* We stopped updating the blog while traveling so there's a bit of a gap in the timeline. Posts from here on were written a couple of years after returning home, based on my journal entries.
May 2018
Despite everything we had read on the internet, our border crossing into Uzbekistan was fast and smooth. We were immediately ushered to the front of the line by friendly, curious soldiers to have our panniers X-rayed. That was it though; no searching through the bags, no questions about how much money we were carrying or what types of medications we had with us. Just a quick glance and a stamp for our visas and we were through the gates and into country number 18!
It had been a long, tiring day, and it was getting late by the time we were through. Luckily, there was a café and hotel directly at the border where we decided to spend the night. It was a different sort of hotel than any we had seen up until this point: For a ridiculously low price, the four of us were able to sleep in one of the eating rooms, lying out on floor mats next to low tables. It was just what we needed. Our extremely helpful host brought us food and beer directly to the room, where we sat and gorged ourselves before stretching out on the mats in between the tables and getting our much needed rest.
In the morning we had a leisurely breakfast in the café and then set off… directly into a brutal headwind. We struggled ahead for almost three hours before reaching the first police checkpoint, a measly 20km past the border. We hid behind the building to eat lunch and try to recover some of the energy that the morning had sapped from us. Not that headwinds are ever fun, but they’re especially demoralizing in the desert, when your options for food and water are so limited. We had 150km to cover to reach our next supply point, and the thought of crawling along at 6km/hour, fighting the wind every inch, for that amount of distance was overwhelming. Steve and I discussed trying to hitch a ride, which is always an absolute last resort for us. I don’t think we were quite there yet, but sometimes just talking about your options helps. Knowing that we could hitch, if we really wanted to, made it a bit easier to face what we were up against.
Eventually we all decided that it was pointless to keep riding in the current conditions. There was a tiny, rough Chaihana just past the police station that we ducked into for a rest. We relaxed for the rest of the day, drinking tea and playing cards amidst much laughter and good conversation. We managed to order some food (always a challenge without a menu or common language) and were able to lay out our sleeping bags in a small back room.
Before going to sleep, Steve and I wandered outside to use the bathroom and check out the neighbourhood. The wind had kicked up the sand, filling the air with dust. The twilight and the dust had turned the sky a hazy, stormy shade of blue. The rusted out train cars next to the dilapidated outhouse stood stark against the neon sign of the Chaihana. The only sounds were the wind in my ears and the sand skittering past my feet as we took in our bizarre, surreal surroundings. In the eerie dusk, this place felt timeless, equally likely to belong to some forgotten past or to a strange, dystopian future. The feeling of loneliness was tangible. Shivering, as much from the isolation as from the chill in the wind, we hurried inside to where our cozy beds were waiting.
The next morning came quickly. We were on the road by 7am, but unfortunately the wind was blowing just as hard as the day before. If that wasn’t enough, it was slowly dawning on us just how badly paved this highway was. We managed 30km of bumpy, slow, demoralizing riding before stopping for lunch and a short nap. In the afternoon the wind seemed to have dialed back a bit, and we could maintain speeds of about 12km/hr instead of 6, which was encouraging. We managed to make it a full 70km that day, which was just about halfway to our next supply point. Our campsite that night was in a depression underneath sandy dunes, where we pitched our tents on top of the scorched and cracked earth. It looked like we were on the moon, and felt just as remote. As always, the setting of the sun awakened the life in the surrounding desert, and we listened to bugs and crickets chirping away as we fell asleep.
The next day we had a goal to make: Jasliq, where we would find our next Chaihana. Not only were our supplies dwindling, but we also needed to make it to a place that could register us. The rule for tourists in Uzbekistan is that you have to be registered a minimum of every 3rd night, in a hotel that is approved to do so. In the morning, the hotel gives you a slip of paper, and you have to keep your slips throughout your entire visit and present them when you leave the country. We had been registered at our first hotel, but the tiny Chaihana from our second night couldn’t register us, and the next night we had camped. Even if we hadn't cared about registering, we didn’t have enough water for another night out, so we were pretty motivated to make it. Again, the wind backed off just enough so that we could maintain about 10km/hr. It was still an exhausting 75km, and we were pretty excited to finally see the Chaihana off in the distance. We settled into our rooms (real rooms this time, with a shower!) and ate some food. Once more, we spent the evening playing cards and having fun over pots of tea, sitting around a low table surrounded by mats and cushions. As the night wore on, truckers started crawling in and falling asleep on the mats around us, so we took the hint and went to bed too.
