The diary of a Scot in Amsterdam

Due to the Internet shutdown in Xinjiang, this story and a more recent one have been posted simultaneously. See above for more.

Having followed the white rabbit down the rabbit hole, Alice finds herself falling down and down through a surreal nothingness, before emerging into a strange and bewildering new world. Having descended through what has felt like just as much of a wormhole, to be spat out tumbling down the mountainside into the western frontier of China, I can understand how she must have felt.

For the route that has brought us into this country, almost at its westernmost point, has really felt like the back door, the most impossibly obtuse way to escape the clutches of the former USSR which have held us back for so long. But quite unbelievably, it has been the most logical and indeed the only option open to us.

The major culture shock of the journey so far occurred upon leaving Poland for the Ukraine. But, as I had expected, this one has been much bigger. Everything is different.

Firstly, the modest amount of Russian that I have learned during the past five months is suddenly not of much use any more, as the incomprehensible squiggles which comprise the Chinese writing system take its place. Curiously, there is almost as much Arabic script to be seen – although not the Arabic language, but Uighur.

Secondly, in contrast to the steadily wilder and more ragged state of affairs which has existed the further East we have travelled, everything is suddenly much more developed. Motorways, shopping centres, factories, and even street-cleaning vehicles which play “Happy Birthday” as they go are now present. I saw no street-cleaning machines of any kind in Kyrgyzstan.

And joy of joys, the most impressive change has been in the food available. I have only need to learn three words in Chinese – wǒmen chī sù – “we are vegetarian”, and we have been offered something different and delicious everywhere we have been. After months and months of fried eggs, mashed potato, and tomato-and-cucumber salad, this has been a fantastic breath of fresh air. Two courses mostly costs less than 10 Yuan (€1), and is accompanied by a huge kettle full of tea from which to help yourself. I just hope this continues.

Kyrgyzstan, beautiful land of mountains, seems very far away now. But I will retrace my steps back to Osh in order to explain what has been so strange about the manner of our arrival here.

We had read of and had been warned about the terrible road from Osh to the border, but such things only become real in the moment of your own experience. You can tell yourself “aye, aye, nae bother”, or else lose sleep over the thought of it, but in the end it is the doing itself which really lets you know what it is. I suppose that is really the whole point of this journey.

The first day or so out of Osh was a very gentle introduction, as the road (still excellent asphalt) climbed slowly towards the first pass of the route. It was here that the first faint glimpses of China became apparent – for the workers busy constructing the road which will eventually reach from Osh to Kashgar were mostly Chinese. In addition to the fact that they were working much harder than is normal here, the sight of them huddled in groups eating noodles at lunchtime made this obvious. It was also on this road that we first began to see Chinese trucks, although where they were going to is a mystery since I had seen none in Osh or indeed anywhere else in Kyrgyzstan.

And on this road, we also began to experience quite a disturbing phenomenon. The children playing in road, who had already been very enthusiastic in their waving at us up to this point in Kyrgyzstan, began to become quite hysterical in their behaviour. Screaming “bye bye! bye bye! BYE BYE! BYE BYE!” louder and louder as they ran towards us as fast as their little legs would allow, their faces twisted and their eyes wide, they would start making click-click motions as if asking if we wanted to photograph them (I didn’t). If you did not return their attention immediately they would continue screaming even louder and running even faster until we were out of sight.

I began to wonder what exactly was wrong with them. I guess since this is one of the few routes from Central Asia into China, they might see quite a lot of cyclists and other tourists, but this doesn’t explain the situation. Or perhaps it’s a sort of mountain madness. In any case, I was very glad when we began rising into the high mountains, to where there were less and less people.

After the first pass, the road did indeed become quite bad – although the worst was yet to come. On the third day after leaving Osh, we spent most of the day climbing slowly, slowly up innumerable switchbacks towards the Taldyk pass, at 3600m the highest point of the entire journey. Every few minutes, a truck would rumble past, throwing up a huge cloud of dust which completely blocked out the view ahead. We had to resort to wearing the surgical dust masks we had bought earlier in Bishkek to avoid choking.

When we had finally reached the top and had begun what we had hoped would be an easier descent into Sary Tash, we were dismayed to find that yet another pass first needed to be cleared. But thankfully this was the last.

And at the end of this exhausting day, we finally reached Sary Tash, the last settlement in Kyrgyzstan and the former Soviet Union. It was time for a final trip to a магазин, filled with the usual depressing selection of nothing much at all, and a stop at the only café in town for bread and some fried eggs, before heading east along the road to the border.

