I missed the bus to Khiva. It has been my 5
th day in Bukhara. Mubinjon, the owner of the long stand shoestring guesthouse seemed so happy to learn this as I would have to stay another night here. I didn’t see anyone staying in his 250-year old pretty run-down yet richly and intricately decorated traditional Bukharan house, except me. One shower in 5-day of stay(you can only take it in the morning) and the shower went off after 5 minutes. Who want to stay here if not because of $5?
I have to move. It’s time to move again. The sizzling days here are literally unbearable.
Despite Mubinjon’s claim, I took a bus to the shared taxi stand and then I ran into two tourists who can speak serviceable Russian there. The notorious taxi drivers loitering around there wanted an outrageous of 70,000 Som per head for the ride, regardless of how many person in the taxi. ‘Avtoboos nie’, they said. The two tourists finally agreed with the price but then ran towards me to tell me that an Uzbek woman just told them that there will be a bus passing by from Tashkent, probably at noon time. I can wait at the roadside. I knew it! I just knew it! In fact I need not felt so excited as apparently there have been some locals waiting along the road. It’s not difficult to realize this.
Seeing me loitering at the roadside, the taxi drivers approached me. ‘Bus is expensive’, said one of them who knows a little English. That is funny. Is he a nut or he thought I’m a nut? When is the time a seat on a bus is more expensive than a seat in a taxi? I think he forgot to take his medicine this morning. I ignored him. OK! So there is a bus. I hate taxi drivers. All taxi drivers in the world are the same - untrustworthy.
My drinking water finished. The street vendor beside me wanted 2000 Som for a 1.5-liter drinking water. I walked away. I know the price but I also know that I need water. Then he passed me another bottle, saying 1000 Som. Haha…I took it. There is no big difference between two other than the brand and the size where it’s just slightly smaller than the ‘2000 Som’ one. He just wanted to cover his dishonesty. Another two tourists were seen wandering around the bazaar, probably looking for a transport to go to the north. The same gang of taxi drivers approached them. They eventually went with one of the drivers after some times of thought. I didn’t tell them there would be a bus from Tashkent, unless they asked. But I didn’t even look like a foreigner. So it’s not easy for them to spot me. In fact, I wasn’t sure if there would be a bus passing by. How if there wasn’t? I was also not sure if they can bear all the pains of taking an ‘Uzbekistan bus’. You know, there are so many travelers out there who like to be called backpackers simply because they carry backpacks on their backs.
And the hypothesis turned out to be a truth.
After almost 2 hours of waiting, there was still no bus passing by. The locals whom I was waiting with started to take a taxi except a young Uzbek guy who claimed that he was also heading home, somewhere near Urgench. He was happy to learn that we were in the same direction. I’m not sure if I was happy. Then he dragged me into a mini marshrutka, saying Urgench. He speaks no English. I hesitated. He is the guy you would thought that he is a beggar until he took out his mobile phone and told his friend that he was with a foreigner. Mobile phone is not a symbol of wealth anymore. Neither is it a measurer to judge a person but I think I still live in the past. A police just check his passport while waiting at the roadside. But somehow I followed him. I didn’t think I have a choice. The taxi driver approached me again. 'How much?' 'How much?' he asked. I kept silence and didn't even look at him.The mini marshrutka brought us to a petrol station where there was a long queue of vehicles waiting to be filled up. Surprisingly I was not asked to pay. The young Uzbek guy dragged me into one of the vehicle, a Soviet-made dark green truck loaded with sheeps.
After a long time of queuing, we set forth, reputedly heading to Urgench. It was very crampy. With 3 people at the front seat of a truck, it shouldn’t be so crampy. But hey, this is a Soviet truck! There was no room for our legs. The leg room has been occupied by my backpack. After feeling the pain, the driver agreed to put my backpack at the back of his truck, with the sheeps and its dung. It’s dusty, very dusty.
We stopped at a Chaikana(tea house) after an hour of hauling, and also water-cooling. There were only Dimlama(meat, potatoes and onions braised slowly in a little fat and their own juices) and mineral water there. But it was more than enough for me. The weather was still extremely hot and dry. I finished 3 bottles of carbonated mineral water at the Chaikana. While cold carbonated mineral water is very refreshing to quench your thirst, I still don’t understand why it’s only abundant in the former Soviet Union countries including Georgia, Armenia and Azerbaijan in the Caucasus region.
The driver took a nap there. I tried to follow but I failed. The sizzling heat wave was too irresistible. But he took an incredible 4-hour rest which I didn’t dare nor able to follow! I afraid I won’t be able to wake up again. It was already 4.00pm when we were about to set forth again. A sheep was found idling at the back of the truck. It’s probably dead. Or may be not. The driver then asked for a knife from the Chaikana and ran through its neck, which to my understanding, is to make it halal. However, the Chaikana somehow refused to take it.
So we were on the road again, heading towards the infamous Kyzylkum Desert. It wasn’t until we were finally driving on the A380 desert road that I realized taking this truck was not a good idea. With average speed of 50 km/hr, the driver has to stop every one hour or so, or whenever there is a stream or water source to cool down his hauling engine. Yes, 50 km/hr, not going further than that or it would break down. I wasn’t sure when we would arrive in Urgench with this speed. Or may be we were not heading to the north. The wind was blowing, so as the dune sand, from east to west. That means from right to left. I was sitting at the right side of the window. I could feel the heat wave at my right face. So I wound up the window and we ended up sitting in a boiling bowl, with the burning engines underneath. Every corner of the vehicle was boiling. The road condition was getting worse. Potholes were everywhere. I have nothing to pad myself against the hard corners of the vehicle each time the sturdy vehicle tried to avoid or simply rolled over the ubiquitous potholes of the A380 road which calls itself a highway. Bruises have grown here and there, on my knee, on my elbow, and also at my hindbrain. There wasn’t any single moment I can rest, let alone sleep. I can’t even lean my head against the back seat. It’s another hard corner. There were also always some problems with the vehicle. Either it’s because it always broke down, or the driver always had to stop to inspect his vehicle.
Whenever we passed through the checkpoints along the road, the driver always had to pay them. I presumed that was a bribe as I didn’t notice others doing this. I started to feel sympathy on this driver. First, he didn’t look rich(Rich Uzbeks don’t look rich from the outside!). Second, he lost a sheep. Thirdly, he kept on paying money to the police at each of the checkpoint. Fourthly, imagine how lonely he was to deal with the despair if two of us didn’t board his truck. I had to buy mineral water each time the driver stopped at a Chaikana. I know sharing is caring but they shared my mineral bottled water but I had to share their water collected from the stream. When the night fell, I couldn’t see anything, not even my 5-finger. It’s so dark that there were some times I didn’t even know what I was drinking. But I was sure that it’s not gasoline.
Finally, I arrived somewhere in Urgench at 3.00am. Locals were pulling out buffaloes from a truck and I was pulled out by the young Uzbek, half-eyes open.
17 hours in a 50km/hr burning Soviet truck crossing the Kyzylkum Desert. That is the longest haul as far as my trip goes. The worst thing was I still need to pay for the haul. God damn it!
Yes, Uzbeks are friendly, but they are more friendly with money.
Note: $1 = 1700 Som (Official rate); 2500 Som (Black market rate)
