September 2009 Archives

Leaving Shaqrisabz, we head for Amon-Xona, a legendary place in Uzbek culture since their hero Amir Timur had once stopped there to drink with his armies.

We reach Guzor with a driver that chucks a tantrum, and accept a lift with another driver for half the distance from Guzor to Boysun. We end up spending the night at the family of the driver.

The driver’s sister on the left, myself, his nephew and his mother on the right.

When the driver is passing a lit cigarette to his niece to pass to his mother (her grandmother), we all laugh as the little girl takes the cigarette, takes a big drag and passes it to grandma.

Grandma smokes a lot, she probably drinks a lot too. When they setup beds for us outside, she tells me that if I do anything with either of the two girls, she’ll kill me, then take me to the police. For extra security, she sleeps outside with us.

When we eventually arrive at Amon-Xona the following morning, we laugh at the hilarity of the situation. Amon-Xona, similar to Gulcha in Kyrgyzstan is tacky and boring. The place is crowded with locals, all carting several bottles of Amon-Xona water back home. The water smells like sulphur and we can’t believe that people come this far and spend the day picnicking by the water and lining up to take a shower.

Uzbek pilgrims bottling the Timur Holy Water.

We’ve come so far, we decide to join in the ritual. After lining up for half an hour, it’s finally my turn to take a shower in Amon-Xona’s healing waters. It’s a shame that I have no photos of the experience, so words will suffice.

Imagine standing in line for half an hour with a large group of smelly dirty Uzbeks carrying towels. When the last woman leaves, the attendant says that now the half hour shift for men’s showering begins. Everyone charges at the door to get a spot. As a guest from overseas, I’m exempt from the fighting for a spot and am ushered into the room.

I enter the white room, reminiscent of a swimming pool change room and am greeted by a man in a doctor’s coat and gloves. Since I’ve only paid for a shower, I’m put in the only stall with a shower, the other men have gone the whole hog and opted for a bath.

The stalls are separated by short walls and everyone disrobes and climbs into their baths, the bathwater from the previous occupants has not been drained. They turn on the taps to fill their baths with cold smelly water and my shower stops flowing and resorts to nothing more than a trickle. As I stand and shower under this cold water, I think how the pilgrimage would cost a small fortune to the locals, start shivering from the cold and decide that the pilgrims are idiots.

The baths fill up and one by one, the fat Uzbeks turn off their taps, restoring my shower to it’s former glory of freezing cold tap water. The water is supposed to have healing properties, so despite the rusting pipes, bad smell and sheer stupidity of the concept, I start drinking as much of the water as I can handle. Peeking over the wall, I see my neighbour simply lying in the bath, supposedly letting the healing process begin.

Several minutes later, the doctor in gloves opens the curtain to my shower and tells me my shower time is up. I turn off the water and begin to dry off. Every few seconds, eager hands pull open the curtain to find that yes I am still in fact naked and drying off, depriving them of their shower time.

After a minute, the hands give up waiting and they walk inside, almost knocking me over while I’m trying to put my undies back on. It’s irrelevant to them (yes, two men have decided to shower together, probably to live out some sick fantasy that involves rubbing each other with holy water) and they’re stark naked and showering before I’ve left the stall. I wish them a fun shower.

All in all, the Amon-Xona experience was pathetically hilarious. At least the view along the way was nice. To add to the hilarity, work is currently underway to build a mega resort at Amon-Xona so bus loads of pilgrims can come and experience the fun.

If you’re anything like me, unless you’ve been to Central Asia, there’s a good chance you don’t know too much about Amir Timur (also known as Tamerlane or if you’re prone to mishearing words, Timberland).

Rather than retell the history of Amir Timur, which is definitely worth a read, I’ll stop at a photo and a few words.

The man is revered in all of Central Asia, most of the amazing medressas, mosques and mausoleums were built in his time. It’s said that after his troops would conquer a city, he’d send in builders to repair it. His wars were with governments, not their people.

The reason Amon Xona (near Boysun) is so popular with Uzbek tourists is because Timur once stopped his tired armies for a drink there. The following morning they felt refreshed as if born anew. He couldn’t understand why, until he had another drink of the water and realised it’s powers.

It’s said that WWII broke out as a result of opening Timur’s Tomb. Timur saved Europe from being conquered by the Ottoman empire.

Arriving at Shahrisabz, we need to find a place to leave our bags since we plan on leaving in the late afternoon. We walk into the first hotel we see and are greeted by the nicest receptionist who lets us leave our bags with her free of charge.

Second order of business is exchanging currency. The first person we ask happens to be a little bit dim-witted. He starts taking money out of the trunk of his car and counting it outside a cafe, five metres from where a policeman is sitting.

I tell him we should go for a walk and we make some distance before continuing to count. Realising he hasn’t taken enough money out of the car, he leaves us with all the money and walks back to the car to get more. We contemplate running, but decide that this fool probably has kids and a wife to feed.

First order of sightseeing is Aq-Saray Palace, Amir Timur’s most grandiose palace, a mere ruin compared to the magnificence of its hey-day. The highlight of the palace was the roof top swimming pool, filled without pumps using a clever plumbing system that brought water from the nearby mountains.

On the roof of the palace with Georgie, Alice (center) and myself.

While walking through the nearby bazaar, some random guy just stops to take my photo, something I remember best from rural Vietnam.

Well sir, two can play that game.

The next place we walk into, a fat old woman starts chasing after us shouting Mister Mister, ticket. We ignore her by ducking into one of the temples currently under restoration.

We start chatting with the crew doing the work and they point out some of the original work left and where they’re doing restoration. The mausoleum in question undergoes restorative work every two-ten years.

Somehow, I manage to sneak my way onto the roof again.

The boys in charge of restoring many of the mausoleums, temples and mosques in Uzbekistan.

As we’re walking towards the mosque, we bump into the head of the Shahrisabz mafia.

The Bad

Having found the local price for the fare from Samarkand to Shaqrisabz (4000-6000cym), I approach the taxi stand and ask how much it would cost for three people (Alice, Georgie and myself) to go there. One of the drivers offers to take us for 25,000 cym each. I tell him fifteen thousand, he agrees, I say total. He thanks me for the insulting offer talks about his starving children and storms off. Ten seconds later another driver approaches me and says he’ll take us.

Along the way he says he’ll be charging us for every stop we make. He insists we make a stop at a spot where they shot the Hollywood blockbuster Apache and proceeds to have a long smoke. He makes another stop to take in the view from the top of a pass, it’s beautiful but we didn’t ask to make it. He makes a final stop to negotiate the price of mutton meat. When he asks me to pay for the three stops, I tell him that I owe him for one stop, and that he made two of his own and wasted our time. I tell him we’ll call it even and leave him at that.

We organise a cheap price to Boysun from Guzor as the driver lets us crash at his place along the way. His family is incredibly nice, but the following day, he’s back again in taxi driver mode and starts trying to rip us off everywhere we go.

We organise a car to from Boysun to Termiz for six thousand cym each and the driver takes us to the hotel (instead of the Avtovokzal five hundred metres prior) and demands twenty five thousand total. I tell him eighteen, he insists on twenty five. I tell him eighteen, he asks for twenty two, I tell him eighteen. He’s holding my phone and makes a gesture as if to take the eighteen and my phone as payment. I make a gesture as if to break his nose. He takes the eighteen.

The driver from Bukhara to Khiva jokes around with us a lot, telling us how cool we are to be travelling with him. He drinks our water and coke. When we arrive at our guesthouse in Khiva, I forget my laptop in the car and ask the administrator to give him a call; I figure since he drove us to this hotel, they’ll have his number.

When he shows up five minutes later with my laptop, he asks for money for the delivery. Thinking he’s joking, I tell him he’s too nice and reach for the laptop.

Driver: No seriously, give me some money for returning it.

Me: That’s the typical Uzbek attitude, how much are you going to give?

Driver: Yeah it’s unfortunate, give me some money?

Me: How much?

Driver: As much as your heart desires.

Me: My heart doesn’t want to give you any money.

Driver: Give some anyway.

Me: Here, have a thousand.

