End of the Road--August 7

Although there's another week to go (in Vietnam where I am currently) on this round-the-world journey, it somehow seems fitting to close this blog in Xi'an, the eastern end of the great Silk Road. Xi'an is one of the few cities left in China still surrounded by its ancient walls. The train from Dunhuang conveniently stops at the station next to the north gate, where it's a short walk to my hotel. In the old days it was camels laden with goods from the East and West heading to the caravansarai, now it's backpackers picking their way through the touts.

Xi'an is a big, noisy Chinese city. Central Asia definitely lies to the west. I wander through some plastic curtains in one building, and it looks like Harvey Nichols in Knightsbridge (London). One whole floor is devoted to cosmetics. I spin on my heels and get out of there fast, perhaps by fear of seeing how awful I look. What else about Xi'an? Out to see the Terra Cotta Warriors. With 6 million visitors a year, it's a zoo. I can't help but think one good earthquake would knock the whole business over like ten pins. The funniest moment is the farmer who originally discovered the "warriors" back in the 1970s now sits prominently in one of the many gift shops, signing his autograph. He wears a pair of sunglasses that covers half his face. No photos allowed. The other peasants in his village must be so jealous.

An English and a German girl on my bus recognize me from back in Bukhara. We chat like the road hardened warriors we are on what was in Central Asia. Re-entry has already begun.

*******
Ever wonder what life is like in your own country? In keeping with the traditions of the region, in Pamistan I have already declared myself president for life. However, freedom of thought, ideas, and speech is encouraged. Blogger isn't banned (or the BBC news). Inhabitants are as wonderfully open, unaffected, and hospitable as the Central Asians. Anybody else who wants to come needs a Letter of Invitation and a visa, approved by the president. Good luck.

Jinghis

Architecture is as grand as Samarkand's; houses look like the courtyard houses of Bukhara and are carpeted with rugs from Turkmenistan. The spectacular scenery looks like Kyrgystan. Air conditioning is Chinese. Food is imported. All toilets flush.

I do have a few regulations in Pamistan. They are:

Pedestrians may use a swift kick with their boot into the side of any car that tries to run them down.

Taxi drivers or any merchant or customs official who try to cheat tourists will be taken to the nearest stadium and beaten with sticks.

Employees in service positions do not play Tetris in front of waiting customers.

Gold teeth are banned.

I'll think of some more later...

Thanks so much for your comments and e-mails; they're really appreciated! (Home on 18 August)

Out with the guys

Dunhuang--August 5

In Xinjiang province, the Silk Road splits in two: the southern route less traveled but dotted with the crumbling ruins of ancient "lost" towns. The northern route has its air share of ancient sites as well. The two routes rejoin in the town of Dunhuang before continuing eastward through the Gansu corridor, a narrow valley protected by mountains to the north and south. Through this corridor was the major route that Buddhism reached China from India. Even the culture of ancient Greece and Rome made it out here.

Dunhuang, or rather the Mogao Caves, is one of the great archaeological sites of the world. It is a series of over 700 caves, which hold the largest collection of Buddhist art in the world. Dates are from 366 to about 1227 AD. In its heyday, 100s of Buddhist monks lived here, creating a great center of learning, culture, and worship. Silk Road traders stopped by to pray or give thanks for safe journeys.

In the earliest caves, you can see art heavily influenced by India, with a stronger Chinese appearance through the later dynasties. Visitors today are shown about a dozen caves, and these are rotated to help protect them. Photos are forbidden, so none to post. When I get home, I'll scan some and put them up.

In 1900, a Daoist monk and self-appointed guardian of the caves, Wang Yuanlu, accidently discovered a cave filled with over 50,000 manuscripts and paintings, including the oldest known book in the world--the Diamond Sutra. Not exactly knowing what he had on his hands, he sold off a few items to help pay for the caves' upkeep. Sir Aurel Stein, the Hungarian-born British archaeologist came upon these manuscripts while in Xinjiang, realized that this was something huge, and hightailed it to Dunhuang. He convinced Wang Yuanlu to let him remove about 20,000 manuscripts from the library for protection in exchange for less than 200 British pounds. The French, Japanese, and Russians soon followed, carting off what they could, as well. Chinese officials of the time helped themselves, too, so less than 8,000 manuscripts remain in China. Of course, arguments can be made that much of the Mogao Caves would have been destroyed during the Cultural Revolution.

The story of the "discovery" of the Mogao Caves is every bit as intriguing as Howard Carter's discovery of King Tut's tomb. Great book to read: Foreign Devils on the Silk Road, by Peter Hopkirk, the same author of The Great Game.

I love days like today. There's so much to learn in the world.

Turpan to Dunhuang--August 3

For some reason, travel in China seems much easier than Central Asia. Here, for a price, it's easy to find someone to scrum on your behalf for a train ticket. Turpan has no train station, that's in Daheyan, about 40 miles to the north. I have a small problem of finding a seat since the train originates back in Urumqi. That can be worked out, they say! It's arranged that a "body" will board in Urumqi and take my spot until we can make the change. For about $12, two girls from CITS (China International Travel Service) and a driver take me to Daheyan, usher me through the train station bedlam, and make the passenger swap.