In the morning, we started another 140km stretch of nothing until our next resupply, and the wind still hadn’t stopped. In fact, the day we left Jasliq it was worse; still blowing in our faces, but with strong gusts that would grab your front wheel and bring you almost to a stop. It was also the first day in Uzbekistan that had been unbearably hot. The days up until now had been alright, with temperatures in the low thirties and the strong headwinds actually keeping us a bit cooler. This day though, the wind and the air were hot and muggy. The stuffiness combined with the dust made it hard to breathe, and hard to drink enough water to replenish everything we were sweating out. We spent part of the day riding tightly together, Jamie in the lead to break the wind, Karen and Steve staggered behind and beside him, and me, the straggler, taking shelter from all three of them. Mid-day siestas had also become mandatory; it was the only way we could keep up enough energy to get through until the evening. At lunch, I curled up on the ground next to my bike, taking refuge in the only shade I could find underneath my rear pannier.
These days were tough, but they would have been even tougher if we didn’t have our little group. It’s much easier to keep the insanity at bay with four people, instead of two. We were grateful that Karen and Jamie had suggested teaming up, and I think they were grateful that we had agreed. Consistently, our favourite part of each day was at the end, when we had picked out a spot and set up the tent, and it was time for food. Picking out a camp spot was never hard; with endless desert and no people, you could really pitch a tent anywhere. We usually tried to set up next to small bushes or sand piles, just to help feel grounded in the huge expanse of nothing. Once the food was eaten we could relax, sitting in the dirt and resting our tired bodies as we laughed about our hard days and the absurdity of what we were doing. Jamie was traveling with his ukulele, so we even had a couple of fun evening sing-a-longs. It felt pretty special to be in this remote, middle-of-nowhere place, on a bicycle; and having the two of them with us made it even more special. I could never do a trip like this alone.
Finally, after so many days of brutal headwind, we got a bit of a break. The headwind had changed slightly to a crosswind. It was still strong, and the air was still hot and muggy, but at least we could move a bit faster. Slowly, we started seeing signs of civilisation. We passed an oil rig and a few small villages, and eventually the highway made a sharp turn to cross some train tracks. In an instant, the one thing we had been dreaming about for days was happening: we had a tailwind! That turn in the road was just enough to put the wind behind us, and suddenly we were flying along in a way we had forgotten was possible. The wind we had been cursing for days swept us along for the last 20km to our next resupply point, the Dinur Café. Here we were welcomed by a wonderful man named Shakzod who brought us food and drinks and gave us rooms for the night. He loves the idea of traveling by bike and was so eager to help us out. Despite how tired we all were, we stayed up late in the restaurant, sipping on the Uzbek vodka he brought us and chatting about so many things. Between puffs of his Shisha pipe he told us about Karakalpakstan, the autonomous republic within Uzbekistan that we were riding through, and about how his country has changed since they got a new president in 2016. We told him about our trip and he talked about his life and his goals for the Dinur Café. It was a wonderful night. Eventually, when we were suitably tipsy and our eyes started closing, we stumbled over to our rooms for a deep, well-deserved sleep.
In the morning, Shakzod helped us arrange a day-trip to visit Moynaq, an old fishing town on the shore of what used to be the Aral Sea. Our driver picked us up at the café and proceeded to drive like a crazy man the entire way there, flying over bumps and ruts in the road and careening around corners like we were in a car chase. More than once I worried that both Karen and I were in this car together, because I couldn’t stand the thought of our parents losing both their daughters in one go. Nevertheless, we made it to Moynaq without dying, and went straight to the old shoreline.
The Aral Sea used to be the fourth-largest lake in the world
and all of Karakalpakstan benefitted from the thriving fishing industry. In the 1960’s, the Soviet government diverted
the rivers which fed the Aral Sea for cotton production. Deprived of its
inflow, the sea started to dry up. The cotton production ended up polluting the
sea with its chemical runoff, and the evaporation of the sea water led to
extremely high levels of salinity. Today,
the sea is less than 10% of its original size, and is known as one of the
planets worst environmental disasters. Moynaq,
which was once a bustling port city, now sits 150km from the current shoreline.
As the polluted sea evaporated, it left huge plains covered with salt and
dried-up chemicals. When the wind blows, this toxic dust is swept into the air
and has saddled the residents of Moynaq with all sorts of nasty health
problems. The fishing industry used to
employ about 40 000 people, so in addition to the loss of their health, the
people living there have also suffered the loss of their economy. The dust storms make the summers hotter and
the winters colder, and the surrounding crops have a hard time growing because
the land is so salty.