Driver: Don’t be cheap.

Me: Typical, have two.

Driver: Two thousand for a laptop.

Me (getting pissed off): Fine, take three.

Driver: One more won’t hurt your finances.

Me (biting my tongue to keep from cursing the c*nt): Take your money and get out of my sight.

The Good

When in Termiz, we need to organise a taxi for the day to see the sights around the city. Our hotel administrator says it should cost 10-12 thousand cym total. After the fifth taxi driver to laugh at our offer and counter-offer twenty thousand, we’re about to give up when driver number six agrees to the price.

The driver ends up taking us to all the sights we wanted (palace of forty wives, mausoleum complex and Afghan border) and throws in some extras out of his goodwill (holiday house of the president, another mausoleum we hadn’t even heard of). Best of all, when we’re done sightseeing, he offers to take us for a swim an extra twenty minutes of driving. At the end of the day, when he drives us to the Vokzal (train station) he gives us a big bag of grapes from his own garden. When we pay him, we give him a 50% tip, he trusts us so much he doesn’t even bother counting the money we gave him. Turns out the driver, Tolik, is not a taxi driver by trade, he’s a dyno mechanic who’s just out earning a bit of money for his family.

When leaving Qarshi for Bukhara, we’re offered a price of twelve thousand cym. Since it’s a bit expensive, we try and negotiate. The head of the taxi stand refuses to budge on the price. One of the drivers organises to meet us outside of the shared taxi stand and take us for ten thousand cym. Anton, the driver, ends up spending an hour and a half with us in Bukhara trying to find a cheap hotel and even offers to take us to the nearby lake for the cost of petrol alone.

And the Smelly

Every driver who tries to rip us off happens to be fat. Every driver who’s fat happens to be smelly. The best of all is the guy from Termiz to Qarshi. He’s very fat and very smelly. He offers us a reasonable price and spends the next five minutes telling us how he doesn’t want to rip off foreigners.

The car breaks down along the way, the front left (driver side) suspension breaks, the driver’s weight may have played a part in it.

After visiting the Registan, I bump into a couple of British girls who decide to come along with Dilshad and I to see Al-Buhari (an important Muslim pilgrimage site just outside of Samarkand).

The girls and I walk into Bibi-Hana’s (Amir Timur’s first wife) mausoleum past the ticket counter and score free entry.

Bibi-Hana’s mausoleum.

The girls sit by the ticket counter and start painting the vista. The guards on duty watch over their shoulders as they work. When we’re finished and about to leave, the girl working at the ticket counter says that we need to pay, we tell her no thanks and that we’ve seen everything we wanted to see. The guards just laugh at this and wish us a good trip.

Al-Buhari mausoleum, created in the Tashkent/Fergana style of lighter blue compared to the Samarkand/Bukhara dark blue.

Mausoleum, restored original work, everything around it is brand new.

Some of the cooler pilgrims at Al-Buhari’s Mausoleum.

After coming back from Al-Buhari, we hit up Shah-i-Zinda, a complex of mausoleums, which you can enter from the back (via the cemetery) without paying a dime :)

Dilshad and I find the staircase and climb on the roof of one of the mausoleums for a better view.

The cupola of one of the mausoleums.

The strip, mausoleum after mausoleum.

I walk into the Registan which will be closed the following day for the opening ceremony of the Central Asian version of Eurovision and don’t even realise that there’s a ticket booth, not that it matters since everyone’s so busy.

Front part of the Registan.

When all the foreigners are kicked out of the Registan for the dress rehearsal, I join one of the groups of dancers and stay for parts of the rehearsal. When I see that there’s a camera crew on the roof of the Registan, I decide that I will go there, despite the fact that the whole area was just swept by two soldiers with attack dogs.

I climb onto the roof and find a group of Chinese contractors laying cables. They don’t realise or care that I shouldn’t be up there. After I recite some of my phrases of Chinese (“Excuse me, do you have any beer?”) and tell them where I’d been in China, they become my new best friends and let me wander around the roof without asking questions.

The Registan, from the roof.

After I come down, I walk right up to the stage and watch the rehearsal from there, giving the dancers tips on how to make it magical.

Sitting on the stage watching the girls rehearse their piece.

The creative director thinks he knows better and has a few words with me to that effect. I tell him I’ve worked shows all over Europe and Australia… he says he’ll take some of my comments on board.

One of the policeman has been watching me with curiosity the whole time, I decide to put him to work.

The policeman kindly takes photos of me in the Registan, when I have no ticket and am not part of the show.

While watching the orchestra practice, someone approaches me and asks me where Misha the sound engineer has gone. I tell them he’s checking other equipment and whether or not I can help in his absence. I have no idea what it is they ask me to fix, but they thank me for fixing it anyway.

I’ve become so accustomed to acting that I’m a part of the show that I don’t even notice the police man approaching me.

Policeman: Who are you?

Me: Don’t ask such silly questions and get back to work.

Policeman: Do you work here?

Me: Of course.

Policeman: Show me your documents.

Me: They’re with my colleagues.

Policeman: Who are you working with?

Me: The Chinese.

Policeman: What Chinese?

Me: The Chinese on the roof, I’m their interpreter.

Policeman (while pointing to random Chinese person): That’s the boss of the Chinese, let’s go confirm with him that you work for them.

Me: That may be the boss of the Chinese on the ground, but the Chinese on the roof work for Chow Yun Fat.

Policeman: Wait here while I call my superiors to come speak with you.

Me: Be quick, I’ve got work to do.

He walks away to make the call, telling me to stay put. I wait until there’s distance between us and make a beeline for the exit.

I arrive in Samarkand after Nurtek kindly pays for my car from his late father’s place and am greeted with the daunting task of finding an inexpensive hotel. After half an hour’s search, the driver says he has to get back to work and drops me off not far from the Registan.

I ask a nearby taxi driver to find me an inexpensive place for 3,000 cym and he drives me half a kilometer and shows me an expensive place instead. After some negotiating back and forth with the manager and the driver, I end up agreeing on a price and decide to head out and see the sights.

Wandering around town, I bump into Mark and Sevianne, the French couple that crossed the border with me. With them is one of the other passengers for the Tashkent – Samarkand drive, Dilshad.

As we reach the ticket office for Timur’s mausoleum, I decide to pretend I’m a local. I tell the lady at the window that I’m from Tashkent, she disagrees and asks for my documents. I tell her we don’t live in a passport regime (Uzbekistan very much does have one). She won’t sell me the local ticket (400cym instead of 4,000cym) but says I can try my luck convincing the ticket inspectors at the main gate. They don’t doubt for a second that I’m from Tashkent and so begins the saga of being charged local prices for everywhere in Uzbekistan.

Man changing light bulb over Amir Timur’s mausoleum.

Back of Amir Timur’s mausoleum.

There’s a small mausoleum located behind Timur’s mausoleum, the price to get in for the French couple is 1000 cym, the local price for me is 0. Marc tells the ticket seller that to the Uzbeks, the French are just a cash machine. The man corrects him saying all foreigners are cash machines.

After visiting Timur’s mausoleum, Mark, Sevianne, Dilshad and myself head to park Navoiy (named after Alisher Navoiy, Uzbekistan’s most famous poet).

In the morning, I take a Tashkent to Samarkand shared car and as always, I start chatting with the passengers about my trip. Not long into the trip, we're pulled over by a policeman for speeding. After some words are exchanged, we take off. I ask the driver how much the "fine" was, and he replies with a sly smile, two of Samarkand's finest bread rolls.

One of the guys asks me if I want to exchange some of my money into cym, he says he'll do it as a favour to me at a rate of 1850cym. I appreciate the convenience and proceed to change 100USD. Every time we hit one of the many police checkpoints along the way, I hide all the money.

After we do the deal, I ask him for a plastic bag. As he opens his bag, I see it's full to the top with Cym, his wallet filled with crisp 100USD bills. He works at the bazaar he tells me, black market currency exchange.

Another one of the passengers (Utker) tells me that today is the one year anniversary of his father's death and that he would honoured if I would join him for the night. I misheard one of his questions (Astanishca Ostaneshsya? and not Avstralia?) and end up agreeing to stay, rather than confirming that I'm from Australia. He pays for my seat in the taxi and we go to his late father's place.

