1997: Uzbekistan
Dear Sponsor
Thank you so much for supporting us on our recent trek: so far we have raised nearly £6000 for the Cancer Research Campaign.
The cop-out:
The hardest things to describe were also the most important; the mood change as you walk for hour after hour, day after day in a fabulous landscape. The chance we had to do it together with Danny as a sort of presence, the thread that brought us there. But, for your money’s-worth, here are a few impressions from the trip.
Heathrow:
The queue for check-in with Uzbekistan Airways is a strange mixture of exotically dressed Uzbeks and trekkers, each of the latter carrying a pile of new Cancer Research Campaign T-shirts that we have just been given. We join a crowd in the bar. Everyone appears to be Scottish, including a particularly large specimen in kilt, sporran and full plaid wrapped round his shoulders. Are we going to cope?
Arrival at Tashkent:
The runway is lined with row after row of dusty and crumbling Turpelev airliners, presumably waiting to be sold to an airline with even lower standards than Aeroflot. Descending from our disappointingly new plane, there is a choice of three different buses on the tarmac, but the sturdy attendant unerringly decides if we are local, VIP or second-class visitor, and we soon find ourselves in Arrivals and patiently waiting to be processed. Reports start of the first and appalling Central Asian toilet, and we decide to hold ourselves in until strictly necessary. It is difficult to judge whether the airport is being built or knocked down — a characteristic of much of Uzbekistan.
Crossing the border into Tajikistan:
After a few hours travelling south in a comfortable modern coach going past cotton fields and crumbling collective farms, we change into three small mountain buses and start across our first border into Tajikistan. Occasional outbreaks of civil war are reported further south, but, having read of the difficulties of these frontiers, we are impressed when all appears smooth. Suddenly there is a sharp report and a cry of ‘He’s shot him!’. We all look out of the window to see a man being pulled out the driver’s seat of a car with blood pouring from his chest and back, and a stunned border guard backing away holding a gun. A family had apparently started arguing over some car keys and the driver got shot at point-blank range. We see the victim bundled into a car and driven away, leaving his mother standing in shock on the road. Poor Kate can do nothing, and the man will probably die. Someone says ‘Welcome to Central Asia’, and we carry on in silence through the hot and dusty landscape.
A tea-stop in Khodzhent:
We stop in this old Silk Road city, recently known as Leninabad, for tea at a truck-drivers caff. Kilted Jim is sent on ahead — if he’s not attacked then probably we are all safe. We are greeted with great friendliness and sit outside around long tables with water-melon, pots of strong green tea, and grapes which we avoid. Next to us a crowd of men drink cloudy draft beer served in large jam-jars straight out of a large yellow tank on a trailer. With Russian and Uzbek guides we now number around 60, and the locals stare good-naturedly. We carry on south to an easy crossing into the far western corner of Kyrgyzstan.
Arrival at first camp:
All signs of civilisation have ceased as we climb into the Pamir range, which stretches east past Peak Communism (24500 feet), Peak Revolution and Peak Lenin to meet both the Tien-Shan Range that goes north east into China, and the Karakorum Range which branches south east to join the Himalayas proper. China is around 200 miles east, Afghanistan around 100 miles south. We bump along miles of dirt roads in the pitch dark, across increasingly precarious bridges. Then we notice that the bus in front, still full of nervous-looking trekkers, has resorted to trying to reverse up the next hill, bouncing over large boulders with a steep drop on one side. We decide to abandon our bus and walk the last mile into camp. Astonished to find an orchard full of tents and activity: new two-man tents for all of us, three large dining tents with folding stools and tables laid as if for a five year old birthday party, and small toilet tents with neat holes, toilet paper and a wonderful view of the hills and stars. Somewhat better than Tashkent airport.
We start walking:
Morning; we pack up our kit quickly and watch it being tied onto bony but sturdy pack-horses by their Kyrgyz owners. We stand around and get lectured by the trek doctor on how much we should drink, treating the stream water with iodine tablets before drinking it, how our urine should be copious and yellow, and what to do when diarrhoea struck. I wondered if this would happen before lunchtime, and thought that perhaps I should have enrolled on a ‘sponsored bowel movement’. We sort ourselves into four groups and by chance we are with other ‘oldies’ but also form the leading group. Determined not to show ourselves up, we set off at a cracking pace behind our quiet Russian guide Viktor and a Russian interpreter Zhenya, steadily climbing due south up a valley next to a rushing and bitterly cold river. We see our first, and last, shepherds on the trek, sitting outside their tents with their flock of black goat-like sheep (or possibly sheep-like goats).