I'm in soft sleeper--a 4-bed compartment, blissfully air-conditioned, and with a sparkling white duvet and pillow laid out. I'm in heaven.

There's only one other passenger in the compartment: a Chinese mining engineer on his way home from a month on the border between China, Kazakhstan, and Mongolia. He barely speaks English, but we manage just the same. He flips open his laptop and shows me gorgeous photos he's taken of glaciers, wild horses running in the shadow of mountains, even a bear. He next clicks on a RealPlayer icon with the title of Bathing Beauties. "Oh boy, here we go," I think to myself, imagining he's got something really perverted he wants to share. No, it's an old Esther Williams and Red Skeleton movie dubbed into Chinese. He loves Esther Williams. I tell him I know her son. He is happy beyond words. So, dim the lights, we now have a laptop cinema going, as our iron-rail Silk Road caravan glides across the desert under the stars.

About 7 am, soft bird chirping coming through the speakers overhead wakes me. This is followed by classical Chinese and Western music--Vivaldi to be exact. By about 9 am, the music intensity begins amping up, followed by Chinese comedy hour at 10--sure to get you out of bed.

We arrive in Dunhuang, and my new Chinese friend accompanies me by taxi to town, makes sure I am happy with my hotel, then runs off to catch his bus for a 14-hour ride to his home. Amazing.

Dunhuang is an easy town to deal with, and I have to say, it's the first time since Italy way back in June, that I've seen store fronts where someone has made the effort to display things attractively, as well as seeing things for sale worthy of a second look. Also, since being in China, buildings, construction, interiors, everything is finished off a 1000 times better than the Caucasus or Central Asia. A pride of workmanship best explains it. Sidewalks aren't treacherous challenges to walk on (in fairness I did sprain an ankle in Italy); wires aren't hanging down inside hotel rooms. Here it seems someone finishes the plasterwork, the painting, the stairways. Weird pipes aren't jutting out where they shouldn't; carpets look washed since installation; window panes and windshields aren't cracked; drapes aren't shabby and hang nicely. I can go on and on and on about it. There's an aesthetic with the little things here I find a welcome relief.

The Turpan Depression--August 1-2

No, not that kind of depression. Turpan is the second lowest spot in the world (the Dead Sea is the first), as well as holding the record for the hottest place in China. This little oasis town lies smack on the northern Silk Road. All of Xinjiang province in China is full of ancient towns, half eroded away, and remains of Buddhist outposts. With limited time, it's a matter and picking and choosing where to go; the region is worth a trip in itself.

From Kashgar to Turpan, it is impossible to take the train. It's packed for days to come. Something about the weather and the track--standing room only for now. Uh, no. Not for 23 hours. I fly to Urumqi--nice new Boeing. From there, it's only 2 1/2 hours on the bus through the desert. It's not too bad; there's A/C, but typical of buses in China, they show martial arts videos--at full audio blast, and there's a speaker above every seat. The woman across from me sleeps the whole way.

Blogger note: I can log on to Blogger and post, but to log on to my site at blogspot.com--well, guess what? It's banned in China!! What is with it in these countries? At least I can post--pictures, too. I can't log on to BBC News either--that must be banned as well.

Anyway, Turpan hosts a variety of fun sites to see.

The Jiaohe Ruins: Thousands of years ago during the Han dynasty, the Chinese established a series of military garrison towns, of which Jiaohe is one of the best preserved.

Tuyoq: Surrounded on three sides by valleys lush with vineyards and at the base of the Flaming Mountains (so called for its color at midday) the tiny village of Tuyoq is typical of traditional Uighur life and architecture. It's also supposed to be a big Muslim pilgrimage site. Only 30 yuan, please.

Jiaohe Ruins

Jiaohe Ruins

Tuyoq

A little cafe at Tuyoq

The desert whizzing by at 70 mph.

Camels out here are the two-humped variety.

The Great Game: Kashgar--July 31

Kashgar, China

Thoughout the 19th century the Russians and British played out a great chess game across the mountains and deserts of Central Asia. The British feared, with some justification, Russian intentions in India--the prize of all Asia--since Russia was rapidly expanding its vast empire. Traders and eccentrics, scholars and soldiers, and seeker of adventure spent months to years in this vast unmapped territory reaching to the Caucasus, drawing up maps, trying to influence fickle if not outright bloodthirsty khans. In the ancient Silk Road town of Kashgar, the game was played out to the max with both the British and the Russians establishing consulates--all the better to spy on each other. An absolutely great book is The Great Game, by Peter Hopkirk, who tells a great tale of the personalities and geo-conflicts of the two powers of the time. And for a fun afternoon, Rudyard Kipling's Kim is a thoroughly entertaining read, as well.

Anyway, Kashgar is another name that evokes images of exotic bazaars and treasures, and it does not disappoint. Sections of the old town that have still survived the new China look unchanged in hundreds of yeas. Weathered adobe structures open onto twisting lanes bordered by cobblers using hand tools, metal workers pounding away, bread makers baking in ancient ovens. An enormous mix of Central Asians mill about, haggling. It's the real thing, and it's awesome.