Utker far left, myself somewhere on the right, a small part of his extended family everywhere else.

From the moment I come inside his house, I eat. Although they're following Ramadan, I should not be shy, any moment that I'm not eating, they tell me to eat. By the night's end, I've eaten more than I would in two days.

The night is marked by a large amount of guests, family and friends and a memorial is said in honour of Utker's father after the last of the five daily prayers.

Utker's oldest son. This kid is a real blast. When I'm in a room talking with all the girls at the function, he turns to me and says "ваня брат, у тебя есть телка?" (Ivan brother, do you have a chick?) I reply that I don't and he points at all the girls and says "Which one do you want?"

I spend the night sleeping outside looking at the stars and in the process commit another crime by spending a night unregistered in Uzbekistan.

A few random points about Tashkent:

1. Police. There are far too many police in the town and their sole purpose is to annoy you. They love the metro and are tasked with protecting it from photographers, it is after all one of Tashkent’s strategic pieces of infrastructure and as such must be protected from spies taking photos. DO NOT TAKE PHOTOS OF THE TASHKENT METRO!
2. Sim cards for phones are a fun hassle. I tried to buy an MTC (local Uzbekistan carrier) sim card and was requested to show an Uzbekistan passport. I tried at several other stores, one of them offered me a Beeline sim card instead. Apparently, foreigners will have difficulty purchasing sim cards from any of the three major carriers: MTC, Beeline and U-Cell depending on where they enquire.
3. The house of photos is free. When we came in, the security guard said it was seven hundred cym. I asked for a student discount and he said five hundred cym. I paid the money and realised there was no signage for prices. When I’d finished looking around, the security guard was gone.
4. President Karimov is a nutter, one of his great presidential decrees was to build a clock tower, replicating the one commemorating the end of the war, right next to the original!?

Original clock tower. From this vantage point, if you look to your right, you’ll find this.

What was the man thinking?

Bang Bang Bang Bang…

Bang Bang Bang Bang Bang…

Mister wake up…

Bang Bang Bang Bang…

Wake up mister…

I get up still half asleep, put on some pants and go to see who’s at the door at 7am.

Woman: Mister, your laundry is ready, I wanted to give it to you now. I know we agreed it was three thousand cym without ironing but the girl went ahead and ironed it anyway you need to pay another thousand cym.

Me: Huh? I don’t need my clothes ironed, tell the girl thanks for a great job ironing but I’m not paying for it.

Woman: Oh… Ok…

I go back to sleep.

The following day:

Bang Bang Bang Bang…

Bang Bang Bang Bang Bang…

Mister wake up…

Bang Bang Bang Bang…

Wake up mister…

I don’t have any laundry, I wonder what’s up but given that it’s 6am on a Saturday morning, I decide I’ll sleep through it until I overhear.

Male voice: Go get the key to open the door.

Female voice: Not possible, he’s dead-bolted it from the inside.

Male voice: We’ll give it another minute and kick in the door.

Damn, seems I’ve pissed someone off. I wake up, get dressed and go to the door to be greeted by a very serious looking guy.

Me: What do…

Male: (Interrupting) Passport.

Me: You can’t just wake people up demanding their passports. Show me some ID then we can talk.

Woman in charge of my floor face palms herself, signalling that I should politely go with whatever the man says.

Male: Passport or we’ll take you away right now.

Me: Wait here… (Find passport) Here you go.

Male: You can come down with us for questioning or wait here and the girl will bring it back to you.

Me: (Thinking I’ll have a few words to say to his boss) I’ll…

Woman: (Interrupting) He’ll wait here and I’ll bring it back to him.

Something serious must be going on, they must have stumbled onto my secret identity. The pair walk away and I decide to try and get some sleep.

Given that some unknown secret service type figure has my passport, sleep escapes me. I go outside and decide to get to the bottom of the situation.

Reaching the woman in charge of the floor, she stops me.

Me: What the hell’s going on?

Woman: Mister, you better go back to your room and wait. There are a lot of police downstairs and they’re going to find something about you that requires a bribe.

Me: F*ck!

I go back to my room still confused and try and figure out what I’ve done wrong. Just in case, I hide most of the money that I’d exchanged earlier but seriously doubt that’s the reason they’re here.

Ten minutes pass and there’s another knock on the door. I open it to find one of the male receptionists.

Receptionist: You better come downstairs with me now, the police have some questions for you.

Me: About what?

Receptionist: I don’t know.

I reach the ground floor and find lots of serious looking men talking with all the staff. As I’m ushered down a corridor and into a room I notice several rooms with police officers interrogating people.

I enter a small room with the Receptionist, the serious looking guy who took my passport standing by the window and someone who appears to be his senior sitting at a desk. The senior guy tells me to sit down.

Senior guy: Ivan Alexandrovich Kruchkoff, is that your real name?

Me: (Surveying the room)

Senior guy: Don’t look around, answer the question.

Me: Yes it is, how do I address you?

Senior guy: What date did you enter the country?

Me: Look at the stamp in the passport, the 19th of August.

Senior guy: And where have you been the whole time?

Me: I’ve been staying at this hotel.

Senior guy: (Turning to receptionist) Is that true?

Receptionist: (Clearly nervous) I’m not sure, I don’t deal with the registration of foreigners, I don’t know really.

Me: It’s true.

Senior guy: (Leafing through the hotel’s registration books) You were here on the 19th, where else have you been?

Me: I’ve been staying here the whole time. During the days I go out sightseeing.

Senior guy: Here’s the 20th, the 21st. Hmm… What’s this?

Me: What?

Senior guy: Nothing, get out of here.

Me: Cheers for the wake up call.

I leave the interrogation chambers and as I’m walking back to my room bump into the manager of the hotel. She explains to me that given that there’s a big holiday coming up in two weeks (1st of September), the SNG (Uzbekistan’s three letter agency) are on heightened alert for terrorists and people in the country illegally.

Hooray for Uzbekistan’s secret police. If Stalin was still in power, these guys would have taken half of the guests to the Gulags by now.

If you plan on spending more than one week in Uzbekistan, you have several options for funding yourself.

1. Use one of only two ATMs in the entire country, conveniently located in the most expensive hotels in Tashkent. These dispense in UZS (Uzbek Cym) at the official rates or in USD. They do take a small commission for the service.
2. Take your currency to one of the official currency exchange points (banks) and lose 20% due to the artificially unfavourable exchange rate. You will however be issued with a receipt for your exchange and as such can use this money to then buy a plane ticket.
3. Take your USD or EURO to one of the unofficial black market exchangers and gain a more realistic rate. These people rarely take other currencies.
4. Exchange your money in Kazakhstan (or the country you plan on entering Uzbekistan from) and bring a small (or large) backpack to carry the money in.

After spending all the cym I had with me, I needed to exchange some USD into UZS – whenever you travel try to have USD or EUR with you, they tend to be accepted/exchanged everywhere, USD more so than EUR.

Speaking with a guy I’d met one night, he tells me I can go to a bank and laughs at the idea or I can go exchange with his preferred money changer and proceeds to give directions to the place.

1. You will hop on the metro and get off at the third stop. Leaving the metro you will cross the road, turn left and continue for several hundred metres to the bazaar.
2. The main entrance to the bazaar will be in front of you, you will walk around from the side entrance to the right and ask for the dairy section on the second floor.
3. Once you reach the dairy section, you will do a lap around it to make sure there are no police around.
4. Once you’re sure there are no police around, you will walk into the shop selling sausages and when you catch the attention of the shopkeeper, you will make the signal that you need to exchange currency – horizontally rotating your index fingers around each other, similar to the travel signal in basketball or the thumb twiddling motion when you have nothing to do.
5. When the shopkeeper finally asks you what you want, point to the sausages on the left for USD, on the right for EUR and how much of that currency you want to exchange.
6. If the shopkeeper has enough to cover it, they will tell you the rate for one unit of that currency.
7. Mention my name, where I work and that you’re my nephew and they will give you a more favourable rate.
8. They will tell you that the sausages you want are in the back, you will go there and get your money. Count it, twice. After you’ve counted it twice, count it again and give them the money.
9. Hide the money in your pockets (or bag depending on how much you’re changing), smile, thank them and leave.
10. Don’t forget to get me some of my favourite sausages as a thank you.

