May 21, 2014
Cut!: This is the end again!
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The next night I found somewhere to wild camp but as I lay in my tent half asleep in the evening I felt a pain in my stomach. Looking down I saw a raised lump on one side of the middle part of my abdominal muscles (otherwise known as my fearsomely sexy ripped six-pack.) 'Oh fiddlesticks!' I thought, 'That looks like a hernia! I suppose the trip is over then.' I had a hernia once before, lower down, on the other side. I went to an NHS hospital and Dr Nick from 'The Simpsons' had pushed it back in for me. Still, a hernia operation wasn't the kind of thing I fancied undergoing in Uzbekistan. Or Tajikistan. Or Kirigist Kyrirgz Kyrgysizt the next country. Or Kazakhstan. Or Russia. Or Mongolia. No, this was it, it was over. Time to get on a plane home. This was really the end now. The dream was over. I went to sleep.
In the morning I felt my stomach. There was no sign of the lump that was there before. Maybe it wasn't a hernia, maybe it was just a bruised stomach muscle or something. Maybe I didn't have my excuse to quit after all. 'Oh fiddlesticks! I've got to keep cycling!'
A really tough day ensued. I had been in touch with a 'Warmshowers' host in Dushanbe who promised I could look after her apartment for her over the weekend if I could get there by Friday. The thought of having a comfortable house to myself to relax in pushed me on to cycle the 480 kilometres from Samarkand to Dushanbe in four and a half days, but in many ways it was a mistake. On this day I had to cycle over a high pass on a bad road with plenty of big trucks. On the plus side as the road got more remote there were fewer people to shout "Atkuda" at me, but on the minus side the traffic made up for this by beeping more than ever. I considered this beeping to be a form of abuse. If I'd had a phone I definitely would have called the Samaritans. As I didn't have a phone I settled for shouting "F*ck off!" at everyone instead. I was extremely stressed out. This was the hardest country that I had cycled in since... well... Turkmenistan. But apart from Turkmenistan, this was the hardest country that I had cycled in since... erm.. birth.
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After a forty kilometre climb I finally topped the summit and had a wonderful downhill including some sections of new road. That got me down quickly to a police checkpoint where I was told to go over to a building for "Registration... Understand?" I was a bit worried because I was supposed to have registered with a hotel every night during my stay in Uzbekistan and, although I had registration slips for three nights, I didn't have them for the other seven. If they checked I would face a fine of between $1000 and $12000 and I couldn't afford the $20 bribe it would take to avoid this fine, so I was worried. But it turned out they didn't want to check my registration slips, only to write my name in a big book. Everyone who was passing this checkpoint had to have their name recorded. I think it was called 'The Big Book of Names.' I guessed that somewhere behind the building was a big ditch filled with books.
Unfortunately the policeman charged with filling in my name was one of the world's dumbest human beings. He spent a long time staring at my passport trying to work out which one of the words was my name. Annoyingly he was tapping each option with his biro, seemingly oblivious to the fact that photo pages of passports are not a good place for doodling. Just as he was about to write my name as British Citizen another officer stepped in to help out. Alas this officer went away again leaving Mr Dumbass to try and work out what to write in as my citizenship. It wasn't until this other man returned that he got his answer and was able to move on. Eventually he got to the final column, where he had to write in the time. He looked at the clock on the wall which, with great misfortune for the poor man, was analog. I could almost hear the cogs in his brain moving as he tried to convert the time (it was 17:38) into the digital format. He got the '17' down. Then he looked back up at the clock, stared again for a long time. Brought his pen back to the paper and wrote the number '3'. 'You're doing it man! You're getting there! You can do it!' His eyes were back on the clock. He looked hard. He returned to the book. He wrote down a triumphant '6'. 'Close enough! Can I go now?'
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After the checkpoint the road split. Turn left and I would be heading for Tajikistan, right and it would be Afghanistan. Afghanistan! That did sound like fun didn't it? Could I? Should I? Would I dare? Yes, I would do it, why not? Afghanistan! What an adventure! I told my talking bicycle about our new plans.
"Hey bike, turn right, we're going to Afghanistan."
"No we're not" replied the inanimate frame.
"Why not? You're not scared are you?!"
"Not really, I'm made of steel. But you might want to ask your talking passport."
"What?"
"Hello, I'm your talking passport! We're not going to Afghanistan I'm afraid."
"What, why not? You're not scared are you?!"
"Yes. But also, I don't have an Afghan visa in here, only Tajikistan, so we have to go there."
"Oh okay then."
"One more thing."
"Yes talking passport."
"Get some more sleep okay?"
UZBEKISTAN SUMMARY:
Time: 11 days
Distance: 807 kilometres
Best bits: The people were very friendly
Worst bits: The people were very friendly
Top tips: Those cheap ice creams are the only way to survive the heat. On my last day in the country I got my P.B. of five in one afternoon. (This is a summer tip. In winter the temperature drops to minus twenty and eating ice creams is probably less essential or enjoyable.)
21/05/14 - 113km
22/05/14 - 136km
23/05/14 - 82km (7km in Uzbekistan)
Today's ride: 256 km (159 miles)
Total: 19,949 km (12,388 miles)
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