Sary Tash lies in the Alay valley, a high plateau at around 3000m above sea level. To the south rise the spectacular Pamir mountains, completely white with snow and rising in places to over 7000m. It was a stunning scene, and certainly a reward for all the hard work in getting there. Although it was never on our original route, I have no regrets at all about having travelled through Kyrgyzstan.

On our final full day in the country, six months to the day since we left Amsterdam, we found ourselves on a road yet worse than the day before – in fact it is hardly possible to call it a road at all, but rather a long and meandering scar where the side of the mountain had been stripped bare to reveal the hard rocks and grit below. We passed numerous large Chinese and Kyrgyz trucks which were moving even slower than we were over the tortuous terrain.

And then finally, at the end of the day, the road suddenly transformed into a sleek and modern highway of flawless asphalt which lead all the way to the border. It was hard to believe that such a road had been constructed, only to come to a sudden halt in the middle of nowhere. One day it will link up with the road to Osh, forming a proper link between China and Kyrgyzstan, but that day may be some time in coming and is in any case far too late for us.

On the morning of our final (almost, there’s still Hong Kong) border crossing, we set off very early. The Kyrgyz checkpoint was a predictably chaotic mess, with a horde of truck drivers (and us) crowding around a small window in the side of a wooden hut in order to receive an exit stamp in our passports. Thankfully enough the guards were nice enough to let us go first.

This was followed by a very wide, almost 10km, stretch of no-man’s-land, and the second Kyrgyz checkpoint. We then squeezed our way through the numerous trucks parked in the dust, as if all the victims of a massive motorway pile-up, before reaching the first Chinese checkpoint.

And it was here that this strange new world began. Everywhere were crowds of soldiers in the uniform of the People’s Liberation Army running around with great haste, enthusiastically moving wheelbarrows full of concrete. We were rather alarmed when two guards with rubber gloves, face masks, and riot shields approached us, although all that they wanted was to see what photos were on our digital cameras. Nothing incriminating thankfully, which was hardly surprising given that we had just arrived in the country.

We were then sent further down the road, to the Chinese immigration post. This huge building resembled something like an airport arrivals hall inside, a far cry from the dilapidated collection of huts and caravans on the other side. Here our passports were checked a further four times, we were asked to declare if we had any illnesses (of course not), and the contents of our bags checked, although somewhat superficially. Others were not so lucky – in front of us was a man with several huge (leaking) sacks of walnuts, each of which had to be individually X-rayed. Numerous boxes of sweets and catering-sized jars of instant coffee would follow.

At the desk where our passports were stamped, there was a little electronic box with four buttons labelled something like “excellent”, “good”, “checking took too long”, and “poor customer service”, by which you could give a verdict on the work of the poor clerk behind the desk. I did not find it necessary to push any of the buttons, although I later regretted not giving him an “excellent”. Although it is nice to see some concern for customer service after so long in an area where rudeness seems almost to be part of the job description, I would not like to be under so much pressure myself.

And finally, after less delay than I had actually expected, we were in China. We exchanged the last of our Kyrgyz Som for Yuan with a black-market money-changer, in full view of the police, before heading for our first taste of Chinese cuisine. As I have already mentioned, this did not disappoint, and was very welcome indeed after the monotonous fare we have been used to in Kyrgyzstan and before.

With the excitement of reaching China over, I became quite impatient to reach Kashgar, and see the country begin for real. This would have to wait, unfortunately, since a further three long days of cycling, thankfully over asphalt this time, would need to be completed first. But we got there.

Kashgar is quite an experience. It is a loud and chaotic collision of two cultures, Uighur and Han Chinese, quite literally next door to each other. In the old town, craftsmen are busy from dawn to dusk hammering at sheet metal, cutting up animal carcasses, baking bread, calling the faithful to prayer from the roof of the mosque (without amplification), carving wooden table legs, and even selling live chickens out of sacks slung over the shoulder. In the next street, high-rise apartment blocks are being constructed next to designer fashion outlets and coffee houses. It is hard to imagine that these two worlds can coexist without problems, which goes some way to explaining the recent unrest in this region.

Of this unrest we saw very little, besides frequent groups of army trucks parading slowly around town, filled with armed troops, and with large banners displaying messages in Chinese and Uighur hung on the sides. Needless to say, the subtleties of inter-ethnic relations in this area are invisible to us foreigners.