The Uighurs, Kyrgyz, Tajiks, Pakistanis, and everybody else have well figured out this capitalism thing. If you want to wander around the residential section of the old town--well, that costs 30 yuan (about $4)! The Silk Road is alive and well here, so is the Great Game, with the powers-that-be in the world vying for Central Asia's markets and resources.

Some photos about town:

From Osh to Kashgar, China--July 29-30

The most authentic Silk Road route to China is through the Irkesktam crossing, a 2-day journey up and over part of the Pamir Mountains. Nemat, a young, energetic Kyrgyz guy who bikes around every hotel in Osh to do his business, arranges a 4-wheel drive Russian "jeep" I share with a couple from Italy. The car is a piece of junk, and a jerry can leaks gas on my backpack, but the driver Jinghis is an excellent driver. He takes it upon himself to look after me.

The first day's drive climbs up a beautiful little valley to the summer pastures of the Kyrgyz. Yurts become commonplace, along with the flocks of sheeps, goats, and yaks. Horses are beautifully taken care of.

Although distances aren't huge, travel takes forever because the road is truly atrocious. We must spend the night at Sary Tash, a "town" near the Tajik border. Elevation is about 11,000 feet. Jinghis looks around town for somewhere we can stay. Hey, a yurt is fantastic! They pile up enough quilts to keep you warm, but the night is freezing. We must leave at 5am to arrive at the Kyrgyz border crossing by 9. The irony is that no sooner are you through with the Kyrgyz side, you must wait an hour or two for the Chinese on the other side to finish lunch--they're 2 hours ahead. Jinghis (who we grat well) zips us through customs and puts us in a truck to take us several kilometers through no-man's land to Chinese customs. From there, it's another 4 hours and a new driver and taxi to Kashgar. The entire two days are just fantastic.

Note: will post more pictures when I can. These are just a few:

This Kyrgyz girl, upon seeing visitors by the side of the road, comes running to offer us some bread and sour cream. The Kyrgyz people are fantastic.

Entering the town of Sary Tash

Only lodging around is in a yurt. 50 lbs. of quilts keeps me warm because it's freezing out.

Along the mountains heading towards China.

Over the mountains into China, the landscape abruptly changes back to desert.

To Osh, By Gosh--July 27-28

I know a few of you out there have had the adventure of flying in a Soviet-era AN-24. I wonder how many more decades these things will stay in the air?

For various reasons--time, money, and geography--I have no choice but to fly from Bishkek to Osh in one of these prop planes. It is surely more terrifying than any monster ride at a county fair.

A humongous thunder and rain storm in Bishkek doesn't bode well, but it clears. Off we go! The guy in front turns to me and motions that this is his first time flying. I tell him this is not a normal flight or plane. The man next to me tells me he is from the Sudan. He has a really loud giggle I find irritating. The engines are noisy as hell, and things aren't too bad until we hit a rain cloud. The plane bounces; it drops. The rain pelts the plane like tiny BBs. I put my head on my knees and clutch the arm rest, but the arm rest just flops around. The Sudanese man is giggling uncontrollably. "This pilot is stupid!" he shrieks with a spitting emphasis on the word stupid. I tell him he's not helping things. Finally, the rain stops, and I can see flat land below. We land. No one moves. The pilot hurries down the aisle looking pissed. A few people applaud. The flight attendant has a nervous smile. I need a gin and tonic.

Osh. This ancient Silk Road city dates back to the 5th century B.C., although there's nothing around to indicate its ancient origins. The town is laid back, friendly, and host to a huge bazaar. Because of the political and artificial gerrymandering of the borders from the last century (with violent consequences back in 1990), there's a mix of every Central Asian ethnic group imaginable. by this time, I can pick out Uzbeks, Tajiks, Kyrgyz, and those most alien of them all--backpackers. Osh is also one of the jumping off points to cross the mountains into China.

Across Central Asia the melons are utterly delicious.

Street scene in Osh

Across Kazakhstan to Kyrgyzstan--July 25

With only a transit visa, I'm unfortunately limited to passing along the southern road of Kazakhstan to Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, but it follows along one of the Silk Road routes, so I'm happy. Kazakhstan is such a vast country and the most Russianized of Central Asia, it's almost its own trip. From what little I see, it seems the revenue from huge gas and oil resources is fixing things up. My guidebook tells me in the northeast, pristine countryside nature reserves and a few eco-resorts are springing up. Environmentally, Kazakhstan has its own mess on their hands--a legacy from the 20th century--from the Aral Sea disaster to the depleted soils of the steppe--thanks to Khrushchev's Virgin Lands campaign. Kazakhstan, too was where 467 nuclear bombs were exploded (I'm quoting Lonely Planet here). Fallout contaminated some 300,000 sq. km. In one village, they figured it was "one Hiroshima for every inhabitant." There continues today all the accompanying horrible sicknesses from the radiation.

