GO, GO, G'O'Zbekistan!!

 

Khiva to the Kazakh border

 

Khiva has the dubious reputation of once being the largest human slave market in Central Asia.  Slaves from all four points of the compass changed hands here well into the 19th century, but no one seemed inclined to do much about it for the sake of their subjects except the Russians.  Despite a couple of notable failed attempts to take over the Khanate of Khiva in the 18th century, ending in disasters of spectacular proportions typical of the region, eventually in 1873 the Russians sent a force well organised enough to hold its ground and obliterate any Khivan opposition it met along the way.  This brought an end to the practice of trading slaves, one of the cornerstones of the Khivan economy. 

 

Along with the rest of the old Russian empire in this region, the Khanate of Khiva was swallowed up by the Bolshevik Revolution when it came, being transformed into the Khorezm People’s Republic in 1920.  The last Khan was conveniently and summarily executed, and when the new republic showed a lack of serious enthusiasm for the Bolshevik’s brand of socialism, the little republic was swallowed up into the larger Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic, of which it now remains a part.

 

All manner of interesting shenanigans went on in and around Khiva during the Great Game.  Knowing the British stories a little better than the Russian, I can tell you of a couple of notable characters.  During 1839 Captain Richmond Shakespeare excelled in following his orders to negotiate with the Khan for the release of all the Russian slaves kept in Khiva, in order to remove the possibility of the Russians using these slaves as a pretext for invasion.  He was entirely successful, and marched 400 men, women and children back to Russia, much to the chagrin of the Russian generals champing at the bit to have a go at Khiva.  When he got back to England, he was invited to Buckingham Palace for tea and medals, and got back to his post in India just in time to hear the news that he’d avoided one of the biggest military disasters in British Imperial history – the Retreat from Kabul. 

 

Lookout over the old city of Khiva

Lookout across the old city in Khiva

 

Despite his efforts to stall the Russian invasion, it did eventually go ahead.  Once secured, the Russians issued an edict declaring Khiva as off limits to any foreigners (especially nosey Englishmen).  This came to the attention of the other notable character I'll mention, who was Captain Frederick Burnaby – a gifted multi-linguist and a man so big he could apparently straddle a small pony with both feet touching the ground.  He happened to be reading a newspaper while serving in the British Army in Khartoum, Sudan when he spotted an article about this new prohibition.  Taking this as a personal challenge to his resourcefulness, he declared that he would be damned before being told where he could and couldn’t go by any Rusky.  And he was sure they were up to no good at any rate.  So he decided to make the trip to Khiva during his four weeks’ of Christmas leave in the depths of winter. 

 

Taking the train from London to St Petersburg, he slowly made his way by train and then by sleigh to the outermost limits of the Russian frontier to the south, hired himself a batman, a guide and a couple of camels, and completed the journey across the frozen steppe in temperatures as low as minus 40 Celsius in several feet of snow, nearly losing his hands to frostbite in the process.  Deftly evading the Russian authorities, he did finally get to Khiva, where with due deference he secured an audience with the last independent Khan of Khiva – a man he described as “muy simpatico” – for want of a better expression, despite the Khan’s reputation as someone who should rank a few degrees lower than the Baby-Eating Bishop of Bath and Wells. 

 

Khivans enjoying a good meal - in miniature

 

Burnaby’s account of his journey – A Ride to Khiva – is considered a Great Game classic and in fact would make interesting reading for anyone travelling in this part of the world.  I’ve occasionally wondered what he would have made of the swarms of cyclists today piling along the routes that he considered so outlandish in his time. 

 

I suppose he might say, “Pah! Asphalt! Roads!  Shops in every town….no one carries any guns….where are the brigands?  Where are the cut-throats?  An iPhone?  What the devil is that??”  (Etc. etc.)

 

To which I would reply, “Well, I do at least carry all my own stuff.  Two servants?  Two horses?  Three camels?  For one British Officer?  Come off it!  “A Ride to Khiva” – should be called “Sitting on Your Butt All the Way to Khiva while Someone Else Gets You There.” (Etc. etc.)

 

Yet, undoubtedly the man had the gift of the Gab, and he was something of a legend in his own day. 

 

Perhaps we could agree on one thing.  If crossing the desert from Khiva to the Caspian Sea in the depths of winter is madness, crossing the same country at the height of summer demonstrates a decided want of reason too. 

 

Of course, necessity drove us both to it. 

 

As for our little team, we had come to a milestone.  Khiva was our last day off before Aktau, the port lying on the Caspian Sea, some 1,100km to the north-west.  It was spent, as you’d expect, traipsing round some of the sites in the Old City, which is remarkably well-preserved, extremely atmospheric, and in every way “just the job” for anyone with a strong Central Asian touristic itch to scratch. 

 

I won’t dwell on how we went about this since nothing of particular note happened.  But I would suggest you take a look at some of the photos I’ve put up in the Uzbekistan photo gallery to see what a remarkable-looking place it still is. 

 

We also managed to get Cory’s back wheel fixed. 

 

Every team needs a weak link, and unfortunately Cory’s rear wheel was it.  It is amazing to me that he showed SO much patience with his bike.  Somewhere along the line, there was a failure of understanding, communication, or perhaps it was a blinding flash of optimism, that meant Cory had arrived with a beautiful spanking new retro-looking touring bike, with super-sleek tyres, that would look wonderful speeding along the by-ways of the Loire Valley, but far less impressive over the mass of white rubble they call a road in Western Kazakhstan. 

