas crater a kilometer away as Penelope, bless her, couldn't make it. We climbed aboard the monster truck and bounced over the dunes as the sun set. In the distance a faint glow could be seen, growing larger as the truck manouvered through the scrub. Then we arrived, the heat from the crater rising in invisible waves and heating the warm breeze on our faces. This was evidence of yet more Russian fuck-ups: they'd tried to tap into the large gas deposits beneath the desert and drilled this huge hole in the floor, but failed along the way. The gas venting from the basin had originally blown over villages far away causing illness to many of the inhabitants. Then one day someone had thrown in a match, causing the flaming inferno witnessed today. It looked like some vision of hell, black rocks spewing forth fire and gas. We stood around the edge taking photos and imagining the awful death that would result from falling in. In winter during temperatures of -20 degrees birds will circle above the flames without heat to ensure survival. When we admired the glorious star display later that night the crater lit up the horizon like a city.

That was our last stop in Turkmenistan. We had been allowed the visa extensions and now had to cross the border. The road disappeared into the hazy distance in a straight line. Sand was everywhere. With the exception of a lone cow wandering the dunes and the giant locusts that pursue me like a curse, the desert is devoid of life. The heat is so stifling that if you open your window the breeze that blusters in is like a hairdryer. The best thng to do is leave a gap for a draft and sip your warm water from a refilled bottle. After some trouble with the truck papers we crossed into Uzbekistan, saying goodbye to Atta and saying hello to Jalol our new guide. He led us to Khiva, one of the jewels of the desert and definitely the most beautiful city we have visited so far.

Imagine stepping back in time to some story out of Arabian nights. Blue-topped domes glowing in the sunset over creamy sand battlements. A sickle moon rising over the top of delicately patterned minarets. Tiled buildings shining in a multitude of colours. Gold filigree twinkling in the starlight of a hundred individual mosaics. Stone streets with high walls leading to silent enclosed squares. The cool night air punctuated with the smells of lamb shashlik and green tea. Serene and glorious Khiva is a renovated town to the state of hundreds of years ago. This beautiful town witnessed the political schemes, the beheadings and the secrecies of the Great Game. I can only imagine how it must have felt to be the first European to lay eyes on this fantastic city, rising up out of the desert with all the alien grace and danger of a scorpion.

Our homestay looked out to the unfinished minaret near the main Mosque, a fascinating mixture of blues and gold. Legend has it (according to Jalol) that the giant blue structure remained unfinished as the architect found out that he was to be killed. The Khan of Khiva wanted the biggest minaret in Uzbekistan and had comissioned the work, but then found out the nearby Khan of Bhukara wanted a bigger one, and wanted his architect to build it. To stop the architect doing so the Khan of Khiva planned to kill the architect after he'd finished, thereby securing the “biggest minaret” accolade. This legend shows many things about life in those times: creativity and life really didn't count for much; men throughout all of history have tried to be known as the “biggest.” The best bit about the legend is that the architect apparently designed some wings and flew away never to be heard of again. Maybe he hangs around the gas crater in winter with the birds.

That night we had the pleasure of eating an Uzbekistan feast: various plates of soups and salads and breads were provided. The local wine flowed freely and we were treated to a traditional Uzbekistan dance performed by a group of about five people. In fact it seemed like the Uzbek version of the Jackson 5 as their star was a tiny five-year-old in a giant hat, very similar to an afro. The kid was an excellent dancer, and made us all laugh, but frankly it was just too weird and he reminded me of the midget from twin peaks. The group were all accomplished musicians and were obviously very successful as the older members had rows of shining gold teeth. This is a sign of wealth in these central Asian countries and can be quite unnerving at first when you are blinding by a gold light when shaking hands. They performed their dances (99% of which are apparently about love – yet more political control?) and on request did a traditional wedding dance to celebrate Leslie and Terry's wedding anniversary. Then the female singer dragged many of us up to dance in the circle with the child-demon. This consisted of puffing your cheeks out, waving your arms in the air, and stamping your feet. Then running in a circle. Anyone familiar with mine and Clarkey's “Bungle Dance” will recognise some of these moves. However that mini-Jackson devil pulled a few more out of the bag the likes of which I've never seen. Suffice to say Clarkey we thought we were innovators of dance, but the Uzbeks have been doing this for thousands of years, (I'll train you up when I get back.) We finished the night off with copious amounts of chacha and apparently some wrestling on a rooftop which I don't remember but was probably just revenge for Pete catching a giant locust and putting it down my back. I screamed like a girl and ran around with my t shirt over my head as both I and the locust scrabbled around in our respective fears.

