Central Asia remains one of the world’s few remaining realms of true mystery. Think of ‘the Stans’ and a number of vivid images are evoked: the glittering caravanserais of the Silk Road; horseback warriors patrolling the nomadic steppe; Soviet technicians tinkering a thousand miles behind the Iron Curtain. Such archetypes belong to the past, but their enduring survival in the mind’s eye is as clear a sign as any that to this day this is a region totally unknown to most of us in the West.
Having been in Tbilisi, Georgia for much of my year abroad, the opportunity to explore further corners of the former Soviet empire and learn the true nature of this area seemed unmissable. Come mid-April, therefore, and with the region’s formidable winter finally thawing, I joined forces with my friend Will in the southern Kazakh hub of Almaty. Central Asia is enormous (Kazakhstan alone being the world’s 9th largest country) yet is one of the most sparsely populated areas on earth. To explore the length and breadth of this region, therefore, first on our agenda was the acquisition of a car.
It swiftly became apparent that I would often be playing translator. From the first day it was striking how little English is spoken throughout Central Asia – a sign that the machine of tourism has not yet conquered this part of the world as it has so many others. Despite brushing up on various intricate legal terms which had not been covered in my language textbooks, it soon became clear that purchasing a Kazakh-registered vehicle as a foreigner was nigh-on impossible. Just as our dreams of motoring along the steppe began to fade, aid came from the unlikeliest of sources: Facebook. In short, three Frenchmen who had left their car in Almaty months prior were keen for it to be returned to France. This seemed a truly astonishing coincidence and an offer that could not be turned down.
Our destination now adjusted from Aktau, Western Kazakhstan to Paris, Western Europe, we steeled ourselves for a monumental undertaking. The scale of the challenge was apparent upon first inspection of the car: a charming silver Peugeot dating to 1994, which had wintered in the garden of a colleague of our new French friends. I do not know the faintest thing about cars but the engine oil resembling a tar-like sludge and the supposedly green antifreeze being a thick brown colour didn’t seem to bode well. Similarly, the enormous dent in the hood and various engine components lying across the back seat did not augur a prosperous journey. Nevertheless, the car was jump-started thanks to a local man with but one command: do NOT let the engine die. A most incredibly tense journey was taken to the nearest garage, and, despite some unusual rumbles from the engine and rather a lot of sweat pouring from my brow, all seemed to be going OK. As the mechanic came into view, and as I prepared to gingerly peel off an Almaty main road, I managed to stall, and the poor engine gave up the ghost. This was an awful place to break down: right under the traffic lights, at a four-way crossing of four lanes each. We both let out dejected sighs and I prepared to face the wrath of a hundred furious Kazakhs. Not for the last time, however, the extraordinary resourcefulness of Central Asian people in unforeseen situations was shown. Instead of the mayhem I expected, a local calmly strolled over to us, halted traffic with one hand and summoned an impromptu team of nearby students with the other, ordering them to push us to safety down a side alley 100 metres away.
A disaster in my eyes had been averted, yet for the locals little seemed out of the ordinary, an early sign that in this part of the world no degree of chaos was unexpected. Our car required serious mechanical work but, in the meantime, we decided to explore the mountains of Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan.
In both countries the natural beauty was astonishing: piercingly clear lakes, epic mountain ranges at the foot of every city and town, endless plains populated by wild horses and the occasional herdsman. In Karakol, on the Northeastern tip of Kyrgyzstan, the feeling of a true frontier was emphasised not just by the vast surrounding wilderness but by the bizarre Soviet-style grid plan of the city itself, with broad, imposing avenues spanning the length of the town which served merely to heighten its emptiness. We were taken to the Sunday animal market, where thousands of locals gather to haggle and barter over horses, cows, goats, and sheep from the early hours of the morning. It was utterly lawless, with every inch of a vaguely defined square massed with livestock, each trader jostling for better position, bulls and horses dragged this way and that. Will and I had to tread carefully to avoid serious damage from passing beasts and irritable locals.
It became clear that Central Asia is a place that works at its own rhythm, unconcerned with, for example, the formalities and order customary in English life. The day after the market we undertook a three-day horse trek into the Altyn Arashan mountains, and, striking up conversation with our guide Almaz, he explained the Kyrgyz approach to Covid-19. There was little regard for vaccines, even for children: instead, a formidable cocktail of cannabis oil, garlic, and 90% strong spirit was provided. This homespun way of life was evident throughout our travels: in Eastern Kazakhstan, arriving in the village of Basshi, we were welcomed into a Uyghur woman’s home for the night and provided with a traditional feast of that region’s food. A fortnight later, in the town of Kochkor in Kyrgyzstan, our hostel was again an old lady’s family home, and we were provided with breakfast and tea in front of the television in the company of her husband and granddaughter.
Returning to Almaty to collect our car, I was struck by how genuinely untouched this part of the world is. The nature is breathtaking, but on our many hikes we walked almost always alone, free of the presence of other tourists. There is of course a swiftly growing tourist industry, evidenced by the mass of yurts (traditional Kazakh/Kyrgyz tents) seen being prepared for the summer season on our trek with Almaz. Generally, however, we felt amazingly independent, arriving in small towns or villages uninfluenced by the outside world, welcomed into people’s homes for the night, and provided for with remarkable generosity.