And we were certainly not the only foreigners in Kashgar. Paradoxically, given that this feels so much further from home than ever before, we have found ourselves as only two of many. This may be because the authorities require that non-Chinese only stay in approved hotels, which would tend to cause all foreigners to be clustered together.

We are not even the only cyclists. We met an Austrian couple, a French couple, and an Englishman, all of whom had come as we had on the one-and-only road from Kyrgyzstan. In many ways it is very nice to meet up with individuals who have shared many of the same experiences, but it also made me feel a whole lot more ordinary. But I was never kidding myself that we were really pioneers.

As mentioned, and in great contrast to Central Asia, there is plenty of everything – clothes, vegetables of every kind, and even proper jam (it’s been a while). In the centre of Kashgar, buried underground beneath a shopping mall, is the most enormous supermarket I have ever seen. Filled with a dazzling selection of food, most of which I was unable to even identify, it was truly an assault on the senses. To add to the visual extravaganza and array of exotic aromas, various assistants yelled special offers into hand-held megaphones, a trick that I had earlier also seen on the street markets elsewhere in the city. The megaphones even seemed to be operable by remote control and capable of playing endlessly on repeat, since they continued to blare out messages even in the absence of any human operator.

The Qini Bagh hotel was comfortable and affordable, and a very welcome point of rest after the road from Osh, but soon enough the feet became itchy and it was time to move on. It is a long, long road from here around the Takla Makan desert, and further yet after that.

One task remained before leaving. I had been unable to buy any real (not instant) coffee since Bishkek, and was running very low. This was a source of great concern, given my addiction to caffeine, and the fact that the shops in this country, the home of tea, stock only Nescafé. Thankfully, the very friendly Japanese owner of the bar next to the hotel, also a cyclist and appropriately named Hero, was willing to grind and sell some of his precious supply for a very reasonable price. He explained that doing business right now is rather difficult due to the Internet shutdown here, of which there is no sign of an end. Of course, it will also mean that this post will be rather old by the time I can send it. Meanwhile, we will continue our journey in blissful ignorance of the outside world.

The bed on which I am sitting is as hard as a stone, and there is a hole in it as wide as my head. Half of the electrical sockets do not work. And when I went to use the shower this morning, I almost scalded my hand on the roasting hot tap. It continues to rumble and drip boiling water.

All of this is so very typical of the surroundings of the past few months. I am getting mighty sick of all the things that do not work properly or at all, all the holes and bumps in the road and pavement, the unavailability of anything but the cheapest and lowest quality of everything, and even the food. In this regard in particular, the tendency here seems to be to tart things up in order to disguise their mediocrity. So you get chocolate butter (seriously), glowing neon-red chemical jam, and bottled water heavily carbonated so as to hide its terrible taste. And things labelled as “organic” and “bio” which are nothing of the sort.

Next week, we will have been on the road for half a year. I guess this explains why I am so tired of the discomforts of the developing world. And of this time, we have spent about five months in the former Soviet Union. Twenty years of independence has done little to erase the depressing constancy of the Soviet legacy. Unsurprisingly, I am now quite impatient to leave for China; while I am under no illusions about the state of affairs there, at least it will be change.

Yes, that is correct, China. I must clarify this with a breathless statement entirely in capital letters. WE HAVE VISAS! YES! VISAS VOR CHINA! The package arrived at the DHL office here in Osh yesterday afternoon. It is the best news we have had in months, and is the result of some very careful planning and the helpful assistance of various family members in Scotland.

And now back to the story, and the last week and a half here in Kyrgyzstan.

I am still unable to discern any fundamental cultural differences between this country and Kazakhstan, perhaps because there are not so many. That is not to say that there are no differences at all: the dramatic changeover from the steppe to the mountains was big enough on its own. There are also a few things which are distinctively Kyrgyz – the tall felt hat worn by many men here, the raised bed-like structures at roadside cafés on which to sit, drink tea, and idle away the day, and the way that people next to the road are friendly to a degree that at times feels actually quite threatening – you have to wave back or else they often get upset. And they insist on whistling loudly to get your attention, which can lead to some dangerous situations given the bumpy roads here, not to mention the drivers.

And that leads me to another distinctive feature of Kyrgyzstan, and particularly the south. Whereas the car of choice (or more likely, of necessity) has earlier been the Lada, it seems that every second car here is a Daewoo Tico. This small and quite ridiculous plasticy vehicle can be seen everywhere, and in particular in use as a taxi. Despite its diminutive proportions, it still has space for four adults, and can be parked in the tiniest space, making it perfect for the chaotic roads of Osh, where we are currently staying.

