I truly enjoy rambling around the world on my bike. I really do. Sometimes though, I’m excited to the point of madness. So far I haven’t really had any ‘downs’, or times when I’ve been doubting whether this is what I should be doing or not. What I have had though – are ups.
As I was leaving Bukhara for Samarkand I was cruising on one of these extreme highs, when I just can’t see myself ever doing anything else ever again. Once again I was in the company of Iris & Reto – and we set of East. I was going for Samarkand and they for one of the national parks a bit up north.
Most of the actual cycling in Uzbekistan is in all honesty pretty dull. The roads tend to be more or less crappy, and when you have the chance to look up from all the pot holes, you basically only have the one view of never ending cotton fields. Despite of this, I really only remember Uzbekistan with love and smiles.
The homestay we had the first day after leaving Samarkand was the ultimate first encounter with the Uzbek hospitality I’ve come to love more than any other I’ve experienced.
As per usual, when the sun was about to set we started looking for a place to set camp for the night. As most of what surrounds the road are cultivated fields, wild camping aren’t always that easy in Uzbekistan. So soon enough we found ourselves rolling into this tiny village to ask for someone’s permission to pitch our tents.
Once we found some people, the language barrier made even getting our question across a bit tricky. And once the Dad of the family actually understood what we wanted, he just looked at us with this ‘Are you MAD?!’ look on his face.
‘NO! Noooo. No, no, no.’
Pretty obvious. We would not be camping on his grounds tonight.
What quickly became clear though, was that he didn’t mean ‘No’ as in ‘Get the heck out of here’. This was a ‘No’ as in ‘You’re sleeping in my house tonight’. And before we knew it, we were sitting down in the main room of their home – watching the children of the family running back and forth, setting the table with everything from tea and bread, to soup, melon and sweets.
This was something all 3 of us had experienced before. Countless times in Iran. What was so interesting though, was to see the small changes that made up the differences of the culture and hospitality of Uzbekistan in comparison to the one we’d all both loved and gone crazy by in Iran.
We all agreed – there were many similarities. The overwhelming generosity was just the same. Only this was a bit (a lot!) more… laid back. It’s so difficult to put this to words, but once again it simply felt like there was nothing behind things but geniune friendliness.
Don’t get me wrong here. Iranian hospitality is out of this world, and the love I’ve been recieving from people there are completely unmatched to what I think I will ever experience again in my life. But all too often in Iran this – in some weird way – feels forced.
It’s like the pressure of living up to the ‘Persian hospitality’ is an anchor the people are constantly dragging with them wherever they go. Sometimes helping out and giving of themselves comes more from duty than their own will – and taking no for an answer simply isn’t part of their concept of hospitality.
Sure. In this house we were also pampered with way too much food. Especially considering what one could guess is the economic situation of the family. But – they asked before refilling our plates, and after 2 or 3 ‘Njet, spatsiba’, they accepted.
And yes. They also had the whole neighbourhood come to see and have their picture taken with the tourists. But after 10 minutes the family more or less pushed them out to give us space.
They did invite us to stay so we could attend the wedding that was in two weeks. Or at least stay for another day or two. But they didn’t become upset and make us feel guilty when we declined their offers.
If we wanted to – I’m 100% certain that we could stay up all night to learn Uzbek dancing, get to know all their animals and look through every family photo they have. But when we said we were tired – they let us sleep.
Again I’m comparing this to Iran. Where you will recieve everything. I mean absolutely everything. People will give you the shirt of their back if you’re looking at it for too long. However, if you want anything that’s not part of their itinerary for being a good host, you’re in for a difficult time. Be it privacy, sleep or no food – just forget it.
Here, it didn’t feel like the people were attending the world championship in taking care of guests. They were simply being nice. I mean, in European standards it’s still a completely flabbergasting version of nice. Something you could never even dream of back home. But for us then and there, it was magical in the other way around.
So with full bellies and smiling faces, we could all fall asleep – without worrying about being woken up in the middle of the night for ‘2nd dessert’ or a guided tour around the village.
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After a great night’s sleep on the same floor where we sat to have dinner in the evening, we all woke up to kick off the new day. The night before we had decided to get up really early in order to be quickly out, before our hosts would have the chance to spend any more of their food on us. Not very surprisingly, this plan failed miserably and soon we were sitting down – spoiled to a huge breakfast which probably left some of the family completely without.
Before we left, a full blown photoshoot took place outside the house. The oldest daughter of the family posed like a superstar – while wearing my helmet and showing off her new ride. She was really the sweetest girl and it was equally entertaining and heartwarming to watch her and her friend work their magic behind and in front of the camera.
It was a great morning.
It wouldn’t last for long though.
Iris, Reto & I had just barely made it out to the road, and less than 1 km into the days ride I was standing hauled over my handlebar, throwing up like if my body had suddenly decided to turn itself into a fire hose.
Crap.
For sure I wasn’t feeling particularly good. But really not too bad either. And after a couple of zips of water and a few jokes, we were back in the saddles, all trying to ignore what was obviously about to go down. We just had an hour or so of cycling together before our paths would part – but this hour quickly turned into two as I was pretty constantly stopping to throw up.