Today's series of taxi rides takes nearly 8 hours. We pass through more steppe, and occasionally, snow-capped peaks of a mountain range to the south appear. The Kazakh pop music the driver listens to doesn't seem as obnoxious as the Uzbek variety.

Some hours along, I hear a pop and us passengers instinctively lower out heads as the car fills with dust. We've blown a tire. More delays along the way are another border crossing (this is a good time to mention that the crazy jigsaw-like borders of Central Asia comes from a deliberate "divide and conquer" policy from the 1920s and '30s, delineated without any regard to ethnicities, geography, or common sense), and three police checks once in Kyrgyzstan.

As each hour passes, I look in my guidebook for a hotel in Bishkek with a few more amenities. Screw the price. The Silk Road Lodge will do. I beg for a room. Yes, I'll take the suite. The A/C works, the TV works, the plumbing works. A sparkling clean bathtub has a plug. There's a breakfast buffet with food you can actually eat. There's high-speed Internet. There's a coffee maker. There's a library of paperback books, videos even. The sheets aren't scratchy. I see no reason to leave for a couple of days.

On the steppes of Kazakhstan

Self-explanatory fun

Crossing to Kazakhstan--July 24

By 11am my visa is ready. In Central Asia just about any car you see is a taxi--a consequence of unemployment. Off we go to the border, which is in a state of semi-controled chaos. As a tourist, you naturally stick out, and this usually helps you pass through. The residents are treated more as cattle. If customs officials are greedy bastards (I've personally only witnessed this in Azerbaijan), they are a 100 times worse to their own people.

Border crossed, new taxi, off we go to Shymkent. The Hotel Ordabasy seems to work; looks like they're fixing it up on the outside. The inside appears to be retro-Intourist in design: dark hallways, shaking walls when you turn on the hot water in the bath, etc.

I go off on a wander. Although the city's origins lie in Silk Road mythology, this is a completely Russianized city. At least there are restaurants and cafes. People are walking in the streets. One nicely dressed (probably too nicely dressed) girl chats with a cute boy who has pulled over in his car. She hesitates; he makes a face like, "oh c'mon," and smiles. She hops in. Maybe they go make sexy time together :-)

First order of business is to eat. I find a nice looking outdoor restaurant. You ask: "How the hell do you order from a Russian menu?" 1. You can either point wildly and take your chances (not a good idea) 2. Sit there with a Russian phrase book and try to decode (still apt to get something you really don't want to eat), or 3. get up out of your chair with the waitress and look at other people's plates or leftovers and point. This works.

Tashkent Funk--July 21-23

Although the name conjures up romantic Silk Road images, Tashkent is a new city, built from the ruins of an earthquake that thoroughly flattened the old one. It's full of parks and trees, pedestrians have some rights, but there's no one around, no vitality in the streets that I can see. I'm here for three days waiting for the Kazakh consulate to open because I need a visa. Reports say they're issued on the spot.

On Monday morning, while waiting in line in the heat, I chat with a couple from Australia. They've been traveling for a year already. I finally ask them:

"Does Tashkent depress you?"
"Yeah! We can't figure this place out. We've been bored witless."
"I tried to take the metro but was stopped twice by security demanding my documents and a bribe. I had to yell at them."
"We didn't have that problem. We couldn't find anywhere to eat."
"Where are the restaurants and cafes in this city?"
"We found somewhere that had mashed potatoes."
"I found a little store that sold potato flakes in a box. I cooked them in my room with my immersion heater."
"Yesterday we tried to find the cinema that Lonely Planet said showed English language movies at 4:30."
"Oh, I found the theater. It was padlocked with weeds around it."
"We've got CNN on the TV."
"Oh, wow. I've got BBC World."
"On Uzbek TV they showed the Godfather."
"I didn't get that one, but I watched Roman Holiday with the mute on."

It goes on like this. I'm called inside the consulate. "No visa! You must have "letter of invitation!"
"Your consulate in Washington says U.S. citizens don't need them anymore."
"In this consulate that doesn't matter."

I settle for a transit visa. They tell me to come back at 5pm. I've already checked out of my room (I must add that the hotel people were exceptionally nice). I wander Tashkent in the heat until 5 and return to the consulate. They tell me: "Come back tomorrow at 11!"

Day Trippin' in Tajikistan--July 20

First, a word to the pencil pushers and stamp lickers in Tajikistan's Washington consulate: You guys are friggin' lying idiots.

Not only did they keep my passport hostage for 3 1/2 weeks, they screwed up the dates on my visa, gave me one week instead of two, and misspelled my name. The upshot, at best, I have only one day in Tajikistan. Supposedly, too, the border I'm going to cross is one of the most corrupt ones in Central Asia. I hire a driver and guide to smooth the way.

On the Uzbek side, my driver/guide is a history buff and his Tajik counterpart, Kholmahmad who meets me at the border, was the former head director of Intourist for Tajikistan as well as a translator for the Soviets during their occupation in Afghanistan. I have no problems.

