I had been living in a palace compared to my crack den in Ashgabat, and all for $15 a night. Private room, brand new en suite bathroom with an amazing shower, and the bed was one of the most comfortable in a hostel I’ve ever had since traveling. Seriously I graded it in the top three with Envoy in Armenia and Pariwana in Peru. But alas, I had to tear myself away from a guaranteed good nights sleep. In advance, apologies for the quality of photographs in this post. My pocket camera is shit.
It’s pretty much a straight run down the road to my next destination of Samarkand. Only three odd hours, with pretty much all the traffic heading in that direction. For that reason I lazily exit the hostel around midday, and saunter along the road to find a hitch location. This being much further than anticipated, I casually stop for a bite to eat in a roadside diner. It’s near two when I’m actually on my way for real. What could possibly go wrong?
Outside the cafe, a strange half-a-mosque
Well, nothing actually. I mean it’s not that nothing happens (hitches are rarely – if ever – uneventful), but as far as anything dodgy happening I’ve got little to tell you. Ride one is actually a free taxi, who pulls over and ushers me in with a little English. He can drop me for nothing at the edge of the city, which I always feel out of sorts with when other passengers are paying. A concept unheard of in the UK, shared taxis have pretty much been commonplace post Germany, and you’ll regularly be joined and wedged in by a load of other punters. This can feel a little alien at first, especially when you think some bastard is trying to hi-jack your ride, but you get used to it. What I’m not used to, is being comfortable with everyone else forking out for the ride and I’m getting it for a song. Nobody seems bothered, and I’m assured it’s just their hospitality. Imagine getting a free cab ride in London? The only time I’ve seen that is on the Fake Taxi porn site.
Cheerio Bukhara
So there I am smiling and waving at the cheerfully beeping Bukhara cabbie as he u-turns back into town. He’s dropped me in a perfect spot, and within a few minutes I’m in the passenger seat of a guy who enthusiastically nods he can take me all the way to Samarkand. Except he can’t. A few kilometres down the road and I’ve managed to establish he’s not actually going anywhere near where I need to go. He’s also taking at me non-stop in Russian, and he’s turned off the main highway and into a gas-station. I’m requested to get out.
Gas for the journey or covered in petrol and set alight in a ditch
Admittedly I’m somewhat apprehensive of this, but it soon comes to pass that all passengers must disembark when filling up the tank on propane. It makes sense. But where have I been? When did we start filling cars up on gas and not petrol? I might have mentioned this before? Anyway before I know it we’re back on the highway and he’s dropped me a little further along the road. Progress is being made.
Hardly a moment goes by when a horn is honked and I’m in a tiny car to continue the journey, but he can only take me so far. As a result, this exceedingly helpful madman behind the wheel is blazing along with other traffic, violently destroying his horn in an attempt to get their attention. When he does so, a conversation is had side by side down the highway at speed, trying to figure out who can take me the remaining distance. At one point we find success, and for a moment I think we’re going to attempt a moving transfer, and I’m going to zip-line across into the other vehicle through the window. As it stands they can’t take me that far either, but to be honest I’m thankful to be out of their cramped cabin, fit for two but containing three and all my stuff. My right foot has fallen off.
Friendly fuzz
They drop me at a police check point, which I’ve usually had a lot of success at and this case is no different. I’ve been told they might not get so friendly further east and the odd bribe will be solicited, but for now they seem more than happy to let me stand with a thumb out. Most of the time police have only bothered me with a good-humoured mild curiosity, and have even helped me get my next lift. Once again I’m back on the road in the blink of an eye, and it’s a good job too, because it’s getting cold, and I’m not yet halfway.
I’m dropped in the centre of some town right at a bus station, which I duly march past and head in the direction which I hope is the way out. So far places of population along this route consist of the highway going right through it, which is a godsend to the hitcher. Here is no different, but I’m hiking a long way to clear myself of local traffic, while not to mention dying for a wee. The problem here is I can’t seem to find any side-ally or bush to tuck in behind, and I’m not exactly a wallflower with all my gear. I still make a token attempt at respectfulness by not pissing in someones doorway.
It’s getting dark. I’ve been walking for an eternity, turning occasionally to flash my sign at an oncoming motorist, and I’ve still not found a suitable location to evacuate. My one saving grace is that it appears I’ve finally made it to the outskirts, which means good arable farmland that requires watering, and nobody around to witness it. However I finally spot an inviting restaurant, and at the same time as asking a waiter outside if he has a rest-room, a vehicle carrying two large guys has pulled to the roadside and is blasting on the horn. To my dismay they’re still there when I return refreshed, and I gingerly approach.
