The Worst Ride Ever

There were clues that passed me by, with annoyance but not consideration.  The Kazakhstan steppe is simultaneously stimulating and mind numbing. There is so little out there and because of that the mind focuses on the insignificant, the subtleties. The horizon changes at the speed of seasons, the landscape unhindered by human development and the sky is as unclutter by clouds as the land is by buildings.

This detour of emptiness offered no obstacles to divert my thoughts. The traffic was sporadic yet never far away, much like the camels. The road has been upgraded from dust and dirt to smooth and sealed in the 15 years since I was last here, and every monotonous kilometre of it was marked like a lengthy sentence on a cell wall. So I watched the numbers count up to the end, along with the ever-increasing degrees on my temperature gauge.

This leaves only my fellow road users to take my attention from the song in my head that is stuck in a groove and on repeat. The loads of the trucks are of slight interest to me but more than that is the vehicles identity. I see my first Kyrgyzstan number plate – my final destination, along with cars from Tajikistan, and Russia. There are also a lot of Armenian ones and of course the neighbouring country Uzbekistan.

Like watching an Olympic opening ceremony, until you’ve witnessed a country it’s just a name, perhaps with a generalised reputation. But like this endless steppe, once witnessed first hand you see far more, know the variations and these experiences invoke more than a one-word response ‘say Borat, I dare you’. And this is, if I’d have bothered to engage my road weary brain, where the clues of what was to come were passing me by. Despite the emptiness of the road some drivers didn’t pass with the consideration a motorcycle is due. I had to look in the mirrors as much as in front of me but inevitably like the potholes, one in a million I just don’t see until it is too late, because some of those fuckers would sneak up stealthy and fast. The bastards wouldn’t have the courtesy to overtake with an appropriate space between us. The buffeting vortex shaking me alert with the anger of their inconsideration. Those Armenians passed me like I was a drive through window, reach out a slap close, you want fries with that? I’d be ready on the horn but they are oblivious, it’s not malicious it’s just a national trait, it’s OK to generalise about that one, in fact sometimes the passenger would even wave. Generally these cars had doubled their height, a top-heavy roof rack loaded with goods, clingfilmed and bungeed, aerodynamic they were not, the centre of gravity hovering somewhere above the drivers head.

But their ‘pay at the next window’ passage at least allowed me some wobble room. The Uzbekistan registered cars invaded space like a squeegee on a windscreen, and if you don’t see them coming, man that makes you jump. Bastards, too lazy to turn the wheel of their over loaded projectile. And if I was standing on the pegs to give my arse some momentary relief from the pressure of 12 hour plus riding days, the only clue they were coming was as I felt the wind rush, like a nonstop express train from a small-town platform. Mind the gap, what fuckin’ gap? You couldn’t slide a 100 Tengi bribe in that space. Take my air way, take my breath away, take my balance away, there is no tolerance between us.

And so began a day of extremes. Wake from a wild camp in Kazakhstan to watch the solstice sun rise and taking that tranquillity onto a B road. I weaved my way to a back road border before the sun bestowed its evil longest day omnipresent heat. I topped up with the give it away price Kazakhstan petrol, usually less than £5 to fill my 25 Liter tank.

Crossing into Uzbekistan was always a notoriously tedious process. They had a reputation for being meticulous in their search, particularly when it came to medication. Basically if it ends in ‘ine’ not only can you not bring it in but you’re reprimanded for even trying. So leave your antibiotics and if you don’t have a prescription don’t try and import codeine, diphenhydramine doxycycline, loratadine, brompheniramine, or of course morphine, probably cocaine too even though the pronunciation is different, the ‘ine’ it’s not to be sniffed at. I’m not sure about caffeine, anyway I only had chai bags and no pornographic magazine but I did have iodine, which I hoped was acceptable.

Sure enough my panniers were searched or at least I was asked to empty them but not entirely. My ‘drugs’ are at the very bottom, not out of a need to hide them but like my puncture repair kit they are something I hope not to need as frequently as the stove and wash bag that sits on top. So they didn’t even look at my Listerine let alone get to my syphon hose with traces of benzine and everything else was fine.

One of the behind the glass paper stampers was enthusiastic about my Englishness and wanted to talk football (it’s either that or the royal family) two subjects of which I have little knowledge or interest. So habitually I said Manchester United, wrong bloody response he was a City fan, Diana or Carmilla? This subject doesn’t care to express a preference. I don’t even know any players anymore, I’ve not updated my golden boot repertoire, Beckhem and Rooney are in the history books now with Gazza, Best, Charlton and the rest. Anyway soccer knowledge not being a crucial requisite of the entrance criteria, I eventually got all the right stamps on all the right pieces of paper and allowed I was, into the first new country of this trip. Uzbekistan. Despite the relief of release annoyingly I had to stop before I start to get insurance. That token piece of paper that keeps the cops happy and has, I’m sure, no other redeeming worth.

And that’s where it hit me, the density, I was not unlike India. After the emptiness I’d become accustom too this was hectic, traders pushing barrows loaded with wares, barging and shouting, hustling and hassling, money changers, and hawkers, ‘come with me my friend, this way. What ine would you like?’