Penjikent is the first town over the border, and it appears fairly prosperous--hardly representative of the rest of the country, one that remains in the bottom 20% of the world in terms of poverty. My guide is proud of his Tajik ancestry, as he shows me around Penjikent's museum. Tajik heros are those of the ancient Persians, whose empire they were once part of.

Just outside of town are the ruins of Penjikent, an ancient city founded by fire worshipers (not exactly Zoroastrians a French archaeologist on the site explains to me). This former Silk Road stop was put to the torch during the Islamic conquest and never rebuilt. There's not much left to the ruins, as the elements have eroded everything down. Fantastic frescoes have been removed and placed in museums. It's still satisfying to know, however, that Alexander the Great stood on this spot.

A shady chaikhana makes a pleasant place for lunch with Kholmahmad who explains life in Tajikistan and then asks how hard is it to get a visa for the U.S. (a question I hear often).

The ruins of Penjikent. How they can tell this is even an ancient city is beyond me.

One of the frescoes taken from Penjikent

The Fabled Silk Road Oases--July 16-19

Strung along the southern part of Uzbekistan lie three unique, ancient Silk Road cities that evoke fanciful images of turquoise domes, caravansarais, and teeming markets. It's safe to say it still exists, but with some 20th-century twists (can't say anything around here even comes close to the 21st century).

KHIVA--During the peak of the Silk Road era, Khiva was only a minor stop; however, it's fames spread across Asia during the 18th and 19th centuries as the biggest slave market (including some 3000 Russians) in Central Asia. The ruling khans, known for their capricious, barbaric cruelty would make the present-day Taliban look like pansies. They thought nothing of chopping up whoever crossed them, sending the heads up the road to their buddies in Bukhara and hanging the rest on the town gate.

Today, Khiva has been made over into a museum town. The life has been sucked out of it, and the only people wandering around the old town are camera-toting tourists. Cold drinks are sold for a premium, and the only restaurant in town has no menu, only soup or plov. The soup comes with a carrot, a piece of potato, and a piece of meat. The plov is the same, only substitute rice for broth. OK, Well, the walls are cool, so are the buildings, but let's move on--9 hours by bus across the Kyzlkum Desert is:

BUKHARA--Now this is more like it. With an old center relatively untouched by Russian influence, you can wander through over 1000 years of history. Once the cultural center of Central Asia with its bazaars, caravanserais, schools, and mosques, it met its end by shrieking Mongol horseman.

Risen again, Bukhara, like Khiva, was known for its depraved khans. Good old Nasrullah did in 28 of his relatives and finally beheaded two British soldiers (after a long stay in the "bug pit") because Queen Victoria never answered his letter.

I trudge around in the hot sun, through the markets, past the mosques and schools. Unfortunately, the "bug pit" is closed for the day. I look for food. There is one at the Lyabi-Hauz, a large pool surrounded by leafy trees and a few restaurants. Again, no menu, but we have chicken that will work.

SAMARKAND--This is one of those places I've wanted to see since I was little. I hurry to go to the Registan, a series of mosaic-covered "schools" or medressahs. It's roped off. School kids are marching around. Some are doing what looks like calisthenics in the 2nd -story archways. Music is blasting. It seems this is the rehearsal (which is going on all day, every day) for Samarkand's 2750th anniversary celebration.

I wander around this pedestrian unfriendly place, looking for a decent place to eat. Over breakfast at the hotel, a little bit pudgy Japanese guy tells me that he came to Uzbekistan: "to see it, and also because I need to lose weight. I think it is too drastic for me."

Samarkand was founded by the one and only Timurlane, claimant of dubious kinship with Genghis Khan, and who was responsible for his own massive bloodbaths across Asia. In his own bi-polar way, he turned Samarkand into a pradise of learning and culture. Uzbekistan has ordained his with hero status.

I have to interject here. that I don't see much difference from the khans of the Silk Road to the present day presidents of the various 'Stans. They've just reinvented themselves as "presidents for life." Political opponents disappear in jails or they're found dead in the desert. There are minimal, if any, human rights. The presidents have all become fabulously wealthy. Just substitute a business suit for a robe. Too bad Peter Sellers isn't still alive; he could play brilliantly the part of every president.

Walls of old Khiva

Bukhara


Even the ducks have their own little pleasure palace.



My favorite room to date. The painted parts on the wall are recessed alcoves.




The inside part of a typical courtyard house in Bukhara (my hotel)

In Samarkand for $15 I get a room with my own piano.

Common in Uzbekistan, you sit around these raised platforms and drink tea. When the power went off in the above piano room, I went outside, crawled into this and slept.

At the Registan in Samarkand

How to Travel Across Uzbekistan

Various dates.

By air, you ask? I yearn for the days of flying carpets. Let's get a show of hands here: How many of you would get in an old derelict Soviet plane called a Yak? OK, flying is out.