Considering I’ve still a long way to go, that I’ve only come a relatively short distance in spite of the number of rides, and the fact that there’s maybe an hour of light left, I know my next hitch must be the full distance, otherwise I’m hitching in the dark. And I never doubted for a second…not one second I tell you. Not…one…
The two guys can take me the full way, but once I’m in their car, they tell me they need to go to a friend’s house for a birthday party and I must join them. Assuring me it’ll only be for an hour, I bluster some kind of excuse about having to call my sister on skype, and needing to arrive at the hostel at a certain time. My driver is having none of it, insists I go and he’s not taking no for an answer. I settle back and contemplate my fate.
Hospitality at its best. In the dark
An hour or so later and we’re pulling into the drive-way of what I can make out is a village house. Urged out of the vehicle, it reminds me of the time I found myself in a pitch-black vineyard in which I believed I was going to die in Moldova. Large men of varying degrees of age and weathering make their way over and embrace me warmly, with a standard three cheek kiss, hug and more massive handshakes. I’m going to have no bones in my right hand by the time I reach China.
Urgh
And so in a dimly lit room I go through the traditions of being a guest in a Muslim family household. I join in observing their religious rituals of prayer and washing the face with the hands, and then I’m basically treated like a king. I sit on the floor with maybe twenty large men in near-darkness. Other visitors come and go wishing the host a happy birthday, some in a more inebriated state than others. And I can see how and why they’re in such condition, as I’m consistently poured ENORMOUS shots of vodka. I’m not kidding here people, they took me three gulps each to get down. And they kept pouring five of these bad boys for me, watching me like hawks to see if I’d crack. I’d drunk half a bottle of vodka when I next try to stand.
More vodka. And food. Delicious food too
Not a word in English was spoken, but there was laughter, handshakes, delicious food and a lot of booze. At one point I’m guided to the outdoor toilet, and then guided back in. By the time we’re ready to leave for Samarkand, I’m being hugged by everyone like a long-lost brother, and a minor celebratory with all the photographs snapped as I leave. And to think I was reluctant to go.
Famous at last
And it doesn’t end there. My companions drive me to the very door of my hostel in Samarkand, whereupon I warmly thank them, dump my bags and head straight into town. There I stumble upon another birthday party where I’m offered a load of drinks, food, “forced” to sing karaoke and then driven home at the end of the night. It’s taken me ten hours, around six rides and a lot of vodka to travel 271 km, and I’m going to wake up with one hell of a hangover. But it astounds me that the western world predominantly believes Islam to be a violent religion, when I have been consistently witness to hospitality such as this. Ask yourself; would you get this as a traveler in a “Christian” country?! For the most part, I think not.
Hitchhike to India leg 49: Bukhara to Samarkand
I had been living in a palace compared to my crack den in Ashgabat, and all for $15 a night. Private room, brand new en suite bathroom with an amazing shower, and the bed was one of the most comfortable in a hostel I’ve ever had since traveling. Seriously I graded it in the top three with Envoy in Armenia and Pariwana in Peru. But alas, I had to tear myself away from a guaranteed good nights sleep. In advance, apologies for the quality of photographs in this post. My pocket camera is shit.
It’s pretty much a straight run down the road to my next destination of Samarkand. Only three odd hours, with pretty much all the traffic heading in that direction. For that reason I lazily exit the hostel around midday, and saunter along the road to find a hitch location. This being much further than anticipated, I casually stop for a bite to eat in a roadside diner. It’s near two when I’m actually on my way for real. What could possibly go wrong?
Outside the cafe, a strange half-a-mosque
Well, nothing actually. I mean it’s not that nothing happens (hitches are rarely – if ever – uneventful), but as far as anything dodgy happening I’ve got little to tell you. Ride one is actually a free taxi, who pulls over and ushers me in with a little English. He can drop me for nothing at the edge of the city, which I always feel out of sorts with when other passengers are paying. A concept unheard of in the UK, shared taxis have pretty much been commonplace post Germany, and you’ll regularly be joined and wedged in by a load of other punters. This can feel a little alien at first, especially when you think some bastard is trying to hi-jack your ride, but you get used to it. What I’m not used to, is being comfortable with everyone else forking out for the ride and I’m getting it for a song. Nobody seems bothered, and I’m assured it’s just their hospitality. Imagine getting a free cab ride in London? The only time I’ve seen that is on the Fake Taxi porn site.
Cheerio Bukhara
So there I am smiling and waving at the cheerfully beeping Bukhara cabbie as he u-turns back into town. He’s dropped me in a perfect spot, and within a few minutes I’m in the passenger seat of a guy who enthusiastically nods he can take me all the way to Samarkand. Except he can’t. A few kilometres down the road and I’ve managed to establish he’s not actually going anywhere near where I need to go. He’s also taking at me non-stop in Russian, and he’s turned off the main highway and into a gas-station. I’m requested to get out.
Gas for the journey or covered in petrol and set alight in a ditch
Admittedly I’m somewhat apprehensive of this, but it soon comes to pass that all passengers must disembark when filling up the tank on propane. It makes sense. But where have I been? When did we start filling cars up on gas and not petrol? I might have mentioned this before? Anyway before I know it we’re back on the highway and he’s dropped me a little further along the road. Progress is being made.