Arrival at second camp:
Exhaustion is imminent when we turn a corner and suddenly see the Mount Aksu base camp. A wide grassy valley where the tents have been neatly pitched at the top of a slope leading down to the river: ahead of us we see the sun shining on the snow on the peak of Mount Aksu (17500 feet). This was a very busy spot in Soviet days as climbing was heavily subsidised: now the Russians cannot afford to come here and the Uzbek climbing clubs have turned themselves into guides for the very few western trekkers that come. There is still a beautiful blue sky and we bask in the remaining sun, and then immediately have to wrap up when the sun disappears behind the Uryam Pass that leads to the next valley to the west. Some have a wash in the river, but I decide to revert to a natural state for the duration — it is painful even washing a pair of socks in water that was glacier just a few miles upstream. That evening we sit around the camp-fire and look in amazement at the best star display imaginable. The night is cold; in the sleeping bag, I wear three layers of clothes, socks on hands and feet and a pair of knickers on my head (no photos).
The Russians:
The Russians are guides, interpreters, organisers, fixers, entertainers and cooks for the entire group of around 80. They are led by Viktor, who is shy, quiet and loves the mountains. He leads the trek at the front of our group, always closely followed by Jim in his full kilt and Foreign Legion sunhat — we call him Viktor’s shadow. Viktor’s alter-ego is Sasha, who at any opportunity pulls out his battered guitar and leads a song delivered with full Russian soul — he finally reads us a poem in our honour, all parting friends and sadness by streams. The cooks are extraordinary: great brawny men, one with a huge Rasputin beard, who race on ahead each day with full packs to set up camp. When we eventually catch them up they have donned white pinnies and chef’s hats and are hacking at lumps of meat with machetes, delicately stuffing peppers, or stirring a great vat of plov (the excellent pulau dish that is a staple diet of Central Asia.) All this is done over open fires in apparent chaos by the river, and every individual plate is carried up in the dark and served to us with great good humour. Water is heated in a milk-churn surrounded by large blow-lamps. Each morning we get something different for breakfast: porridge, semolina, eggy-bread, but the favourite was pasta in a sweet milky goo. Huge enamel pots of green tea are greeted with relief at all times, and one evening we get a bottle of vodka on each table, which goes into the tea.
Walking on a glacier:
We have glimpsed a pair of snow capped mountains from the camp and the project for the day is to approach the glaciers flowing off them. The first hour’s walk is easy on springy turf but the forces of nature are hard to ignore. We pass a rock the size of a house, split in two as if by a giant’s axe. Further along, two plaques are nailed to a slab; Cyrillic writing suggests the deaths of two young men. The climb gets harder and the footing is unstable boulders; the terrain looks like a quarry — no glamour at all — and David refuses to believe that we are at the glacier. But as we move on up, crevasses open to show the depth of the ice under our feet. At the top we are at the confluence of two glaciers at around 13500 feet, mountains, snow and ice everywhere, blue sky, cameras clicking. A sense of achievement. After the exhilaration of the day, the grinding fatigue of the last hour of descent makes us realise that we are on the edge of our capabilities.