The next day saw the first onset of a dodgy tummy. And I thought I was going to get away on this trip with nothing of the sort (I survived India two years ago therefore I must be impervious to all known bugs – that was the stupid logic.) Anyway it really knocked me out. Spent all day asleep on the back seat of the truck after Jen kindly gave up her seat next to me so I could stretch out. Vague memories of hours spent staring out of the window at the desert passing by when awake. We were heading for Bukhara which was a 7 hour journey – a long time to fight off stomach cramps with dust in your mouth. Still we reached Bukhara without accidents.

Bukhara is a city much like Khiva but much less rennovated and polished. Instead many of the places of interest are a little ruined and show the ravages of time and desert more significantly. We spent three days there exploring the streets (two days in my case – I spent the first night recovering in bed and the next day just hanging around the hotel) to find little cafes, crumbling fortress walls, and traditional baths. The second night the girls all decided to have a “girls night out” which sounded like a very good idea originally with nails getting done, make up on, disco soundtrack provided by Simon, cocktails in the girl's big room, and going out for an Italian meal. However as all ladies reading this will testify, boys need female supervision at all times and tend to get into mischief when this is absent.

Therefore all of the following is ultimately the girls' fault.

Having decided to get rid of the bug that was going round with a healthy dose of cha cha (it seems to be a miracle cure for insect bites and other ailments,) some of us boys had sat there from the early afternoon, playing backgammon in the large tiled courtyard that stayed cool in the oppressive heat. Much vodka and cha cha was consumed (it did the trick for my bug too.) The girls left and us boys started to discuss how mean and unfair it was for the ladies to leave us all by ourselves.

Couldn't we play a practical joke? They could come home and find it and it would be really really funny. Really. And they can get us back and that will be really funny too. Yes I'll have some more cha cha. Yes I''ll scale that wall to their balcony. I'm up, but the doors are probably locked. Why not get the key from reception? And turn everything in their room upside down? Meticulously? Yes, we'll remake the beds even though they're resting on their headboards. Yes, we'll turn the bottles upside down. (Make sure the tops are on.) Everything must turn. Flip flops in the bathroom. Toiletries. Bags. (No not the fridge it'll break.) Let's take pictures too. Mmm. Lock the door give the key back. Now let's go to a nightclub. Yes I'll have some more cha cha. Don't wake Mike up he's fallen asleep. Bollocks. He's Irish and he's coming to a nightclub. Pick him up. Beer?

Andrew and Mike were weaving down the road, one clutching a bottle of cha cha, the other a beer. You swop. No YOU swop. YOU swop. YOOOU swop! YOOOOOU swop! Slap. Andrew fell over his feet and slapped his back hard onto the pavement. His arms were splayed out, as were his legs, and his cha cha bottle rolled off under the feet of some passing French tourists. “Shit Crofty we're not going to get them into a club like that,” Tim said.
“We will, we will, they're Irish, they can pull it together in a second.” At that point Mike bent down to see if Andrew was alright and his beer bottle slipped from his fingers, smashing in an explosion of glass and beer like a grenade. With the beer pooling round his head Andrew remained impervious, like a dead snow angel, an unconscious grin on his face as the French tourists tentatively returned the bottle and walked quickly away from the chaos.

“Oh fuck.”

Fifteen minutes later we were in the club. After lifting Shinnick (Andrew) from his dusty bliss the Irish boys had pulled out the classic nightclub manouvre: the Pacino. Everyone knows that no matter how drunk you are you can dig deep down and pull out some of the finest acting the world has ever seen. Sod Olivier. Piss off Branagh. They'd stand no chance after a night on the chacha. No, its method acting at its best. At that moment when you stumble towards those two blurred doors its like something spiritual touches you. Your body falls into the normal patterns like you've been that character all your life. (Which you have apart from on weekends.) Your legs straighten. Your pupils retract. Those hard lumps of words that you've been chewing out for hours become liquid smooth. You skip nimbly up and down steps, flash a winning smile to the bouncers, and you're there.