I ask the guy what the exchange rate should be for USD, he tells me that three days ago it was 1900, though now it’s closer to 1800 but at his rate, 1850 should be possible.

Just for giggles sake, I decide to check what the official rates are according to the banks.

I approach the sign and take a photo, turn and leave. A guy follows me some ten metres before asking me how much I want to change (unofficially). Looking back into the direction of the bank, I see the policeman trying to make himself look inconspicuous.  I tell the man to go back to his friend and that I only deal with banks.

I reach the bazaar, but it ends up being the wrong one and given the amount of police walking around, I decide not to ask around for currency exchange. Time for plan B.

Plan B is to use the same strategy that I used in Vietnam. Changing currency in Vietnam is best done at gold shops and not in banks as the gold shops will give you a more favourable rate after intense negotiation.

I walk into one jewellery store some distance from the bazaar and ask them if they exchange currency. The girl at the store tells me they don’t, but the jewellery store across the road should.

I ask at the store across the road and they ask me what rate I want, I tell them 100USD at 1850 cym to the dollar. They accept, the other customers pretend like nothing is happening and the manager goes out the back to get the money.

She emerges with three packs of cash and tells me I’m free to count it. I point to the counting machine and tell her we can use that, she smiles and tells me that I’m smart to not manually count it. Twenty seconds and 270 bills later (100 at 1000 cym and 170 at 500 cym), I’m satisfied that I haven’t been ripped off. A minute later a guy comes in, inspects the bill I gave, says it’s genuine and takes it for himself. I stuff my pockets with the bills and the manager makes her commission, win-win and no need to risk dealing with police and manual counting of bills.

My advice, if you want to risk illegally changing currency in Uzbekistan, find a jewellery store. If you don’t speak the language, write on a piece of paper how much you have, how much you want for it and show it to the manager (e.g. 20th August 2009, $100 = 185,000 CYM).

Before exchanging currency in Tashkent, Uzbekistan

After exchanging currency at the black market rates

Now I challenge you to find a store selling wallets in Tashkent. They do exist. Give up? Back home, we call them backpacks.

Everyone who comes to Uzbekistan cannot leave until they’ve taken a similar photo.

Having seen all that Shymkent has to offer, I decide to head to Tashkent, Uzbekistan. There’s a sign for Tashkent next to the Bejan bazaar, conveniently located next to the Avtovokzal (bus, marshrutka and shared taxi stop) and so I aim to get there.

I hop on the first bus with a sign for the bazaar and after some time the attendant on the bus asks me where I plan to get off. Bejan bazaar I reply only to have her inform me that the bus won’t be going there. So much for trusting signs indicating where the bus is going.

Conveniently though, where I do get off also happens to be an Avtovokzal. Shymkent has close to a dozen of these, a real nightmare for travellers, especially those not familiar with the language. Since there are no marshrutkas standing in the Tashkent stand, I walk up to the first one I see and ask them about getting to Uzbekistan.

Within five minutes I’m on a marshrutka bound for somewhere close to the border from where I should be able to find another car. One of the older motherly types takes pity on me, speaks with all the passengers and says that we’re making a detour to the border. Woohoo!

Sitting next to me for the trip is an interesting character aka MBG (Misinformed Bus Guy). Our conversation goes like this:

MBG: Where are you from?

Me: Australia.

MBG: The country with the kangaroos.

Me: Yeah, great food.

MBG: Do you drink their milk?

???

Me: It’s winter in Australia.

MBG: Interesting… What year is it in Australia?

???

MBG: What’s the military service like in Australia?

Me: There is no compulsory service.

MBG: Then if you have no army, won’t your neighbours invade?

Me: We have an army. We’re neighboured by oceans. The only dangers there are sharks and beached whales.

MBG: I’d be careful, if the sharks know you’re country is undefended, they could invade.

???

MBG: Have you been to the USA?

Me: No, not yet.

MBG: Did you know there’s a state where it’s completely illegal to drive cars? Everyone rides on bicycles and horses and cows.

Me: I highly doubt this.

MBG: It’s true, my friend went there last year. He also told me there’s a state where everyone has to wear a sash indicating their ethnicity.

???

MBG: Can I get a job in Australia?

Me: What are your skills and qualifications?

MBG: I almost finished school.

Me: Do you speak English?

MBG: No.

Me: You can work in a call centre. :D

At this point we reach the border and everyone on the bus wishes me a safe trip. I’m swarmed by a small mob who offer to get me across the border hassle free for a small price. I ignore them and approach the border guard, who promptly tells me that the border is for Kazakh and Uzbek citizens only. I tell him I’m a Russian citizen and that we’re all friends. He tells me that the foreigner crossing is 80km away at Yallama. I tell him that if Stalin was still in power, this man would be sent to the gulags for his insolence.

The taxi drivers offer me ridiculous rates of 8,000 Tenge (60 AUD) for the taxi and think I’ll negotiate from there. I tell them to f*ck off, scam someone else and that I’ll walk. One of the guys kindly offers me to exchange money, saying that I’ll get 180 Cym to the USD instead of the 160 he claims I’ll get in Uzbekistan. The official rate is 1,500 Cym to the USD, again I tell him to f*ck off.

I ask a bus driver headed for Almaty if there are any cars to the border, he tells me that I should take a taxi and points to the drivers who are still waiting around like sharks. They take turns approaching me and offering ridiculous rates. I tell them I’ll walk, tossing up my options.

Eventually a driver tells me to hop in and that he’ll drive. I ask how much and he tells me that we can negotiate along the way, I tell him upfront or it’s a no go. He tells me that he’ll drive me to the main road from where I can get a lift to the border for around 200tenge. I hop in and thank the man for his generosity. Unfortunately at the borders, you’re swarmed by the sharks and don’t notice the good drivers.

I wait at the intersection for a car and am offered a taxi for 4,000 Tenge, he tells me the border will close in one hour and that it’s a half hour drive. I tell him I’ll take my time and sleep at the border if I have to.

The first lift I get is with an off-duty police man who tells me that he used to work at the checkpoint and that it closes at 9pm (in four hours, not the half an hour that every driver claimed). Price 200 Tenge.

The officer drops me off at the town closest to the border from where a shared taxi is 200 Tenge. Given the short distance involved, I try to haggle, they tell me to f*ck off. I give up trying to flag down a lift after five minutes and hop in the taxi. 200 Tenge, total price from local only border, 400 Tenge, total price from Shymkent, 700 Tenge.

I reach the officer just outside the border and show him my passport. He says that it’s $10 to cross here. I tell him it’s free for everyone to cross. He tells me the foreigner crossing is 70km away and that this isn’t Yallama. Playing along, I thank him, turn to start walking only to have him laugh and say I can come in.

Between the gate and the Kazakh side of the border, I bump into an Uzbek who offers me to change currency at 1,800 Cym to the USD (the official rate is 1,500 and the current black market rate is between 1,800 and 1,900). I tell him I’ll change $50 but he says he doesn’t have enough money, but will see to it that I’m taken care of.

I leave the man and walk to the Kazakh side of immigration and show my passport.

Officer 1: Where are you going?

Me: Tashkent.

Officer 1: Why?

Me: I hear it’s beautiful.

Officer 1: You heard wrong.

The next officer I reach.

Officer 2: Where did you come from?

Me: Shymkent.

Officer 2: Where are you going?

Me: Tashkent.

Officer 2: Why?

Me: People told me it’s nice there.

Officer 2: They lied. Open your bag.

Having expected this, I’d taken the precaution of hiding all my money on myself as there was a chance the bag would be swarmed by immigration officers who would steal my things. Unfortunately I couldn’t hide my laptop and the officer asks me to take it out and turn it on. As it’s turning on, he says I can be fast tracked for $20. I tell him I’ll wait.