Crossing the pass:
For the last day we have seen the Uryam Pass (13800 feet) looking like a smooth saddle between two high outcrops of rock, featureless and threatening when the sun sets behind it, gradual and inviting when the sun first shines on it at dawn. We are told it is a four hour steady climb, and we set off behind Viktor through wide dry meadows, from which the shepherds have already retreated, leaving the wooden frames of huts which they will revive next year. It is baking hot and a perfect blue sky as we plod up a gully beside a small stream from which we fill our bottles (obediently waiting the required half-hour for the iodine tablets to work). Two pack-horses come by and cabbages moved from a metal churn so a poor animal can carry water to the summit for our tea. We form single file and zigzag slowly up an apparently smooth slope of small shale, just like it was being quarried. The usual banter dries up as we put one foot in front of the other, wondering how they are going to get all the horses over this terrain. On the final ascent the landscape opens up into another wide meadow, still with some sheep picking at the shrivelled grass: in the spring this is full of wild flowers. We are all dreading that the apparent summit is an illusion and a new ridge will appear, but then suddenly we are at the top next to a large cairn and the wind is blowing hard and we are gasping with our elation. Group photos are taken, looking somewhat more cheery than Scott et al at the South Pole. Then Kate and I build a little cairn for Danny and have a little ceremony, wishing blessings and happiness upon him, surrounded by the wind and sky and beautiful but uncompromising mountains. Our group has lost children, parents and partners to cancer, and it’s good to share the feeling that this is a seriously special place. We start descending into a new and yet more impressive valley: a sheltered grassy promitory allows a view of peak after peak, and we can watch the packhorses slowly pick their way along the paths to our new camp.
The Kyrgyz horsemen:
Looking just like descendants of Genghiz Khan, the local Kyrgyz villagers lead their horses over every rough path, carrying full kit for 80. The men are dressed in bits of old suits, worn shoes or wellington boots, but wear their traditional decorated pointy white hats at all times. Each evening they carefully feed and water their horses, whose decorated saddles are largely made of wood. Each day they become more friendly and curious, happy to have their pictures taken, sell us hats at hugely inflated prices, let people ride on their horses, and start joining us around the campfire. They speak some Russian, and through interpreters thay tell us their names, how many children they have, and try to exchange their hats for our boots.
Down the gorge:
We are warned not to leave anything valuable in our rucksacks as apparently the next stage is difficult even for horses. We descend into a gorge with a very narrow and sometimes crumbling path with a steep drop of about 50 feet to the river. Spectacular views of the cliff face opposite, the mountains in the distance, and a very cautious and silent line of trekkers, some being helped past the worst bits. After hours of this it is a relief to be on a proper path, and then we hear over the short-wave radio that behind us a horse has fallen in the river, and could we watch for kit floating down? It turns out that the horse did a spectacular roll down the slope, demolishing a tree, and landing on its back in the river with its fall broken by the back-packs it was carrying. The horse was fine, but that evening the campfire was festooned with drying clothes from two soaked bags, and every step we took released the smell of thyme from the dry plants that grew all over the site.
A Kyrgyz village:
It is strange to approach civilisation on the last day’s walking, beginning with abandoned orchards from the era of collective farms and progressing to animal enclosures and the first huts. We will be honoured guests at the first village, as it is the home of many of our horsemen. We group up and march in behind Nigel playing his bagpipes and Jim with kilt flowing: children either gawp or run away at this spectacle. Our particular group is welcomed to the house of the richest villager, who even had a car. We take off our shoes and go into the guest room, which is full of rugs around a low table laid with fruit, salads, their own yoghurt and butter, and traditional round bread made from flour ground at the little water mill we had just passed. We are somewhat overwhelmed, but when our host follows the custom of leaving us alone to eat, we curiously poke around the family photos of young men in Soviet uniform, aging Russian radio, and a proud collection of toiletry boxes and empty bottles of special vodkas and Gordon’s gin. Just sitting in that cool room, eating bread and butter dipped in yoghurt, felt a real privilege. Then the whole family turned out for photographs, sitting on the large iron bedstead that featured in every decent Central Asian yard. Grandfather, looking almost Chinese in his hat and goatee beard, seemed amused by the whole performance, babies were passed around and hugged, and we all looked for sweets, torches and other presents to give.