Private taxi: Reasonably cheap, horrifically dangerous. My driver from Nukus to Khiva--normally a 3-hour drive--makes it in 1 3/4 hours! Both feet on the accelerator of a Daewoo Tico, one hand on the mobile (Allo? Allo? Allo? Da? Da? Nyet? Nyet? Allo?) and the other hand on the horn. I try to concentrate on his horn protocol. What does the short, slapping, beep, beep, beep mean? And what deserves a long 10-second blast? Brakes are good as we head into that truck. And the car even maneuvers sideways as we scream around before a head-on collision with an oncoming lunatic. On another taxi ride, my driver accelerates into a group of several little children playing in the street. HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK! And they all scatter in every direction for their dear little lives.

I think the psychology behind this relates to the drivers' childhoods packed in video game rooms where they learn last-minute dodges and swerves. And if you crash, well, so what! Either that or there's a genetic memory still lingering from riding across the steppes of Central Asia with a headless goat in tow.

Shared taxis: Now I tell drivers that I won't get in if they drive fast. We write in the dust on the car price and speed limits.

In Khiva, I wait a few hours for more passengers to show up for the shared taxi to Bukhara. Nobody comes; it's too hot. I walk over to the train station and do the scrum at the window to buy a ticket. I'm in luck! I wait a few hours for the train. I get on; I look around the sea of bodies and packages and get off immediately. Not quite the "Death Train," but it's too much to deal with.

Bus: I walk over to the bus station. I'm in luck again! The bus is leaving immediately to Bukhara--only 9 hours. Sweltering for the first few hours, but once the sun starts setting, it's halfway tolerable. Driver can't speed, people are behaved and polite--much more so than Orange County. The normal Uzbek in the street is exceptionally nice. We stop at a chaikhana (tea house) and the cook boils eggs for me on request since everything else looks a little skeptical.

Not quite pitch black--starlight sparkles above, we rumble across the Kyzylkum Desert. All is well, the iPod is in. Pink Floyd seems suitable.

The Aral Sea RIP--July 15

200 km from Nukus, the once prosperous fishing village of Moynaq stands testimony to the world's worst environmental catastrophe: the disappearance of the Aral Sea.

Once the 4th largest lake in the world (about the size of Lake Michigan), it always appeared as the geography bonus-point question next to its flashy big brother, the Caspian Sea. Now only 20% of its former self remains, gasping for life. A totally idiotic policy, beginning back to the time of the tsars, and continuing with gusto by the Soviets, to turn the deserts of Central Asia into a cotton-growing powerhouse by diverting theAmu Darya River into unlined canals was just the start of a deliberate decision to let the Aral Sea just dry up. Add to the equation fertilizers, pesticides (DDT), and defoliants used with reckless abandon and you soon have an ungodly disaster on your hands. Salinity of the soil, contaminated groundwater, regional dust storms, climate change, horrific health problems, deformed babies, miscarriages--the works. Sad part is, since this is the butt end of Central Asia, no one cares--nor ever cared.

If ever a town needed massive handouts of antidepressants, it's Moynaq. Faded and once happy nautical motifs remain; a few trees still survive, but most are dead; dust blows through the streets. Now it has gained some notoriety as the furthermost outpost of extreme tourist prurient curiosity. Rusted fishing boats lie high and dry in a waterless and blighted formerlake bed . It's incredibly sad as a visitor. I can't imagine how the residents cope. Nothing is left. Their livelihood is gone; the last indigenous species of fish has died; few animal species are left. Soon the last person will leave. Don't bother locking up.

Welcome to Moynaq

At the former Aral Sea

A Sad Little Stan--July 14

The Republic of Karakalpakstan makes up the western end of Uzbekistan--my next destination. Angela, my extremely hung over guide and Yasmurat, the driver, get me through Turkmen customs and then it's adios! I walk through no man's land to the Uzbek side. Customs takes quite a bit of time because all the forms are in Russian! "You're just going to have to come help me with this!" I tell the guards. It gets done, and a short taxi ride takes me to Nukus, capital of the Karakalpakstan Republic. http://www.karakalpak.com/

The native Karakalpaks were once a nomadic people until forceably collectivised by the Soviets. They now suffer from terrible health problems from the surrounding environmental devastation, such as respiratory diseases, throat cancers, birth deformities galore, and TB. They have the highest mortality and infant mortality rates of the former USSR.

Nukus is also known as a former center for Soviet biological weapons research.

Soaring above it all is the fantastic Savitsky Karakalpakstan Art Museum, a repository of some 85,000 pieces of art--much of it 20th century art that the Soviets considered unacceptable to the party line and banned. Igor Savitsky, an artist and art collector, came to Nukus in the 1950s on an archaeological expedition and recognized the remoteness of Nukus as an ideal place to hide a generation of Russian avant garde art. He spent the next 15 years scouring basements and attics of the families of these banned artists (most of whom were banished to mental institutions for rehabilitation or the work camps), buying what he could, and brought it all here--far from Politburo eyes. Now, his "little" musuem is considered one of the top art collections in Asia. It is an extraordinary place.

Roadside Turkmenistan--July 13

In the Karakum Desert lives a prehistoric beast known as the zemzem, a desert crocodile that is rare to see. Nearly six feet long, they creep about the desert feeding on small rodents and spend the winter hibernating in their prey's furrows. If this was the American Southwest, such a creature would be captured, thrown in a pen, and billboards erected a 1000 miles in either direction: "Monster of the Desert," "Do You Dare Look!"