As we said goodbye I had realised that this really would be a lousy day for me, and it was actually a bit releaving to go on by myself so that I could manage it all in my own pace. I still really wanted to arrive in Samarkand the next day, which would only be possible if I managed to get in at least a decent distance before giving up for the day.
After laying down to sleep for an hour, right on the ground in the shade of a bus stop, I pushed on.
Or haha, who am I kidding?
Everytime I got back up on the bike I intented to go for 30 minutes, or at least 5 km. But in reality my intervals ended up being something like 2-3 km of cycling (including puking breaks) – and then at least 30 min of sitting by the side of the road feeling sorry for myself.
Of course I knew that cycling like this is stupid on so many levels. Not to mention simply a waste of time as I didn’t really get anywhere. Summer was still going strong and the heat was exhausting enough even without the dehydration from not being able to keep water.
But then you have to remember that I’m not home. Deciding that I don’t feel well enough, ‘and need to go and lay down’ is a bit more complicated than in my old world. I think you get it.
Let’s just say that this stretch of Uzbek countryside didn’t offer too many spots of shade, or opportunities for me to do anything but pretend like I was actually fit enough to go until something actually did show up.
Something that took a bit longer than one could wish for.
Then at last, in perfect time before I would try to run myself over with the bike – things turned out alright. They always, always do. An old white-bearded man, sitting by the side of the road selling water melons, was my first savior.
Without thinking twice about it, he let this stinking – non russian speaking – zombie of a stranger into his home. Quickly he pulled out the blankets I’m sure he himself usually used during night, and with his hands he told me to relax and go to sleep, before he rushed back to his melons.
And slept I did.
One hour was the plan – I woke up after four.
I was still feeling far from good, but definitely better – and I decided to pedal on for a couple of hours more before setting camp. Somewhat of a risk but it would make it possible to reach Samarkand next day so I was more than willing to give it a shot.
Everything worked out alright and with enough distance behind me I found myself being adopted by these two amazing women (neighbours) who took over right where the melon man had left off. Again, without even a language in common, they took care of me like I was their own daughter and I still have such endless feelings of gratitude towards these women.
Without either running water or electricity they made me feel like I had come to heaven. They washed me off, wrapped me in their nicest blankets and let me sleep while they were preparing tonight’s plov.
(Plov? Google if you don’t know it, it’s basically what I’ve been eating for the last couple of months.)
Interacting with foreigners and tourists is not completely uncomplicated for the Uzbek people, and that all these strangers decided to ignore the possible consequences, and reach out to help me truly is mind blowing.
If I didn’t have faith in humanity, I would never even have considered starting this journey – but for every passing country my belief in people is constantly growing stronger and stronger.
With all the heartbreaking, messed up stuff going on in the world right now, I’m feeling more blessed than ever to get to do this. To daily have the privilege to first hand be reminded of just how much beauty fit into people’s hearts. Experiencing this, it’s difficult not to believe and take comfort in that in the end – in one way or another – good will win.
Living proof that giving has nothing to do with having
So. What happened next?
Weirdly and luckily enough – after falling asleep on the floor of one of the ladies that took care of me the evening before – I woke up feeling great. The day before it was like my body was going through exorcism, and now I felt like nothing ever happened? I really didn’t understand what was going on, but I sure wasn’t complaining.
After kissing my new friends goodbye I rode the 100 km I had left into Samarkand in what felt like a heartbeat. Just like when entering Bukhara I knew exactly where to go to find the other pedal pushers.
In a comment someone asked why there are so many touring cyclists in this area, and it’s actually pretty simple. Uzbekistan is the big bottleneck that funnels pretty much everyone going between Europe and Asia – with Bukhara and Samarkand being the two main cities people pass. And because of the somewhat limited options for passing the Asian mountains with good timing, most tend to come pretty much at the same time.
I spent a bunch of days in Samarkand, days very similar to the ones I had in Bukhara. Ones where rest, sights and cyclists were the main ingredients.
Some parts of them:
The insane Registan complex. Find a person in the photo for scale.
Planning routes and dreaming about the continuation in the Tajikistan mountains
…aaand I’m sorry to break the spell but I have to. The madrasas, mausoleums and bazaars are great. Stay inside the tourist bubble and you’ll be completely blown away by the panoramas of beauty and magnificance.
But this is also Samarkand:
Not even 2 km from the Registan you will find a completely different world. The real one.
This post is already too long so I won’t go on about it. I just didn’t want to post this otherwise super cheesy Samarkand advert, pretending like none of the actual stuff going on in the city even exists.
Never mind.
Leaving Samarkand, I had my mind set on the next border. I was going to Tajikistan – the one contry I had been looking forward to the most ever since leaving Sweden. Finally, I was heading up the majestic Pamir mountains. A dream come true for anyone who has ever seriously gotten into adventure cycling.
However, I still had a several day ride there. One that turned out to be far more interesting than I’d ever imagined. In another post coming up in just a few days I’ll tell you all about it.
Until then.
Fredrika