Hardly a moment goes by when a horn is honked and I’m in a tiny car to continue the journey, but he can only take me so far. As a result, this exceedingly helpful madman behind the wheel is blazing along with other traffic, violently destroying his horn in an attempt to get their attention. When he does so, a conversation is had side by side down the highway at speed, trying to figure out who can take me the remaining distance. At one point we find success, and for a moment I think we’re going to attempt a moving transfer, and I’m going to zip-line across into the other vehicle through the window. As it stands they can’t take me that far either, but to be honest I’m thankful to be out of their cramped cabin, fit for two but containing three and all my stuff. My right foot has fallen off.
Friendly fuzz
They drop me at a police check point, which I’ve usually had a lot of success at and this case is no different. I’ve been told they might not get so friendly further east and the odd bribe will be solicited, but for now they seem more than happy to let me stand with a thumb out. Most of the time police have only bothered me with a good-humoured mild curiosity, and have even helped me get my next lift. Once again I’m back on the road in the blink of an eye, and it’s a good job too, because it’s getting cold, and I’m not yet halfway.
I’m dropped in the centre of some town right at a bus station, which I duly march past and head in the direction which I hope is the way out. So far places of population along this route consist of the highway going right through it, which is a godsend to the hitcher. Here is no different, but I’m hiking a long way to clear myself of local traffic, while not to mention dying for a wee. The problem here is I can’t seem to find any side-ally or bush to tuck in behind, and I’m not exactly a wallflower with all my gear. I still make a token attempt at respectfulness by not pissing in someones doorway.
It’s getting dark. I’ve been walking for an eternity, turning occasionally to flash my sign at an oncoming motorist, and I’ve still not found a suitable location to evacuate. My one saving grace is that it appears I’ve finally made it to the outskirts, which means good arable farmland that requires watering, and nobody around to witness it. However I finally spot an inviting restaurant, and at the same time as asking a waiter outside if he has a rest-room, a vehicle carrying two large guys has pulled to the roadside and is blasting on the horn. To my dismay they’re still there when I return refreshed, and I gingerly approach.
Considering I’ve still a long way to go, that I’ve only come a relatively short distance in spite of the number of rides, and the fact that there’s maybe an hour of light left, I know my next hitch must be the full distance, otherwise I’m hitching in the dark. And I never doubted for a second…not one second I tell you. Not…one…
The two guys can take me the full way, but once I’m in their car, they tell me they need to go to a friend’s house for a birthday party and I must join them. Assuring me it’ll only be for an hour, I bluster some kind of excuse about having to call my sister on skype, and needing to arrive at the hostel at a certain time. My driver is having none of it, insists I go and he’s not taking no for an answer. I settle back and contemplate my fate.
Hospitality at its best. In the dark
An hour or so later and we’re pulling into the drive-way of what I can make out is a village house. Urged out of the vehicle, it reminds me of the time I found myself in a pitch-black vineyard in which I believed I was going to die in Moldova. Large men of varying degrees of age and weathering make their way over and embrace me warmly, with a standard three cheek kiss, hug and more massive handshakes. I’m going to have no bones in my right hand by the time I reach China.
Urgh
And so in a dimly lit room I go through the traditions of being a guest in a Muslim family household. I join in observing their religious rituals of prayer and washing the face with the hands, and then I’m basically treated like a king. I sit on the floor with maybe twenty large men in near-darkness. Other visitors come and go wishing the host a happy birthday, some in a more inebriated state than others. And I can see how and why they’re in such condition, as I’m consistently poured ENORMOUS shots of vodka. I’m not kidding here people, they took me three gulps each to get down. And they kept pouring five of these bad boys for me, watching me like hawks to see if I’d crack. I’d drunk half a bottle of vodka when I next try to stand.
More vodka. And food. Delicious food too
Not a word in English was spoken, but there was laughter, handshakes, delicious food and a lot of booze. At one point I’m guided to the outdoor toilet, and then guided back in. By the time we’re ready to leave for Samarkand, I’m being hugged by everyone like a long-lost brother, and a minor celebratory with all the photographs snapped as I leave. And to think I was reluctant to go.
Famous at last
And it doesn’t end there. My companions drive me to the very door of my hostel in Samarkand, whereupon I warmly thank them, dump my bags and head straight into town. There I stumble upon another birthday party where I’m offered a load of drinks, food, “forced” to sing karaoke and then driven home at the end of the night. It’s taken me ten hours, around six rides and a lot of vodka to travel 271 km, and I’m going to wake up with one hell of a hangover. But it astounds me that the western world predominantly believes Islam to be a violent religion, when I have been consistently witness to hospitality such as this. Ask yourself; would you get this as a traveler in a “Christian” country?! For the most part, I think not.
It’s just a pity about my new bed.
A hostel or an orphanage? You can’t win em all…