The diary of a Scot in Amsterdam

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.