It has taken us a week and a half to get here from Bishkek, along a road which is anything but direct; mountains, lakes and rivers, and nonsensical international borders mean that the north and south of Kyrgyzstan remain very isolated from one other despite the country’s small size. On the way we have met a surprising number of other cyclists: a Frenchman, an Irishman, a Pole, and one German who shares my name. And some Russians who all had the same name, as will be explained. This is more than the whole trip up to this point.

The road to Osh has been a tough one. On the first day, we began the steep climb through numerous switchbacks towards the Toö-Ashuu pass, a climb which would take us another full day and then some to complete. The air grew colder and colder, clouds began to drift past us, and countless Kamaz trucks (the standard goods vehicle in the former USSR) groaned, strained, and coughed out black clouds of smoke as they struggled towards the summit.

At the top, a few hundred metres have been spared by the construction of a tunnel under the top of the mountain. On the morning before reaching the tunnel, as we were packing in having camped at just under 3000m, we had met some Russian cyclists. Most of them were named Alexander, for which reason they called themselves the “Alexander club”. We caught up with them once again at the entrance to the tunnel, where their ability to communicate with the tunnel guards came in handy. It was agreed that the tunnel would be closed to all traffic but the cyclists (five Russians and us) on the grounds of safety. This was very reassuring, given the narrowness and darkness of the tunnel and the fact that numerous people died here of carbon monoxide poisoning in an accident not so long ago. Thankfully, ventilation has since been installed.

Emerging on the southern side of the mountain, at 3200m above sea level, we were rewarded with a fantastic view over the Suusamyr valley – and of course a very exhilarating ride down to the bottom. The valley itself is quite high, at around 2500m at its base, but was nevertheless much warmer than in the mountains. Along the road west to the next pass we passed numerous yurts, all with signs advertising Kumys and other horses’ milk products for sale. I did not pluck up the courage to try any.

The Suusamyr valley is long and wide, with high mountains on either side, and with few people besides the yurt-dwellers. It put me very much in mind of the glens of Scotland, and how the Highlanders would have lived long ago. If you imagined stone cottages in place of yurts, sheep instead of horses, and a bit more heather, it is possible to imagine that the Highlands might have looked a bit like this.

In the afternoon of the following day, we reached the Ala-Bel pass, almost as high as Toö-Ashuu. From this point onwards it was a breathtaking dive down the mountain through incredibly beautiful scenery and torrential rain, dropping vertically over 2300m (that’s a mile and a half, Brits) in a few hours. It was very interesting to see the physical effects of this – water bottles which we had last opened at the top of the pass imploded inwards, due to the difference in pressure. Earlier, a bottle of washing-up-liquid which I had opened at the top had just about exploded outwards. It’s the same effect as when you open a bottle of juice on an aeroplane, and hear a “shhh” sound as the air rushes out.

After a day spent on the long road around the Toktogul reservoir, we again began heading south along the steep banks of the Naryn river towards southern Kyrgyzstan. This part of the road passed by turns through beautiful mountain scenery and frightening unlit tunnels high above the river, before descending down towards the Fergana valley, a fertile and densely populated area spread between Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, and Tajikistan.

It was on this road that we met a strange sight. We had just taken shelter in a café in advance of an oncoming storm, when there came a tremendous rattling on the roof overhead. When we rushed to the door to see what was happening, we were amazed to see enormous hale-stones falling and smashing against the ground with great force. They were as big as grapes and would certainly hurt a lot if you got one on the head. The reaction of the locals suggested that this was not a normal occurrence.

Later that evening, in search of a secluded place to camp, we headed off the road, over a ditch, and behind some large mounds of earth. Little did we know that we had also crossed an international frontier in the process. For the next morning, having crawled out of the tent to greet an old long-bearded man who was nearby, I was surprised to be told that we were in fact in Uzbekistan. The layout of the borders in this area is quite bizarre, and in this case the frontier was totally unmarked. So we packed our things in before we could come to the attention of the authorities, and quickly rectified our status as illegal immigrants in the Uzbek Republic. It was as well that this occurred here and not further south, where the border is protected with land mines.

