As ever during the festive period I’m a little behind, so maybe it’s time (as I know many bloggers do) to employ a skivvy. Honestly some of these entries takes hours and at the end of it I’m expected to try and promote the damn thing? You’re all just going to have to wait. Anyway this is a crap experience I had a few weeks back.
I wasn’t enjoying Tashkent for a number of reasons. I was sick as a dog (which may or may not have been as a direct result of discovering and frequenting an Irish bar in town, living off communal free eggs in the hostel or just being in Uzbekistan) but nonetheless I had one of the worst nights on record with cold sweats, soaking sheets, hallucinogenic dreams and frequently sneaking into the (western) lady’s toilet do horrific things to Armitage Shanks because there was no way I was standing up for that. It was like the recent flooding of northern England.
Great hostel, horrible bowels
I’d also been having a shocker when it came to lifting money. Visa machines in Tashkent are few and far between – most located in hotel foyers. But they don’t work. In the cold and rain, I traipsed all across the city to discover each ATM had broken down. It was only after the 5th hotel that a manager said they were going to be out of action for days. You can imagine my discontent. I managed to make it to the one bank that could provide me with the ability to feed myself, only to discover that I needed to also provide my accommodation registration slip. Couchsurfing is illegal in Uzbekistan, and everywhere you stay you have to be “registered.” If you can’t prove where you’ve been living when you exit the country you could be in for a rough ride and a hefty fine. You can play it fast and loose but I decided not to risk it. Anyway apparently I needed this slip when lifting money too, but my hostel doesn’t provide it because I’ve not paid for the full stay. I was ready to go postal.
So back I went on the underground (which incidentally is the number one sight on tripadvisor – that should tell you all you need to know about Tashkent) all the way across town to force the hostel worker to give me the slip so I could lift money. He got a bit uppity about it, but eventually relented when I started losing the plot a little. With time running out, the only way I could make the bank would be to take a cab. Flagging a shared taxi down I thrust the (very clear) map into the hands of the driver, he nods agreement and off we scoot. The clock is ticking.
But of COURSE he doesn’t know where the fuck he’s going. Nobody does. Nobody anywhere in this part of the world can read a map or knows where anything is. This is no exaggeration for comic effect – they simply can’t understand maps. You’ll get into a car with them, show them a perfectly clear, professionally produced tourist map, and they will stare at the fucking thing for an eon. They will stare it is as if they’ve been handed their own death sentence, and if there’s someone else in the vehicle, a discussion will take place for the length of a bible. Then the driver will nod his head, which you assume means either he or fellow passengers have come to some agreement as to where this mystery location is. And then, after all of this, he will still stop and ask every Tom, Dick and Harry he drives past for directions, and none of THEM will know where the fucking place is either. This includes other taxi drivers, street sign makers, people who built the town, urban explorers, the army, the fire service, the paramedics, and the police.
And then comes the real kicker. I’m jabbing my finger at the location and repeating the place-name “Amir Temur! Amir Temur!” Which is a famous square in the city, and within distance of the only bank I can use. My driver looks like I’ve asked him the square root of infinity. “Amir Temur! Amir Temur! Amir Temur!” I repeat in earnest and with increasing urgency, with the bank closing in 5 minutes. Suddenly the penny drops:
“AAAhhhhh! Da! Da! Da! Amir Temur!”
…
Words, dearest readers, failed me.
I throw the money I’ve borrowed from a former Russian sniper into the driver’s hand and don’t wait for the change, making the bank with moments to spare. Handing over my documents, I can only lift $300, and its going to cost me a further $10 for the privilege. In total thanks to the downed visa machines, inept transport and utter stupidity, it’s cost me a full day of running all over a city in shit weather, and 25 bucks expenses. I’m not a happy bunny.
The final straw comes after I recover from my man flu and (as ever) when I meet a beautiful American girl. She’s working in one of the embassies here and long story short, we hit it off but I lose her the first night only to find her again randomly another night. Things are looking up. She offers to take me home in a taxi, and after a few drinks we depart the club together. Not a few miles from home, I turn to ask a question, raising my hand to hers.
“DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME!!”
Such was my astounded incredulity at her scream that when the cab stopped at the next lights without a word I simply got out and walked away. I think it’s time to leave.
Tashkent you might be better when the sun is shining, your visa machines are working, and women I meet aren’t psychotic, but for now my experience of you leaves a lot to be desired – perceptions echoed – you will notice – by the distinct lack of photos. I originally planned on spending Christmas and New Year here, but based on recent events, the fact that I can get 15 days visa free in Kazakhstan, and here in the hostel streaming porn is restricted, I’m going to Almaty instead. Not to end as dull as the weather, I have met some nice English lads driving around central Asia, so a couple of easy hitches could be on the cards. Perhaps my luck is about to change.