But you've only got two minutes, which is why timing is essential. Don't start the acting way back in the queue, you just can't maintain it. And don't wait until you see the bouncers – they're focussing on the three metres directly in front of them (especially the blonde in the short skirt.) Wait until they see you, watch like a hawk, and when that eye contact is made, flick that Pacino switch and sail on through to the big beats and the shiny shiny bottles inside. And if you feel the Pacino wearing off, don't speak. There's nothing worse than being mid conversation with a man who's bicep is twice the size of your head and it crashing around your ears. Who will put you in a taxi then?

Andrew and Mike deserve oscars for their performance that evening. Best Actor: Andrew Shinnick for his role in “You Swop.” Best Supporting Actor: Mike Treanor for his supporting role (literal.) We sailed through to an empty bar wherein Andrew and Mike headed straight for the corner booth, lay down flat on the seats, and fell asleep for 3 hours. Those more lively than these boys ordered more vodka and danced the night away to Uzbek house. The Korean prostitutes who were dancing for their boys' pleasure (booth next to us) didn't seem to get the subtleties of “big box small box” dancing. A random old European man turned up with another crowd of Koreans and seemed to recognise the dance move. We span and drank in the flashing lights until we figured it best to try and wake the Irish. Treanor responded to water in the ear but Shinnick was dead to the world. Hoisting the big man on our shoulders Tim and I dragged, shuffled and manouvered the unconscious Andrew out of the door and up the stairs, passing the girls who had only just arrived after their “girls night out.”
“Hello!”
“Goodbye,” we gasped through gritted teeth as we lifted him up a step.

My abiding memory of the taxi home is turning round from the front seat to see Shinnnick lying across the back, a pool of vomit spreading over his t shirt, with Tim pointing his head like a hose as he repeated “Just be sick on yourself Shinnick, not on the taxi.” Its amazing how maternal that man can be. With the help of Cheryl (Tim's fiance) who we found in the hotel, we stripped him down to his trousers, put him in the recovery position in his bed, then left him to it.

“You coming back Crofty? The taxi's still outside and its just kicking off in that club!” Tim asked as he wiped the sick from his hands and t-shirt and grinned. I left him and Cheryl to it and went to check that Shinnick wasn't doing a Hendrix. Upon their return they found Treanor asleep in a different booth. He'd stood up with us when we left with Shinnick, walked three metres to the next booth, then collapsed into the next booth and fallen asleep again.

As I said, we hold no responsibility for our actions as the girls know full well what happens when boys are left to their own devices. However we wisely decided not to raise that point when Maura, Jo and Jen appeared fuming (but a little amused) at the state of their room the next day. We apologised profusely and now they see the funny side. Their revenge is in the post – who knows what evil designs their minds have concocted for us? Hopefully it won't be too painful. The banter in this group is ace!

Since then we've been bush camping by a massive lake in the Uzbekistani wilderness. We rocked up two days ago in the boiling sunshine looking for a perfect site, then the truck fell through the soft clay earth into a massive hole in the ground. That decided it – we were camping right there. We unloaded the truck and set to digging out the wheels, jacking up the chassis onto wooden blocks. Jalol walked off into the desert and found a truck (much like Atta in Turkmenistan) that dragged us out of the hole. Then we washed off our exertions in the cool shallow lake and spent the next days swimming, sleeping, tanning, kite-surfing (in Tim's case – one of the coolest things I've ever seen) and finished off with a party last night. I have a vague memory of emerging from my tent at about 4AM, starkers in the moonlight, for a wee. The crescent moon on the vast lake shimmered as the milky way wheeled overhead and I smiled to myself. This trip just keeps getting better.

Its now the 11th of June. I started writing this days ago and reading it back it seems like a lot has happened. There's been forced changes to the truck route, but all that's coming in a different entry. We're heading for a hotel in Samarkand that will hopefully be free from the snakes, camel spiders and scorpions that have plagued our campsite the last two nights. All is well in Uzbekistan and this is one happy little monkey.