The zemzem is only one of the attractions of Roadside Turkmenistan. Right up there, too, is the Darvaza Gas Crater. During the days of Soviet gas exploration, immense sink holes occured, results of explosions at some loss of life (numbers the Soviets have never released). One of these giant craters shoots flames from its crevices to spectacular effect.

Out in the desert of Turkmenistan

The gas crater

The driver, the Armenian guide Angela, (this is not the Russian from the first few days), and I drive five hours north of Ashgabat, through desert with its occasional sand dunes and camel silhouettes. We turn off the road, 4-wheel drive on, and continue up and over the dunes until the gas crater appears. A few other cars are here, including a group of a dozen Slovenians. The drivers set to work laying out blankets and innumerable bottles of vodka. After a while, one of the drivers takes off into the pitch black. He returns with more vodka and some meat. They fix skewers of food over a campfire, and it's delicious.

The drivers and my guide start in on the vodka toasts and continue far into the night. When they finally pass out and their music shuts off and the Ljubljana chorus across the way quiets down, I'm comfy in a sleeping bag stretched out in the back of the Land Cruiser, alone with the stars and the flaming gas crater before me.

Let Freedom Ring! Back on Blogger

Best greetings to all from make glorious town of Shymkent, Kazakhstan. Hey, it's only a dial-up connection, but there's a connection.

So the idiot Uzbek powers-that-be have declared Blogger banned from the realm. My brother tells me Pakistan is on the no-blogger list, as well. I really do not understand the logic of this. The proxy code to get around the problem only worked once. Couldn't get on for anything; threatening looking Russian would appear. I had bad dreams of being arrested and dragged off from my hotel room in the middle of the night.

Anyway, lot's of catching up to do. Can't post any photos from here because of the slow connection--will do at the first opportunity.

All is well, although burn out is starting to hit. Onwards I go...

BLOGGER BANNED IN UZBEKISTAN!!!

For God's sake, Mr. President, are you terrified someone in your country might post a thought online? Out of courtesy to the hospitable and genuinely kind Uzbeks I've encountered thus far, I will hold my vein-popping rant until I am out of here.

An enormous thumbs up to my brother Chris (quartzcity.net) who confirmed my dark suspicions and e-mailed me instructions on how to get around the ban. Thank you. I couldn't follow his directions for access at the time I read his e-mail, however, because the computer immediately froze and all attempts to reload brought up threatening looking messages in Russian.

It takes roughly one hour to bring up the AOL mail page and access one message--if all goes well.

Frustrated beyond belief because I've got some awesome posts and pictures to put up, I hope for better luck in Kazakhstan next Tuesday. Thanks for your patience!

Pam (who is in Samarkand at the moment)

Random Turkmenistan Thoughts--July 12

Ashgabat

How to kill time in Ashgabat:

*Take a taxi ride across the city to the Internet cafe: 40 cents

*Drink a can of Sprite along the way: 35 cents

A few ramblings:

Since Niyazov, the Great Turkmenbashi--father of all Turkmens--died last December, the shroud of paranoia has lifted considerably. For example, the checkpoints and searches along the highway that added two hours to any trip are gone and so are the alleged soldiers that stood guard outside this Internet cafe (although my name and passport number are documented every time I've been in here). That said, guards are everywhere. I wander freely about the city and find one street with several awesome gold Turkmenbashi statues and busts. My favorite is one where he's sitting, looking kind of pensive, kinda goofy. As soon as my camera comes out, a guard blows on his whistle. No, no, no. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Must be some ministry. Another gold statue stands alone in a park amongst the trees, looking kinda lonely.

Ironically, I can rapid-fire shoot pictures of Turkmen women to my heart's content. They dig it, whether they're blood-letting chickens, selling melons, or visiting ruins in the desert. In fact, they try to pile in front of the camera. And they have cameras, too, and I'm in their pictures, of which they're undoubtedly shrieking their heads off on some Turkmen version of My Space. Mutual curiosity on how strange both sides look here. The best thing in this country is the genuine friendliness and hospitality of the Turkmen--as yet unspoiled by hoards of tourists, an advantage to the country being so hard to get into.

Advantages of being a Turkmen:

*Round trip flights across the country for about $5 (and on a Boeing, not a Yak or some other former Soviet horror.

*I carry 3 liters of liquid on board a plane from Mary (Merv) to Ashgabat. No problem. Don't have to take my shoes off either.

*Gasoline is virtually free.

Off this afternoon to Darvaza in the middle of the Karakum Desert. Uzbekistan the next evening. Will post again in a few days.

The City of Scheherazade--July 10-11

Merv

When one of the great cities of history is obliterated into desert rubble, it's worth a look to see how it all may end for us. Merv was a sparkling oasis even before Alexander the Great passed through. Christians, Zoroastrians, and Buddhists (this was one of the most western towns they inhabited) all lived together peacefully. During the peak of the silk road in the 11th and 12th centuries, the city even surpassed Baghdad in learning and culture. Scheherazade of the 1001 Nights is said to have found inspiration here.