A nightmare in Tashkent
As ever during the festive period I’m a little behind, so maybe it’s time (as I know many bloggers do) to employ a skivvy. Honestly some of these entries takes hours and at the end of it I’m expected to try and promote the damn thing? You’re all just going to have to wait. Anyway this is a crap experience I had a few weeks back.
I wasn’t enjoying Tashkent for a number of reasons. I was sick as a dog (which may or may not have been as a direct result of discovering and frequenting an Irish bar in town, living off communal free eggs in the hostel or just being in Uzbekistan) but nonetheless I had one of the worst nights on record with cold sweats, soaking sheets, hallucinogenic dreams and frequently sneaking into the (western) lady’s toilet do horrific things to Armitage Shanks because there was no way I was standing up for that. It was like the recent flooding of northern England.
Great hostel, horrible bowels
I’d also been having a shocker when it came to lifting money. Visa machines in Tashkent are few and far between – most located in hotel foyers. But they don’t work. In the cold and rain, I traipsed all across the city to discover each ATM had broken down. It was only after the 5th hotel that a manager said they were going to be out of action for days. You can imagine my discontent. I managed to make it to the one bank that could provide me with the ability to feed myself, only to discover that I needed to also provide my accommodation registration slip. Couchsurfing is illegal in Uzbekistan, and everywhere you stay you have to be “registered.” If you can’t prove where you’ve been living when you exit the country you could be in for a rough ride and a hefty fine. You can play it fast and loose but I decided not to risk it. Anyway apparently I needed this slip when lifting money too, but my hostel doesn’t provide it because I’ve not paid for the full stay. I was ready to go postal.
So back I went on the underground (which incidentally is the number one sight on tripadvisor – that should tell you all you need to know about Tashkent) all the way across town to force the hostel worker to give me the slip so I could lift money. He got a bit uppity about it, but eventually relented when I started losing the plot a little. With time running out, the only way I could make the bank would be to take a cab. Flagging a shared taxi down I thrust the (very clear) map into the hands of the driver, he nods agreement and off we scoot. The clock is ticking.
But of COURSE he doesn’t know where the fuck he’s going. Nobody does. Nobody anywhere in this part of the world can read a map or knows where anything is. This is no exaggeration for comic effect – they simply can’t understand maps. You’ll get into a car with them, show them a perfectly clear, professionally produced tourist map, and they will stare at the fucking thing for an eon. They will stare it is as if they’ve been handed their own death sentence, and if there’s someone else in the vehicle, a discussion will take place for the length of a bible. Then the driver will nod his head, which you assume means either he or fellow passengers have come to some agreement as to where this mystery location is. And then, after all of this, he will still stop and ask every Tom, Dick and Harry he drives past for directions, and none of THEM will know where the fucking place is either. This includes other taxi drivers, street sign makers, people who built the town, urban explorers, the army, the fire service, the paramedics, and the police.
And then comes the real kicker. I’m jabbing my finger at the location and repeating the place-name “Amir Temur! Amir Temur!” Which is a famous square in the city, and within distance of the only bank I can use. My driver looks like I’ve asked him the square root of infinity. “Amir Temur! Amir Temur! Amir Temur!” I repeat in earnest and with increasing urgency, with the bank closing in 5 minutes. Suddenly the penny drops:
“AAAhhhhh! Da! Da! Da! Amir Temur!”
…
Words, dearest readers, failed me.
I throw the money I’ve borrowed from a former Russian sniper into the driver’s hand and don’t wait for the change, making the bank with moments to spare. Handing over my documents, I can only lift $300, and its going to cost me a further $10 for the privilege. In total thanks to the downed visa machines, inept transport and utter stupidity, it’s cost me a full day of running all over a city in shit weather, and 25 bucks expenses. I’m not a happy bunny.
The final straw comes after I recover from my man flu and (as ever) when I meet a beautiful American girl. She’s working in one of the embassies here and long story short, we hit it off but I lose her the first night only to find her again randomly another night. Things are looking up. She offers to take me home in a taxi, and after a few drinks we depart the club together. Not a few miles from home, I turn to ask a question, raising my hand to hers.
“DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME!!”
Such was my astounded incredulity at her scream that when the cab stopped at the next lights without a word I simply got out and walked away. I think it’s time to leave.
Tashkent you might be better when the sun is shining, your visa machines are working, and women I meet aren’t psychotic, but for now my experience of you leaves a lot to be desired – perceptions echoed – you will notice – by the distinct lack of photos. I originally planned on spending Christmas and New Year here, but based on recent events, the fact that I can get 15 days visa free in Kazakhstan, and here in the hostel streaming porn is restricted, I’m going to Almaty instead. Not to end as dull as the weather, I have met some nice English lads driving around central Asia, so a couple of easy hitches could be on the cards. Perhaps my luck is about to change.