‘Insurance so I don’t get a fine’

As I stood in the oven of a portacabin trying to keep an eye on the bike, the sweat dribbled down the inside of my legs, never a confidence inducing feeling and the overstimulation was exhausting. Now fully documented and dehydrated it was finally time for a little Saturday morning ride in Uzbekistan. And that’s when begun one of the worst rides of my life.

I mentioned it was hot right? Well for sure I’ve ridden in hotter, in Iraq, in Arizona, even in Serbia last summer. I’ve said the traffic was dense, I’ve seen that too, despatching in London, grid locked in Azerbaijan, and the one for all border bottle necks. The roads had potholes you could lose ya load in and bumps you could sit in the shade of, not something, coming from Bulgaria, I’m unfamiliar with. The lanes were unmarked but there were generally two in each direction, and signposts, well they were reserved for those who knew where to look. So a combination of atrocities I’ve experienced before but here all grouped together and as an added bonus there were the other drivers. ‘Drivers’ is a generous term; aimers might be more accurate. So there I am in the ‘fast’ lane behind a procession passing a truck and down the middle comes a swerving car. Then one on the outside scraping the Armco. Man they must be in a hurry I thought. It took longer than it should to hit me, this was the norm. Every driver is hell bent of getting past every other driver, lanes mean nothing, I don’t have enough eyes to survey the oncoming in every direction, or have enough middle fingers for all who cut me up. I also happen to be running parallel to train tracks, and a stinking, straining, deafening diesel engine sits by my side like a shadow. On top of that is the solstice sun now at its high point and bouncing off the back windows of the cars in front, right into my face. So I’m contending with all that and looking out for potholes, bumps, sign posts, and the metal projectiles, all in scorching, hallucinating, delusional, mind warp heat.  

The road system involves a dual carriageway just ending, seemingly on purpose and we all, artics, box vans, cars and bikes do a U turn and go in the other direction only to veer off into something like the way we want to go. At some point I was cut up and cut off, the best option being to glide into the dirt of a restaurant forecourt. Seemed like a good place to stop and take stock. I ordered something, I know not what, I was too fatigued and drank to cool and replenish depleted levels. I asked where the toilet was. Now, like the road and riding conditions I’ve seen worse but not all together, the ‘toilet’ was much the same. A brick-built hut out the back and not a ‘squat’ toilet but a hole in a concrete slab and most had missed it. The air was full of flies, the stench hung in the heat of the gag inducing atmosphere, I turned around knowing my boots were now permanently impregnated and pissed behind the block.

Back into the onslaught of traffic and onwards to Samarkand, I allowed myself the luxury of a prebooked hotel and Google maps to take me there. However my phone overheated and close down. I headed for the centre noticing for the first the unique Uzbekistan architecture. The silk road weaved through closed streets due to weddings or some such artery clogging celebration. I’ll spare you the U turn navigation details but the heat was radiating off the engine so fiercely that the tank, expanding with boiling petrol, vented fumes that were overpowering. Soaked with the last moisture my body had in it, stressed to the point of breaking, and don’t forget I had wild camped last night, hygiene was not high on the agenda. Phone, bike, buildings, road, cars, everything was at boiling point and radiating that heat that had nowhere to go due to a sun that was beating down everything that was trying to rise like hot air supposedly does.

On my third dismount I found the right hotel. Left my bike on trust outside in the hubbub and walked down some steps into air-conditioned relief. There at the reception was a young Muslim girl, pretty, pure, clean, calm and covered, her hair and forehead in a white hijab, her beacon of a face so white and cool, her smile so angelic, the English adequate, the efficiency acceptable, she had it all in hand.

‘You are everything I am not’ I spontaneously spluttered, she was clean, serene, composed, white as solstice daylight and fresh as the cool air she operate in, as still as milk. I was a matted, pungent, stressed, fatigued and iritic, I was shaken up coke in hot plastic bottle, my bike was out of sight and my wits are shot to bits. My clothes cling and all I rode through was stuck to my skin. I was clenched and shattered, clumsy and spent.

She ordered a car to be moved, so although still in the busy street my bike was in her view and under the CCTV camera. I went into my underground room and peeled off the layers. Oh that shower, but like taking a boiled egg out the saucepan and running it under the tap, the shell becomes touchable but the core heats it up again. So I lay on the white bed linin letting the manufactured chilled air improve my condition, and as it does my train of thought travels the 2300km detour through Kazakhstan to get to this, the first available border crossing into Uzbekistan. I would have had to endure that heat, that driving, those roads, for the entire length of the country. I’ve been in Uzbekistan for maybe 3 hours and I’ve already had enough. As I recount the conditions, the incompatible ingredients, all that came before and all that left me in the middle of the sweltering city without navigation, my tired mind has no memory of ever having a worst ride.

And finally, this is a bit tricky, I’m not hinting here, honestly. I just want to thank those of you who ‘bought me a coffee‘ it really means a lot. I’m not mentioning this so you think ‘Oh, I enjoyed reading that, I’ll buy him a coffee’ It’s just that on the road there is limited internet and unfortunately I have to do a general thank you rather than a personal reply.

Until next time…

Graham