 

Bike repiars - many hands make light work

"Ooh, that'll cost yer!"

 

What hadn’t been impressed on him enough was quite how bad the condition of this road was going to be.  I think it was difficult to know this anyway.  But the result was that his poor bike took a battering that it was clearly not designed to endure.  I lost count of broken spokes and flat tyres, but I’m sure he didn’t.  But by the time we had to put him and his bike in the back of a Russian truck a couple of hundred kilometres short of Aktau, his back inner tube was more patch than tube. 

 

Nevertheless, as my old boss used to say, we are where we are.  (Or rather we were where we were.)  And we were determined we would get to Aktau one way or the other with what we had.

 

Kellen and I both came to the conclusion that the fastest we could possibly cover the 1,100km was in 8 days.  We would do this by averaging around 150km per day, and where possible we would try to find suitable locations to get off the road for the hottest part of the day (which would be approaching 45 degrees Celsius), and if we couldn’t we’d cower in the shade of a storm drain or something (where available). 

 

We had never heard of anyone covering the distance this quickly.  But that only made us more determined to do it.  And of course, however fast you think you are, your actual speed is heavily contingent upon what the wind has up its sleeve for you.  (This is where religious types like myself start muttering to heaven.)

 

But the general cry was, “Go, Go, G’O’Zbekistan!”

 

Water was to be of prime concern and so we all had our drinking bottles and several other water containers to carry extra water which would be needed throughout the day.  We’d adopted a policy of drinking any source of water that the locals were also happy to drink.  So for example, this meant we filled up from an assortment of taps, hosepipes, boiled water tanks and any other means by which the locals provided themselves with water.  Often this water tasted quite appalling and it was an unfailing delight every time we arrived at a chaikhana or a shop and could drink something other than boiling hot rancid hose water. 

 

Still, as we left Khiva and our kind hosts who’d put us up in their beautifully air-conditioned house just outside the western gate of the Old City, we’d been furnished with reasonably cold water from their tap, which didn’t taste too bad.

 

Our hosts in khiva - Western Gate in the background

Our hosts in Khiva - behind you can see the western gate of the Old City

 

As we set out on the road out of town in our little peloton, we passed a gaping-mouthed gaggle of school kids traipsing along the roadside.  They literally froze and stared as we piled off into the distance with a jolly wave.

 

Kellen wondered aloud what it would be like for the situation to be reversed.  He imagined a scene in which he would be sitting one Saturday morning, outside Starbucks in front of his local shopping mall back home, about to open the paper and lifting his semi-skimmed mocha latte decaf to his lips, when, in a sudden flash of zooming tyres and whirring chains, three Saudi women regaled in full burkhas speed past in a neat line, spraying themselves down with water, a billow of black cloth flapping behind them.  I have to admit, this image kept me giggling for at least a couple of kilometres.  (It still does!)

 

It was a fine morning and not too hot.  We sped from town to town, slowly crossing part of the fertile Amur Darya delta throughout which agriculture was abundant, and the trees and crops had a cooling effect on the air. 

 

It was around lunch time when we reached the main river once more, and we stopped for our daily break at the last in a long row of restaurants that led to the bridge.  Of course there was nothing to eat but melons and fish, but we needed nothing more. 

 

Crossing back over the Amur Darya

Re-crossing the Amur Darya towards Nukus

 

When we set out again, we crossed the bridge and immediately I got a puncture.  I was a bit shocked since I had one of my reserve “bomb-proof” tyres on my back wheel, but this didn’t seem enough to defend against a nasty little piece of shrapnel picked up on the bridge. 

 

Once it was fixed, we turned north-west towards Nukus and endured one of the most physically exhausting sections of our 8 day charge, grinding our way painfully (in turns) against a strong crossheadwind along the road which led us back into the desert in a slow but relentless climb.

 

But as the sun dropped, the wind died with it and we got a whiff of our destination for the day, which was to be Nukus, the last big town in Uzbekistan, if you’re leaving by the western (back) door.  Finishing off the last 25km into town in the dark, we managed to find our hotel pretty painlessly, and we were fed, watered and tucked up in their spare room (which was in fact a yurt in the back courtyard) within 45 minutes of getting there.

 

Cory inside our yurt - Nukus

Cory enjoying our home for the night - in a yurt

 

Phew!  Right – 170km down in one day.  A good start.

 

What’s next?

 

A shorter, hotter day to follow.  If you look at a map, you’ll see the city of Nukus sits up there in the top left corner of Uzbekistan, not too far from a couple of smaller towns.  One is called Moynak.  This is a sorry sort of a place.  It used to be a seaside port that thrived on its fishing industry in the Aral Sea.  Today it lies more than 100km from the sea shore.  The Aral Sea is one of the great ecological disasters of the 20th/21st centuries.  Since we can, let’s blame the Soviets.  They managed to divert so much of the Amur Darya river for irrigation for their cotton agriculture as it flowed through Uzbekistan, that the Aral Sea has effectively been completely choked of the main source of its water supply.  Because of this, it has shrunk and shrunk and shrunk to a pitiful puddle that, according to environmental experts, while one day vanish.  And of course, with it will vanish all the industry and economy that was supported by it.  In fact, most of this has already gone.

 

So that’s Moynak.  A little to the south and west is the town of Kongirat, which really is the last sizable town before the road shoots off in a dead straight line, 350km to the border. 

 

Kongirat lies only 100km from Nukus.  It was burning hot (comme d’habitude) but there was a bit of a headwind too so it was a weary sort of day, albe