The day which followed was a tedious meandering through countless small villages, before an early halt due to Astrid feeling ill. We once again camped in a field, having first asked permission from a man working there. He was very friendly, and immediately asked if we wanted any food. The people here are quite poor, but it would be rude to refuse. So a little while later, he came back with a bag filled to bursting with grapes, bread, tomatoes, salt, and some delicious little pieces of fried dough. We have discovered that people take offence if you offer any money for such gifts, and so we were obliged to accept this generous offering for nothing. I felt really bad, so terribly spoilt and rich, especially since we had nothing much to give in return besides some little Dutch flags and a photo of ourselves. Later, a young lad who had hung around curiously as we set up our tent returned with yet another gift: some small hand-sewn trinkets to hang from the roof of our tent. He told us his mother had made them.

And the next morning, as usual, it was time to say goodbye and be moving on. The people here have no such luxury, and yet they do have time to be so hospitable to strangers. I am full of admiration for this.

The next day, we arrived in Jalal-Abad. This very exotic-sounding place in some ways lives up to expectations, with a lively and colourful bazaar full of eastern mystery, including what appeared to be gypsies waving burning incense over the market stalls. I do not know if this has any positive effect on profits.

Regardless of this, it is quite clear that people here are much more religious than in Kazakhstan or even in northern Kyrgyzstan: the call to prayer can be heard far from the mosque for the first time on our trip, and women are often clad top to toe in addition to the headscarf. The people appear to take Islam quite seriously, in contrast to the Kazakhs who are Muslims in little more than name.

After a hard-earned rest in a comfortable hotel, we paid a visit to the Soviet-era sanatorium on the top of a hill overlooking the city. One of the things I have most wanted to do in the former Soviet Union is to visit such a place, and be suitably massaged in some brutal but invigorating way.

I was massaged, but in fact in quite a gentle manner: with hot stones, oiled and rubbed over the muscles by a kindly older lady who could speak quite a bit of English, and was certainly very knowledgeable about her profession. She could immediately tell just by looking at Astrid’s back that she has problems with three vertebrae in particular. I on the other hand am apparently suffering from a lazy left arm.

This treatment was preceeded by another form of massage, which involved lying in an enormous plastic bath filled with heated mineral water. The masseuse would then start a rusty old machine which pumps the water with great force through a nozzle, with which she massages the muscles. Quite strange but not unpleasant.

The lady with the stones explained that the glory days had been long ago, when large numbers of Russians from Moscow and Leningrad would come to Jalal-Abad. Of course locals were not generally permitted. Now they may come and go as they like, but it is clear that the sanatorium has seen better days: it is quite tatty and crumbling, and some small birds had even built a nest in the corridor which functioned as a waiting area. But it remains open.

Having both being massaged, we stopped to sample some of the sulphuric waters which are available from a small building next to the sanatorium. The water, which comes warm out of the ground and smells of rotten eggs, is said to remedy a whole variety of health complaints. It tastes terrible, and so is almost certainly good for you.

That evening, we left Jalal-Abad quite late, meaning that it was completely dark by the time we reached the open countryside and were able to stop. Because of this, we ended up camping in a field not very far from the road, just behind some farm buildings. I was worried that we were being quite rude in camping unannounced here (it was too late at night to knock on the door), but in the morning the people living there greeted us with friendly curiosity. As we were packing up, the granny of the household came over with an enormous flask of tea and a handful of huge sugar cubes for us. As I have written above, this is quite typical of the people here. The whole family came to say hello, and later to wave goodbye as we headed off.

In the evening, after a very long day on the road, we finally reached Osh. As our last major stop in this country and in the former USSR, it is something of an anticlimax: it has little to offer that we have not seen a hundred times before. But a bed, even one with holes in it, and a shower, even if it burns you, are still very welcome.

The one place in Osh which is quite interesting is the bazaar. Much larger than the one in Jalal-Abad, it is also even more boisterous and chaotic. I saw a man selling live turkeys out of the boot of his car, old women with boxes full of tiny live chickens, and open workshops where young men skillfully assembled a variety of different types of furniture and so on from galvanised sheet metal. Despite the crowds, people still insisted in driving cars down the narrow alleys between the stalls – and not just the little Daewoos I mentioned earlier.

Tomorrow, we will head for the border, along what is sure to be the most physically demanding section of the journey so far: there are numerous passes over 3000m, the road is reportedly almost non-existent in places, and the weather quite unpredictable. And then, of course, the border itself.

And from me there will be only silence on these pages for some time to come. Following ongoing inter-ethnic violence, the Chinese authorities have completely shut down the Internet and international telephone lines in the province of Xinjiang. We will not emerge  from this communications black hole until mid-October at the earliest. But I will write again as soon as I can.