Officer 2: Have you got any movies?

Me: No, it’s for work.

Officer 2: How about porn?

Me: No, it’s for work.

Officer 2: You have a program for music, put on some music

I turn on the program and the music starts, he calls his buddies, who, as predicted swarm my bag.

Officers: Where do you keep your money?

Me: I don’t have any.

One of the officers picks up a T-shirt and smells it.

Officer 3: Smells like narcotics.

Me: You need a new dealer, that’s the smell of sweat buddy, while you’re at it, do you mind washing it?

Pissed off that there’s no money, the officer swarm leaves, however I’m stuck with bored officer listening to music. While I wait, several men with suspicious packages or large sums of money walk past, pay a small bribe and keep going. After half an hour the officer lets me through. Note to self, hide laptop and make sure it has very little charge when exiting Uzbekistan.

I proceed to the final Kazakh officer.

Officer 4: Where did you come from?

Me: Shymkent.

Officer 4: Where are you going?

Me: Tashkent.

Officer 4: Why are you going to Tashkent?

Me: I heard the girls are pretty.

Officer 4: Good answer.

Me: I’m going to be returning to Kazakhstan, your girls are nice too, I don’t want to go through the hassle of re-registering, I need my registration card.

Officer 4: Sure I can help you with that. I help you, you help me. How much are you going to give me?

Me: As soon as you give me the card I’ll be out of your sights.

The officer, seeing that I won’t be giving him any money gives me the registration card and tells me to go away. Cheers to corrupt Kazakh hospitality.

I walk between the Kazakh and Uzbek sides of the border and just as I cross into the Uzbek side (passing a Kazakh officer who doesn’t demand a bribe), one of the guys who was talking with the officer says he received a call about a guy with a backpack looking to change currency. Looking at the Kazakh officer, I say we should walk a few steps away from him.

The guy says to not worry, that he can’t enter Uzbek territory (highly unlikely since he could easily rat on me and split the bribe money with his buddies on the Uzbek side) and walks a couple of steps with me to put me at ease. At 1,800 Cym to the USD, I offer to change $50 USD and am faced with a dilemma, verifying that I did in fact receive 90,000 Cym when the largest note is worth 1,000 Cym.

The guy takes out a pack in a rubber band and says it’s one hundred thousand in notes, quickly thumbs off ten thousand Cym notes, leaving them in the rubber band and puts them in his right jacket pocket. He gives me the stack and I tell him I’ll count them. I count them out slowly, reach 89 and tell him he’s wrong. He tells me I’m mistaken and we count them out together. The stack consists of 500s and 1000s interspersed (in order to confuse myself) and I catch him trying to double count notes and count a 500 as a 1000 when he speeds up. I tell him to stop, sort the pack into 1000s and 500s and tell him to count again slowly. Watching intently, I see him try to double count again and correct him. He finds that I’m watching so intently that he doesn’t try a third time and counts all the way to 89. He looks confused, pulls out a small pack in a rubber band from his left jacket pocket and surprise surprise, it contains eleven thousand Cym bills, conveniently explaining away that he tried to rip me off. I tell him it’s good that he remembers which pocket to take which stack from, exchange money and walk away, noting the smirk on the Kazakh officers face.

In total we spent fifteen minutes counting money between Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan customs and I smile at the fact that I’ve committed my first felony (black market currency exchange) prior to even being let into the country.

Outside the Uzbek side of the border, I chat with an Italian trio doing the Mongol Rally and make a note to one day also take part in it. After a short chat, I head in to the Uzbek immigration office, show the officer my passport and am told to speak with the doctor.

Doctor: Are you sick?

Me: No.

The doctor gives me the all clear and says I can keep going. The officer decides he’ll escort me personally. Uzbek officer 1 takes me to the immigration booth where they handle cars and the three officers inside talk about not letting me in due to the state of my passport – it suffered some damage when I came into Laos and was drenched in water as part of their new years celebrations (March 14th-16th).

Uzbek officer 1 pulls me aside and asks me how much I’m willing to pay to be let into the country. I say nothing and that if there are any problems he should call the Russian consulate in Tashkent to explain that he thinks the passport does not belong to me.

The officer makes me stand and wait while he goes off to speak to his boss (have a tea and see if I’ll get nervous and want to pay his bribe). In the mean time, one of the other guys, having completely taken apart everything in one of the cars headed towards Uzbekistan turns to the guy next in line with Russian plates and asks if he’s carrying any forbidden materials like narcotics or guns. The guy replies that he has nothing illegal, except for the car bomb which will go off as soon as someone opens the trunk. I laugh.

Uzbek officer 1 decides he’ll parade me in front of some of the other officers hoping I’ll want to pay a bribe. I meet a French couple (Deviane and Mark) and have a short with them while I wait, telling them to not pay any bribes.

After finally being let into the country, I walk along with the French couple and find out they were at the other border shortly after me and paid $20USD for a taxi to this one. I cringe.

They ask me to help find them a lift to Bukhara. Given that I know Russian (but not the prices of taxis here), I accept thinking I’ll save them at least some money. As we pass a group of women with prams full of goods to take into Kazakhstan, I chat with them and find that the cheapest way to Tashkent is to take a taxi to the intersection with the highway (500cym) and a bus to Tashkent (1000cym).

We reach the taxi sharks and I enquire about a taxi to Bukhara, the price is outrageous so the pair decide to try catch a bus from Tashkent. We negotiate a taxi to the intersection and after 20 minutes agree to 1000cym, they weren’t willing to take us for the 500cym. We’re followed by another taxi, the driver of which asks how much we’re offering to get to Tashkent. At this point, I’m pissed off that they lied to us about the distance involved and wouldn’t take us for the going rate and tell him to go away while we wait for the bus.

Eventually I agree to take the three of us for 2,000 Cym each, thinking it’ll be quicker than taking the bus. We get in the car, and at one point do an illegal U-turn and head in the wrong direction on the highway as the driver tries to find some guy that owes him money. I enquire about seat belt laws and am told that no one bothers since the fine is only 2,000 Cym. Our car has no headlights so the driver leaves his indicators on.

We reach Tashkent and are told that no buses or marshrutkas run after 9pm between cities since there was a bad accident two months ago and many people died. Not trusting the taxi drivers, we walk to a marshrutka to find that it is indeed true. We eventually settle on 30,000 Cym for the couple to go Samarkand (down from 40,000 after half an hour’s negotiation). I tell the couple to not pay any money until they arrive at their hotel and work on getting my own lift into the city.

The taxi mafia tell me that the only way into the city is by car since the buses don’t run. A bus goes past one minute later. I ask them where the bus stop is. One of the guys tells me he’ll take me for 500 Cym. I agree and put my bag in the car. He resets his odometer as we’re about to leave and I ask him why, saying he offered 500 Cym. He tells me it’s 500 Cym per kilometre. I laugh and tell him to piss off, open the boot and take my bag. I walk away from the taxi mafia and ask one of the shopkeepers where the bus stop is since I want to go to the centre.

The shopkeeper tells me I should take the metro and points to the stairs right next to where' I’d been negotiating with the taxi mafia the whole time. I go to the metro and ask one guy where there’s a cheap hotel in the city. He speaks with someone else on the metro and this other guy (Rustam) says he’ll tell me where to get off.

Rustam gets off at the same stop as I do and we walk together towards the bus stop. He has a Tony Montana swagger to his walk and even resembles the man somewhat. We hop on the bus and Tony Montana shows some card which entitles him to free travel. I ponder whether he works for the SNG (internal spying organisation). Turns out he’s an Afghan vet and swaggers because he was shot in the leg during his service, go figure.

We reach the hotel (Al-Hocilot - Ал-Хосилот), a derelict building from the soviet times and Rustam bids me farewell as I check in. Showing my registration slip to the attendant on my floor, she informs me that I have to pay for soap, shampoo and toilet paper. Also, if I want a “little sex” she can arrange it. I thank her for the offer, tell her (over fifty and overweight) that she couldn’t handle a little sex with me and head to my room for much needed rest.

I arrive at Shymkent and make the mistake of asking a teenager for directions to a cheap hotel. When I reach the four star Shymkent hotel, I don’t even bother to enquire about rates.