Imagine in 1221 when you see several thousand Mongol tribesmen appearing out of the desert, and they're heading your way--pissed--and there's nowhere to run. The entire population was slaughtered and beheaded with swords and axes. Every Mongol horseman was under orders to butcher 300-400 people. Those who managed to escape made a deal to save their lives. The Mongols allowed them back into the city, and tore them to pieces, too. In all, about 1,000,000 were dead at the end of the day. Next, the Mongols leveled the city into rubble, and that was that. Never make a Mongol angry. Pay that tithe of grain.

A 4-hour drive east of Ashgabat takes me to the ancient ruins of Merv, a mandatory stop for anyone interested in old Middle East history. I have a new guide today, Angela, and a family from Wisconsin to share the car with. They are delightful.

There's not much to the ruins, but the day is incredibly worthwhile. There are no tourists out here, no signs saying don't touch, no walkways to stay on. I am free to crawl around anything I want.

For some reason this Internet connection will only let me upload some pictures, not all. Here's the few that made it:

The Shahriyar Ark, or citadel of Merv. This is just one small part (and the best) of the vast ruins.

Outside the ancient city of Merv is a Sufi shrine that attracts pilgrims from all over. There is an area to the side where the women prepare food, people can sleep, etc. Here we have some chickens with their throats slit and bled in preparation for s0me yummy stew.

The caretaker of one of the mausoleum's just outside of Merv.

Acres of carpets and every other knick knack imagineable at the Tolkuchka Bazaar, the grand swap meet of Central Asia outside of Ashgabat.

Sim City in the Desert--July 8-9

Ashgabat

Words fail me. I have never seen a city like this. Once a forgotten Soviet backwater, destroyed in an earthquake in 1948, the capital has risen like a phoenix out of the desert since independence. The late president Niyazov--who was one of the last great Asian personality cult figures--had an obssesion with town planning. Hey, what else can you do when all of a sudden you're given your own country and city to do whatever you want with. Start with renaming the month of January and April after your mother and self, for starters. And of course, you need your own self-written book of spirituality, much like Mao's red book or Gaddafi's green book. Anyway, stupendous marble buildings--ministries, museums, libraries--pop up over a vast expanse of desert--and all make Caesar's Palace and the Bellagio look tawdry and amateur.

My hotel is 10 minutes away in Berenzi, an absolutely bizaare strip of what looks like small mansions that are hotels holding less than 20 rooms and that appear empty of guests. I walk down to one hotel for its famed Italian restaurant. I ask the girl at reception where the restaurant is, and she turns on the light in a room. Sure enough, the tables are beautifully set, and everything offered on the menu is available, and it's delicious, but no one is there. I ask if guests will come and she laughs. I walk back; it's 10 at night. Wide boulevards are devoid of cars. Buildings are lit up down the entire street, but there's practically no one out. It is just too weird. Why there's more people out in Aliso Viejo, for God's sake.

I must back up a day. The drive from Turkmenbashi to Ashgabat takes several hours--bumpy road, but mainly camels in the way.

Just one of hundreds out here.



The Paraw Bibi Shrine. A must for women seeking help for fertility. This shrine is ancient and pre-Islamic, a reminder of the animist, ancestral traditions that still exist.

Suparmarat Niyazov aka the Great Turkmenbashi, his final resting place.

The Great Turkmenbashi adorns the top of a tower. He rotates to face the sun during the day. Never heard of skin cancer, I guess.

A small sampling of the over-the-top marble buildings spread over the desert.

Caviar Dreams--July 7

Turkmenbashi, Turkmenistan

Surprisingly, I sleep well until morning when a blast of Azeri music gets life moving again. I look out the porthole around 9 am and realize we're not moving. It seems we're in line to dock, a wait that takes a good 5 hours. It's hot but frequent showers and complete non-movement makes the world tolerable. Finally, Ramiz pops his head through the porthole to announce we're going in and I must be on deck.

We dock, but it's another 90-minute wait in the sun. When we're finally allowed to disembark, it's necessary to stoop and inch through the rusted rail cars to get off.

My guide for the week (one cannot get a tourist visa for Turkmenistan unless escorted) is Tonia, a very pretty, smart Russian woman with a good sense of humor. She hurries me through immigration, a bizaare, no-order-to-the-madness process of forms that are impossible to read. With her help, I am the first one through.

First stop is to change money. Bank rate is about 5000 manat to the dollar; black market is 23,000. The black market is in the open and acceptable with the authorities. People even run banks out of a window of their homes. $20 brings me a pack of money two-inches thick. Tonia asks if I'd like to try some caviar. We go to the market. A woman unwraps a large piece of paper on a table to reveal a massive clomp of a black, oily mass about the size of a volleyball. "Try a taste." This is like drugs. You get hooked. Caspian primo, only $300 a kilo.

Enjoying a good sweat, while the ship sits.



Do the railcars get off first, or the passengers?

These fish were just carted in.

Along the shore of the Caspian.