Understandably, the population has declined drastically over the last 40 years. Knowing this, and from other travel blogs we had read online, we expected a derelict ghost town, populated only with a couple of sad, sick beggers and decaying buildings. This was not the case at all; Moynaq actually seemed quite normal, just like any other desert town. There were people hanging around, going about their daily business, kids running and laughing in the streets. Shops and restaurants were open and selling food. It wasn’t busy, but there was life. Our driver found a local who showed us to the old port, and the place where the sea once met the town.
Standing on the old shoreline is fascinating. You have an unimpeded view over what is so obviously an old seabed, just without the sea. If you squint and look in the distance, you can almost convince yourself that the flat horizon is water. It looks so much like a sea, but it’s just sand. We walked down a set of stairs to the seabed, where the rusting hulls of old ships are lined up where they used to float. We spent some time wandering around, climbing up onto the ships and kicking through the sand. If you look closely, the sand is full of tiny seashells, a small reminder of the life that once existed here.
From the shoreline, we drove over to Moynaq’s museum; a small, one-room exhibit showing the history of the city and the area. It was a bit rough around the edges, but had a really interesting photo-book of Moynaq when it was still a fishing town. Flipping through the pages, seeing the old canneries and boats docked at the port, it was hard to reconcile these images with the sandy seabed we had just been standing in.
Once we had seen our fill we started the scary drive back to the Dinur. Once more, our fearless driver deposited us safely at our destination, and we vowed silently to stick to our bikes from now on. Back at the café we ran into a pair of Scottish cyclists that we had met in Beyneu, so we had a quick chat with them before losing steam. The trip to Moynaq had been so interesting, but once again, we were tired after another long, hot day. We packed our bags for a speedy exit in the morning, and tucked into bed.
The next morning was wonderful. We ate a nice hearty breakfast and got ready to hit the road. As we were about to leave, the entire staff of the Dinur café was there to see us off. All of the hotel staff, the kitchen staff, and the servers, whether we had met them during our stay or not, came outside to wave goodbye. Our driver from the day before even came by to join the crowd. One of the older women said a short prayer for our safe travels. The group was silent as she spoke and gestured, then, as one, everyone brought their hands together in front of their face and brought them down. It’s a motion to symbolise a washing gesture, and meant to give thanks. It was so sweet and special. After the prayer, there was a flurry of smiles, handshakes, and well-wishes, and we were gone, rolling onto the road to pick up the tailwind that had been waiting for us.
We just flew that morning, along the section we drove the day before, past the turn-off to Moynaq, and on into new territory. The barren desert was replaced by villages and fields, and by the time we stopped for lunch we had already covered 90km, such a change from our last days of riding. It was still ridiculously hot, and the heat rash that I’d been getting on my legs was getting worse, so I decided to go full spandex. Steve and I always ride in street clothes, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I took off my pants to expose the bike shorts underneath, much to the delight of Karen and Jamie. I felt a bit naked, but they assured me that you get used to it. I can’t say I did… but the extra airflow really did feel nice in the heat.
Ever since entering the country, we had been gunning for Nukus as our first big city. So often we had counted the days until Nukus, the kilometres until Nukus. It marked the completion of the first desert section in Uzbekistan and was one of our big milestones. As we got closer, it became apparent that we were making good enough time that we could probably skip right through Nukus, and keep going. In a moment of defiance, we did just that; rode right through our goal and kept pedaling out the other side, with only one quick stop for some ice cream on the way through. It felt great. We rode until the city gave way to industry, and then until the industry gave way to desert again. We ended up riding a whopping 155km that day, the biggest day of our trip so far.
When we finally called it quits, we pushed off the highway into the desert through soft sand that sucked all the remaining energy from our bones. Sitting in the sand amongst the tiny scrub brushes, I discovered another benefit of wearing spandex: ticks can’t crawl inside your shorts! As always, the desert is full of small life when you look closely; it just so happened that this desert had ticks. Gross. Too tired to think about moving camp, we decided to just deal with it. Steve invented a great game that involved pushing the ticks down into the sand with your finger, and seeing how long it took them to resurface. That game got old pretty fast though, and it wasn’t long before we were grossed out enough to retreat inside the tents. We were still tired, still in the desert, but a new desert now, which was different and exciting. Our epic day had helped the motivation too, and we were ready and keen to keep pushing towards our next destination, Khiva.
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