Another local informs me that there are people renting apartments around the corner next to the pizza shop. When I tell them my budget, most people stop offering me their place, except for one guy (Nurbek), who takes me to a centrally located dump of an apartment. I decide it’s good enough for one night, pay him the money and proceed to have dinner in the most deadbeat way possible.

Imagine sitting on a couch in your undies, watching TV in black and white, eating pelmenyi (ravioli) with a matchstick out of a chipped bowl (there were no knives, forks or spoons available), chasing it down with beer and tea, out of yet another chipped bowl. Good times.

I sleep in past check out time and after a 20 minute long wake up call, Nurbek banging on the door telling me to wake up, I let him in and he politely waits (sleeps on the bed), while I shower (using cold water under a tap) and eat breakfast, instant noodles with a screwdriver I found next to a tin of paint.

I head out in search of Shymkent’s sights and experience something amazing.

Me: What’s there to see in Shymkent?

Local: Well there’s uh… a fountain (saw it on my way in)… some parks (boring)… mostly we just drink, a lot… oh I know, there’s supposed to be a MiG somewhere, you could see that.

Me: That’ll do.

Fountain at sunset.

Fountain, in a park, at sunset.

I take a car to find this MiG and overpay for the short drive.

I arrive to find a park almost entirely torn apart. The grass has died, weeds are growing everywhere and all of the concrete has been smashed up prior to it being removed.

I start chatting with one of the guys (Sergei) standing around the jet and find out that it’s in the process of being removed and either relocated or recycled. Shymkent’s Tourist Information office will have to think hard to find a replacement. Sergei tells me that there’s nothing to see in Shymkent, but tells me that there are close to a dozen Avtovokzals (intercity bus stations). After some thinking, he mentions that there’s a Russian Orthodox church and a mosque. Good enough I decide and head to the church.

Shymkent’s biggest mosque.

Shymkent’s biggest Russian Orthodox church.

It doesn’t take long for me to decide to leave Shymkent and Kazakhstan to head for Tashkent, Uzbekistan.

I arrive at the train station to find that all the tickets for the train to Turkistan are sold out, except for a sitting seat at 5pm for a 22 hour journey. I decide to bribe my way onto the train and proceed to walk to the train and start negotiating with the conductors.

I reach the end of the train and am offered a lift for five times the going rate. I decline and head back towards the front of the train. One guy offers a lift for twice the price but says I probably won’t fit in the hiding spot and so doesn’t let me on.

The train leaves and I decide to give up on the trains and head to the bus station to go by bus. The twelve hour bus trip, seated next to a crying baby takes only 12 hours by bus and costs half the ticket price of the train. I arrive at Turkistan just after sunrise to begin the grand tour of the city’s sights.

Mosque.

Shrine.

The female groundskeeper at the shrine of Timur’s daughter gives me a tour, tells me that Muslim is the one true faith, that only the Chinese and Kazakh are beautiful women, that negroes are too dark and ugly and that the Vietnamese smell bad. I thank her for the tour and tell her to travel more to open her eyes.

I finish my sightseeing of Turkistan and head to Shymkent within hours.

Conveniently continuing with the wedding theme, Halim, one of the guys I’d met at the Almaty couch surfing meet-up invites me to a wedding. Given that I don’t carry a suit with me, I make a quick call to my mate Ilya and borrow some clothes, get changed and bring Diana and Daniel along.

Given that we’re last minute fill-ins for some guests that didn’t show up, we enter towards the end of the wedding party and proceed to be seated next to the parents of the bride who’s name we still don’t know.

Left to right: Halim, Daniel, Diana, myself and mother of the bride.

So you’ve been invited to a wedding where you don’t know either the bride or the groom, or their parents. The father of the bride asks you to make a toast. What do you do?

You get up, go to the centre of the dance floor, take the microphone from the host and proceed to wing it, mentioning love, friendship, two souls living and breathing as one. A real tear jerker that brings rousing applause from the guests.

Yerkin, the bride’s father sings a beautiful song in Kazakh.

Bonding with the bride’s parents.

When Kazakh music comes on, you get jiggy and freestyle some moves.

We end the night by taking a photo with the beautiful bride and groom. A great experience and a great night.

If you’re in Almaty, Kazakhstan on a Saturday, situated opposite the circus on Abai street (the main East-West street) is Kazakhstan’s wedding factory.

Almaty’s Vegas-style wedding factory.

At both ends of the parking lot stand police officers, ensuring traffic can flow *cough* collect bribes for limousine parking *cough*.

The main parking lot can handle between four and eight limousines. Those that can’t afford a limousine also can’t afford to park their white car in front of the factory and need to walk one block.

As one bride leaves the factory…

… a new one enters …

… another gets the chance to start taking photos …

… cannons are fired …

…while yet another releases some balloons …

… a cute girl releases a couple of doves …

… a guy collects more petals from the rose garden …

… while another bride takes a photo next to her limousine as she waits …

… for traffic to clear.

Hope to see you there, can’t wait until they install a conveyor belt to save on walking.

Medeo (медео), the suburb for Almaty’s ultra rich, situated on the outskirts of Almaty in the mountains contains Kazakhstan’s largest ice skating rink and is currently closed for renovations for the upcoming 2011 Asian Winter games.

Medeo ice skating rink.

From the ice skating rink it’s a short stroll up some eight hundred steps to the lookout point. There are annual races up these steps, both amateur and professional races, for portions of steps and for all 800. Bet that’d be fun to watch.

From there it’s another few kilometres to the base of Chimbulak (чимбулак), Almaty’s premier (and only) ski destination.

It takes a real Top Gun to take the highway to the danger zone.

Base of Chimbulak ski resort.

Translation: Don’t mess with the Danger Zone.

There’s a series of three chairlifts to the top of Chimbulak, each of which you need to pay for. The view is nice but the weather’s cold.

I crossed the border into Kazakhstan at 11:45pm on a Thursday evening and didn’t arrive in Almaty until 3:30am on a Friday. The registration office is closed on Thursdays and weekends. I need to register at the OVIR office within five days of entering the country. When Monday comes around, it’s day five.

First I have to find the office, I copy down the address but then as the day pans out, I end up taking the address from the security guard at the Canadian embassy. He’s a nice guy, but I end up out in the suburbs at the wrong office.

Arriving at the office at 4pm there’s a notice saying they accept documents for registration between 10am and 12:30pm and return the registration between 5pm and 6:30pm. Since it’s my fifth day, I decide to stick around and see if I can plead my case. After an hour of waiting in queue, the officer in charge (Leonid Borisovich) shows up and sends us into another queue. We reach the front of it only to be sent back. Back and forth, Leonid decides he’s not accepting documents. The answering machine for the OVIR office says they accept documents between 10am and 6pm. Two foreigners are waiting in line and aren’t getting any help.

Leonid, despite the fact that he knows English, finds someone else in the queue that speaks English to help the girls organise their paperwork. Finally he relents and lets me give my passport to register. I pay the money, fill out the forms only to find I need to be registered at the house of a Kazakh citizen. Thankfully, Sveta is able to help me out with this. I hand in the forms only to be told that I need to show up to the office in Sveta’s suburb, with her present, between 10 and 12:30. Whether or not she can get time off work at such short notice is of no concern to him. Total time wasted, 2.5hrs.

The following day, Sveta and I head to her local OVIR office, are scolded, but not fined and finally register. Two days wasted for pointless Kazakh bureaucracy, legalised extortion.

Sveta (Diana and Joanne’s friend from couch surfing), Dilya (Sveta’s friend), Diana and Joanne (my couchsurfing hosts) and myself all head out for some hiking towards Big Almaty Lake, the reservoir from where all of Almaty gets its water supply.

Left to Right: Dilya, Sveta, myself, Joanne and Diana.

As Sveta explains, we drive to the bottom and then walk up a pipe until we’ve reached the lake.

The infamous pipe.

Entry Forbidden! Regime zone for water collection for supply of drinking water to the city of Almaty.