The end of the trek:
We meet up with the other groups who had been entertained in different village houses: the noise and vulgar humour showed that some had been given vodka and been busily toasting to eternal friendship. Hazel goes off on the back of a Kyrgyz horse, followed by shouts of ‘May she bear you many children!’. Sasha persuades two village children to lend him their donkey, and astride it with his feet almost scraping the dirt road, he starts playing his guitar and singing at the top of his voice. A shambling group of trekkers, Russians and Kyrgyz follow him out of the village and to our final campsite in a large orchard, where Rasputin and the other cooks are already hunched over a steaming trough of special ‘party plov’. The local children all stop on the way home from school, standing in rows for some serious solemn staring. They do not appear in the least surprised when the bagpipes start and we do an exhausting eightsome reel — we are clearly so unusual that any behaviour is equally remarkable. Later the Kyrgyz horsemen join us for our celebratory meal: once the vodka and champagne are gone they bring out their home-made wine in grubby plastic jerry cans and, after comments about only drinking ‘unleaded’, we tuck in and toast their health. But when they bring out plastic bags containing some brown powder, we politely refuse the offer. Then Nigel starts his bagpipes (again!), and some of the younger ones start a strangely sensual dance, more like a provocative female ‘exotic’ dancer. Some of our girls join in and, as the flagon goes round and the uproar increases, you can tell this is an entirely new experience that will be discussed long after we have left their valley. The next morning we sadly say goodbye, and after many efforts they manage to write an address to send photos.
A horrible journey:
Perhaps it was the home-brew in the petrol can, but the diarrhoea starts early the next morning, just in time for a nine-hour bus journey on hot and bumpy roads. By forcing myself to sleep I make it to the first village stop at Isfana where, after briefly exploring the colourful and friendly market, I ask, against my better judgement, for the public toilet. A long cool dark room is separated by low walls around two feet high, each ‘cubicle’ having its own hole and each occupied by an old man with the standard hat, goatee beard and what appears to be a padded dressing gown. A vacancy occurs and I join the row of squatting silent men, knowing that I am hardly blending in, despite wearing an official Kyrgyz hat. A local asks me where I am from, but mistakes Britain for Bangladesh. He then takes my hat off and replaces it the correct way round. The journey goes on, and at each stop I rush for the nearest ditch: at the Tajik border where we witnessed the shooting I hope my dash across the road is not misinterpreted but am beyond caring, even when I find the ditch is not only disgusting but so shallow that my head is at road level (no photos of this either). I try to look dignified as the trucks thunder past. We reach Samarkand and I am first off the bus, into the hotel and struggling with the key to our Soviet-style room. I reach the first toilet for a week just in time. The doc eventually rescues me with Ciproxin, and by the next day I am fine.
The bazar in Samarkand:
We have been on an organised tour of Samarkand all morning, like a real bunch of tourists. Timurlaine’s tomb and the Registan were extraordinarily impressive, if somewhat over-restored to film-set perfection, but we have finally made a break for freedom via a decrepit shared mini-bus, and start exploring the central bazar. Every produce has its area: a pavement of melons, followed by Pomegranate Alley. We are good-naturedly called to buy everything, and focus on the herbs and spice area in the hope of finding special plov mix. We try without success to find an enamel teapot smaller than a bucket but we end up with saffron, tea and almonds, bought in a mixture of dollars and sum. (This local currency has, of course, an official and unofficial exchange rate. At the Hotel Samarkand the receptionist is prepared to do an unofficial sale right next to the official exchange counter: it is the first time that I’ve been asked ‘What exchange rate do you want?’, and haggled over that.) The colourful clothes, fresh and perfect vegetables, and amiable bustle of the bazar are an advert for this poor country, but we later walk through a soviet-style department store and it’s more like going round a jumble sale.
Coming home:
Although Uzbekistan Airways are in partnership with a western company and have the latest planes, their staff do not seem to have been sent for ‘retraining’. The pilot flies the plane as if riding a horse: banking with bravado and teeth-jarringly banging it down on the runway. Inside, there is no beer, warm white Uzbek wine of dubious taste, and a general Soviet surliness. We all exchange addresses, compare last minute souvenir bargains, and brace ourselves for the culture shock of Heathrow. Although we have had a wonderful experience, any misgivings about returning to normal life are overwhelmed by the thought of seeing the children, and a bathroom, again. We have only been away for one working week but feel as though we have visited another planet.
So thanks to you all, and especially to Dot and our friends who held the fort at home. Sponsored treks, like sponsored bungee jumps, are not for everyone, but if for a moment the idea appeals, don’t hesitate. Knock on our door and we will be your first sponsors.
Many thanks and best wishes,
David Spiegelhalter and Kate Bull