Within a few minutes we’re approached by police who ask to see our documents. Sveta jokes about living in a passport regime. The police tell us that we are forbidden from touching the water and lighting camp fires. Too many locals come to the lake and litter, ruining the town’s water supply. We don’t ask about whether we can swim.

We walk some distance away and have a picnic.

Some swimming may or may not have taken place, all I can say is that the water was incredibly cold. As we do or don’t finish drying off and getting changed, the police approach. We’ve done nothing wrong but we prepare our stories anyway. The police walk past us and go to scold a nearby family for lighting a fire to cook shashlyk. I have a feeling the police might be fed while the family goes hungry.

Another soviet icon bites the dust.

Panorama of Big Almaty Lake.

I arrive at my couch surfing hosts’ house at 6:30am on a Friday morning and proceed to crash out on their couch for the next few hours.

My first day in Almaty starts with a quick walk to buy a sim card for my phone and ends in wandering around taking in the sights and seeing the second annual world no rules fighting contest. Go figure.

Almaty, the former political and current economic capital of Kazakhstan has imported a lot of western culture in its bid to shake off its soviet roots. Imports include:

• Western designer stores – Prada, Gucci, DKNY etc.
• American ideals of luxury cars – European cars are popular, but SUVs are king; the Hummer is the ultimate status symbol of Kazakhstan’s new rich elite.
• Cafe culture – cafes are found on just about every street corner. Coffeedelia is the name for Almaty’s Starbucks experience, complete with ambient music, wifi internet and average tasting, expensive coffee. It’s also a great palace to meet girls on a Friday night before hitting up the clubs.
• Western prices – you want to pay $100USD for a hotel? It can be arranged. How about $10USD for a coffee? No worries. Got a craving for eating out at the same prices you pay back home? Have a $20USD meal.

One week earlier, while in Karakol (Kyrgyzstan), I find out that one of the cooler people I’d met in my travels, way back in Saigon, Vietnam, has decided to live in Almaty and work as an English teacher. Five months and four countries later, I meet Daniel the Canadian once again (his brother having flown back home the previous evening) and we spend the next few days getting to know Almaty.

Random shop in Almaty.

I notice that there are a lot of fountains in Almaty.

One girl proudly tells me that there are 117 fountains in Almaty. I don’t know what’s more impressive, the number of fountains or the fact that she knew exactly how many there were. In the week that I spend in Almaty, they build another two.

I don’t have the slightest clue what this building is.

Russian cathedral in Panfilov park. Apparently, this is the second largest building in the world built entirely from wood, including the nails.

The fierce, superhuman warriors of the red army. These men looked so awesome that Daniel and I were ready to enlist and defend the USSR from any capitalist pigs should the need arise.

As I leave my guesthouse in Cholpon-Ata – Directions: From Cholpon Ata, head towards Blue Issyk-Kol Resort, there will be an АТФ – ATF bank on your left. The street just before it turn left and follow it up for 500m-1km. On your left you will see a house with a sign гостевой дом (Guest house). In there, in the 2009 peak season you could get a bed for 150som, ask for Rahat.

Guesthouse. Fun fact you won’t find in the lonely planet: all around the guest house there is a lot of wild marijuana growing, though if you’re looking to smoke, you’re better off asking around for something more potent.

I bid farewell to my friends in town, the girls and Aziz, an Azeri who’d taken a likening to me and said that Alina would make a great wife for me.

  Aziz marinating sheep meat prior to cooking shashlyck (shish-kebabs).

Aziz  tells me that if I stick around for the next three hours while the meat marinates and is cooked, I can have it all as a present and that I can live at his house when I return. He tells me that he has relatives in Baku but his wife won’t let him go back to see them, I must send word to them so that they can free him and let him visit Azerbaijan once again.

I unsuccessfully spend half an hour trying to hitch a lift to Kazakhstan from Cholpon Ata and so decide to buy a ticket from the bus station. The first of six buses for Almaty leaves at 8pm, the last at 9pm and they arrive between 5am and 6am the following morning.

I buy a ticket for the 8pm bus and make my way to the beach Ala-Too to spend the day sleeping and swimming.

Soviet bus that’s finally been retired, sitting in a parking garage on the way to the beach.

When it comes to catch the bus to Almaty, I spend the last of my som on food and have none left to pay for the toilet. I tell this to the attendant who says I can go in free of charge if I tell him a good story. I tell him a bit about my travels, the people I’ve had the pleasure of meeting and some of the misfortunes involved. After I finish the story about skipping the bill at the pirate cafe, he sighs and tells me that unfortunately in this country, a lot of people are out to scam you.

The bus leaves half an hour late and along the way I meet a Kazak Nurjan who introduces me to his wife as 2002 world champion kickboxer and invites me to stay with him in Koraganda (not far from the new Kazak capital Astana).

We arrive at the Kyrgyzstan/Kazakhstan border checkpost at 11:45pm and I’m surprised to not only find it open but to see a huge queue of people waiting in line.

When it comes to my turn to give my passport to the officer on the Kazakh side of the border, we have an exchange that goes like this:

Officer: Where do you live?

Me: I don’t live anywhere, I’m homeless.

Officer: What is your country of residence?

Me: I don’t have a country of residence, I’m between countries.

Officer: What is your nationality?

Me: Russian.

Officer: Then how do you explain your accent?

Me: I’m also Australian.

Officer: Are you messing around with me? (Said in more colourful language)

Me: No sir, I’m just travelling the world.

Officer: Interesting… tell me about your travels.

At this point I start telling the story of how I quit my job to travel and the places I’ve been, how I’ve found the importance of family and how happiness doesn’t tie in to how much money you have. I’m in the middle of one of these stories, while there’s a queue of close to 100 people waiting to their turn to get their passports stamped when the bus driver walks up to me and tells me that the whole bus is waiting for me to leave.

I ask the officer if he’d be kind enough to let me into his beautiful country. He stamps my passport, gives me the registration form and wishes me all the best in my future travels, One of the best border crossing experiences I’ve had to date.

As I hop on the bus, everyone at the back starts laughing as someone had told them of the exchange between myself and the immigration officer. They decide to give me a crash course on Kazakhstan.

1. Borat had it pretty much right, everyone is a backwards village person and rides a donkey.
2. The Kazak police are world famous for not accepting bribes, only 90% of them do.
3. Be careful of the girls in Almaty, they’re very pretty and you could find yourself accidentally marrying one. At this point one of the guys on the bus says that it happened to him, his wife playfully elbows him in the ribs.

Our bus arrives at the Avtovokzal (Bus station)  in Almaty at 3am in the morning and since I plan to couch surf with a couple of English teachers, I need to kill a few hours prior to going to their place. I walk inside the bus station and join the group of people who are asleep on the benches, only to be woken by security at 5am.

As I hopped into the car from Karakol to Cholpon-Ata, I gave my friend Johnny from Bishkek a call. He said he’d wanted to go to Cholpon-Ata also and said he’d come down so we could meet and catch up.

We meet in the evening, Johnny and his friend Mahsad (Max), with myself and two of the girls I’d met, Alina and Chinoura. There’s a great nightclub not far from Cholpon-Ata in the Golden Sands Resort by the name of Nirvana. Prior to going to the club, we stop for a quick beer in Cafe Pirate. One beer turns to two, some vodka, dinner, more drinks and some dancing.

When it’s time to go to the club, the bill comes (2300 som) and when I tell Johnny and his friend to cover part of the bill they say that they have no money. The guys had the nerve to suggest that I’m shouting everyone for the night. I don’t have any intentions of paying the entire bill, he’s not willing to cover his half of it, so we’re left with only one option. I tell everyone that since Johnny’s not willing to pay part of the bill, we’re going to run. We grab our things and get on the dance floor. I say the word, we walk to the side, and everyone runs.

The staff didn’t notice what was happening, and after a few metres, I stop to see that girls haven’t been caught. Johnny and his friend say they’re not stopping and run all the way to the car. When the girls and I finally meet up, we decide to take a taxi to the club, only to bump into Johnny’s car with his mate who offer us a lift.

We get in the car, and start driving to the girls’ houses from where we plan on splitting from Johnny and his buddy. Along the way, I tell Johnny we should return to pay the money. He says he will go pay once we are dropped off. Given that at this point he’s a drunk, aggressive professional fighter I decide not to risk a fight over half the bill and give him 1000 som to cover myself and the girls.\

When we arrive at the girls’ apartments, we get in a big argument as it’s clear that he’s not going back to pay the bill himself, won’t return the money to me and says that if we go back together to pay the bill, he’ll leave me there. With few bargaining chips, I decide to leave the situation be for the time being, watch him drive off with my money, and watch Chinora’s mates chase after him for a fight.

I tell her to call them to return since they don’t know who they’re messing with and when they eventually do, they give me a lift to my guesthouse, where we call it a night.

The following morning, Johnny, having sobered up and realised he was a prick calls me to apologise, to meet up and return the money. When we meet and I get the money back, I tell him we still have time to go pay the bill. He says he’s never paying that bill because he has no plans of ever returning to that cafe.

An hour passes since we' part and Johnny’s on the phone. His friend who he bumped into at the Pirate cafe, who happens to work as a security guard for the Golden Sands Resort is being chased up for his friends name for the bill. Johnny tells me that he’s on his way home and that he’ll send his money to the cafe via taxi, while I should go in and pay my half in person.

Smelling the setup and not trusting the rat for a second, I decide to let him sweat a bit and don’t head to the cafe or get in touch with the security guard.

The following day I call Johnny once again saying we should go to pay the bill together. I can tell he’s nervous as we both know that he' doesn’t know where in the town I’m staying, and has no way of chasing me up to pay the bill that he is now stuck with.

In the afternoon, I head to the cafe, give them my share of the money, leave them with my telephone number, Johnny’s telephone number and that of his friend the security guard.

The following day, I get a call from a police man telling me I split on the bill at the cafe and that he’s managed to track me down using his great detective skills and that if I don’t pay the bill, I’ll have problems leaving the country. I tell the policeman that he didn’t track me down, since I had left my number with the manager, that I’d paid my share of the bill and that there will be no troubles when I leave the country since apart from my first name and number, he knows no other information about me.

We end the call, I forward the number to Johnny for him to sort out his share of the money and leave it at that.

The policeman calls five minutes later that he’s organised to get the remainder of the money, that I had paid and that’s it’s pretty shit the way I was setup to pay the whole bill by Johnny and his friend. He tells me that the cafe is run by a family member of his and that I’m welcome back at any time, a complete turn around from five minutes ago when he was threatening problems with the border police.

I thank him for his invitation, end the call and put a close to yet another one of these crazy adventures I face in my travels.

I leave for Cholpon Ata (beach resort destination for Kazakh, Kyrgyz and Russian holidaymakers) forgoing the valleys of Gregorievka and Semionovka along the way.

I befriend a local girl (Alina) in the car, meet some of her friends and we grab lunch and go to the beach. The beach itself is average compared to any Australian beach, or those of Phu Quoc Island in Vietnam.

Since the town is such a big tourist destination, the locals find all sorts of ingenious ways to make money. Camel rides, posing for photos with eagles, renting jet skis, paddle boats or even inflatable mattresses.

I manage to catch the camel again when he’s finished work and decided to go out and get on the piss.

My all time favourite tourist spot/museum in Kyrgyzstan is the culture centre (pictured in the background of the first camel photo), located between the Beach at Blue Issyk-Kol resort and the Cholpon-Ata town centre.

Swimming pool and spa, with paintings of Kyrgyz mountains.

Jesus.

Breath taking.

Storm clouds, culture centre and the waters of Issyk-Kol.

The culture centre is filled with statues and paintings of famous Kyrgyz people, soviet heroes. There are small temples dedicated to many of the region’s major religions: Catholicism, Judaism, Muslim and Orthodox.

Building showcasing post soviet Kyrgyz leaders.

Very famous soviet musician Bulat Okudzhava.

Kyrgyz woman sitting on traditional Kyrgyz (love) swing.

The Kyrgyz culture centre in Cholpon-Ata should be on every traveller’s must see list when they visit Kyrgyzstan. A similar centre is in the process of being built on the south side of the lake near Kadji Sai and is slated for completion within the next two years.

After spending the night back in Karakol, I head to another one of Karakol’s beautiful valleys Jeti Oghuz. I take a combination of marshrutka, taxi and hitchhike to reach the bottom of the valley, marked by seven bulls.

The seven bulls of Jeti Oghuz (yes there are in fact nine).

I start walking/hitchhiking my way to the top of the valley where there’s supposed to be a beautiful field of flowers (in March to May according to the Lonely Planet guidebook).

The first lift I hitch is on the back of some guys horse. After one kilometre he decides he’s had enough of me and tells me to hop off. The next lift is in a truck on its way to do road repairs. After the second lift, I catch up to one of the guys (Misha) I saw walking up the valley, he managed to get a lift in another car.

Walking up Jeti Oghuz valley.

Misha bumps into a friend of his, we all drink кымыз (Kuh-Muz, fermented mare’s milk) and as we walk, they tell me about the valley. In soviet times, as some of the first soviet cosmonauts were looking down on the USSR from space, they took note of one particularly beautiful valley. On their return, they found it was Jeti-Oghuz, only several thousand kilometres from the Baikonur cosmodrome. As such the government setup a health resort for returning cosmonauts and forbid locals from venturing into certain parts of the valley.

Along the walk, Misha makes me an offer he claims I can’t refuse. Since I am an attractive single man with no girlfriend, he will take it upon himself to find me a dream woman. As he is a powerful man with many connections, he will introduce me to many very beautiful Kyrgyz women who all know how to cook, clean and take care of their man. He will pay the kalim (dowry) to the bride’s parents, take care of all the wedding expenses and invite some of his most powerful and influential friends in order for me to find a good career and establish myself as a big player in the Kyrgyz world. The only thing I need to do in return is give him an invitation into Australia so he can finally visit the Great Barrier Reef, a dream he’s had for a very long time.

I decline his offer and we attend his older sister’s birthday where I’m treated as the guest of honour and drink far more than one should while hiking out in the mountains. Throughout the lunch, Misha points out several beautiful single girls and tells me they’re all nieces of his and introduces each one in turn. As lovely and beautiful as they are, I have to decline Misha’s offer, telling him I haven’t yet finished my life’s travels. This answer satisfies him and he drops the topic of my wedding, though he does keep pointing out that every girl keeps looking over at me and finding an excuse to walk by.

I bid farewell to Misha and the guests at the birthday party as I still want to visit the field of flowers. I continue walking and am passed by a truck carrying a group of tourists on their way to a multi day trek from Jeti-Oghuz via Ala Kol (alpine lake) to Altyn Arashan. The five day trek takes in the beauty of Karakol valley along the way. I was unable to go in the opposite direction from Altyn Arashan as the weather was bad and I’d heard that there was a lot of snow on the pass to Ala Kol, and, with memories of the failed attempt at Arslanbob thought it’s better to give it a miss.

After the tourist truck passes, I’m picked up by a group of guys in their Muskvich and we make slow progress up the valley as the car keeps overheating, stalling and not having enough power to reach the inclines. The trip involves pushing the car a lot, but still beats walking up.

After a few minutes we reach the end of the road to see the trekkers still putting their bags on and continue walking towards the guys’ yurt.

Near the top of the valley.

Dedicated to jump shooters everywhere.

When we reach the yurt, I ask where the field of flowers is. I’m told we went past it, the flowers are only out in spring.

As I’m hiking back down the valley, I come across yet another group of Kyrgyz who want me to drink with them. We dedicated the 100g to international friendship (for the millionth time). and I continue on down. I stumble upon a Kazakh family who’ve managed to get their jeep stuck in the mud. They’re waiting for another jeep to come down from the top and pull them out. I tell them that I’d met the drivers of the only other jeep up the valley, and that they were planning on spending the night up there in the guesthouse.

I recruit all the guys picnicking nearby and we use brute strength to pull the car out of the mud. As gratitude, they give me a lift back to Karakol.

We stop along the way to pick up some honey. Take note of all the beehives next to the shack.