Our vehicle repaired and positively gleaming, hood dent somewhat ironed out, we began our great voyage westwards. We had been warned of a tripartite threat when driving in this part of the world: terrible roads, dodgy policemen, interminable border crossings. Surprisingly, at first the former two posed no issue. Approaching the infamous Zhibek Zholy border into Uzbekistan, however, the third hazard came into view and the reality of our undertaking began to dawn on us. At first glance the twin-laned queue of 60 cars seemed most manageable. We soon realised, however, that many of these cars had absolutely zero intention of crossing the border: they were the most devious of scammers, and, working in tandem with other men loitering about, they would offer their prime real estate in the line to impatient drivers at the back for a premium fee. To ensure that we and other champions of justice could not impede their schemes, they would simply stand directly in front of your car, ensuring that no-one got anywhere. 7 hours of this cat-and-mouse game followed before we finally entered the customs process. Here, of course, much more waiting followed before a bizarre final sequence of checks. At the cash desk payment was demanded: “Twenty.” “Twenty what?” “Twenty.” “Twenty som? Twenty rubles? Twenty dollars?” “Twenty.” My wallet being empty I felt rather at a loss – but at this point the man simply sighed and moved me onwards. At the last of these checks a soldier removed our camera from the boot and started snapping his fellow border guards. He used to be a photographer, he explained. At last, we were officially into Uzbekistan, rather relieved but mostly utterly bemused by the previous 12 hours.
We passed briefly through the chaos that is the Uzbek capital of Tashkent, but our sights were set on the famed Silk Road destinations of Samarkand, Bukhara, and Khiva. Each were vital trade outposts for centuries, and in the process developed into their own formidable kingdoms and khanates until the Russian conquest of the 19th century. Enormous bazaars and mud-wall fortresses rise up from the old towns in each city, showcasing wondrous mosques and turquoise-domed madrasas. It is a cliché, but wandering the market stalls of these cities truly did feel like stepping back in time to the heights of the mythic Silk Road.
It was hard, however, not to ask oneself where myth began and ended in these places. Their soaring domes and ornate calligraphy have courted controversy: many have argued they represent a distortion of history. Perhaps the most famous landmark in these cities (and, indeed, all Central Asia) is Samarkand’s Registan Square, dominated by three enormous madrasas in a horseshoe shape, their domes reaching high into the sky, their gateways beautifully adorned with kaleidoscopic patterns. This site, however, was massively damaged by earthquakes in the 1890s and has been rebuilt in stages over the last half century. The reconstruction, critics argue, has fundamentally changed this historical site, with the astonishing patterns a deliberate ahistorical addition to attract foreign tourists. When I asked a taxi driver in Samarkand about this ‘Disneyification’ of his city he gave me short shrift, replying that the Square is of course an exact reconstruction of the original site. Nevertheless, it was eye-opening to consider: does such work erase rather than preserve history? And indeed, in a country and region troubled by totalitarianism and human rights abuses, is it problematic to showcase such eye-catching ‘theme park’ attractions which draw attention away from other, more ‘real’ parts of the country?
Much of our journey was defined by a dichotomy between wonder at what we were witnessing and an awareness of the troubling wider forces that beset Central Asia. A stark reminder of this came as we passed the town of Moynaq. Once a thriving hub of the Aral Sea fishing community, it has become a desolate wasteland that mirrors the desert around it. The Aral Sea, once the third largest lake in the world, was used to feed Soviet irrigation projects in the 1960s. This was an unmitigated ecological disaster of an astonishing scale, with the lake declining to 10% of its original size and devastating the surrounding communities. Fleets of old fishing boats rust away in the baking desert: it was heartbreaking to recognise that we were likely witnessing a ghost town in the making, reminiscent of Pripyat, another victim of a Soviet-era disaster.
Particularly given the haunting historical forces at work, the kindness and generosity of locals never ceased to amaze. Stopping by a nondescript roadside restaurant in Western Uzbekistan, we were unexpectedly invited into a backroom to celebrate the birthday lunch of Fedya, a 57-year-old cotton farmer who lived nearby. Sitting with his two friends and his grandson, we toasted over cognac mixed with Fanta as the three older men told us tales from their time in the Soviet army. Rather amusingly, and indeed as happened often when conversing with Central Asians, they enquired upon hearing our ages as to whether we were married and had children yet. In Uzbekistan it is standard to be married by 22: Fedya noted that my older brother (28) should have at least four kids by now!
As we approached the Caspian Sea we began a long and arduous stint through seemingly endless desert. Having overcome our first puncture leaving Moynaq, and baking in the heat as we approached re-entry into Kazakhstan, what is surely the world’s worst highway emerged. Over a single lane of tarmac through the wilderness, we battled 250km of torturous road over 12 hours with nothing but wild camels and the occasional lorry inching along for company. Driving at diagonal angles through potholes often larger than our poor car, we became drenched in sand and dirt as we feebly attempted to stave off a breakdown in the middle of nowhere.
At long last we somehow survived and, rather amazingly, as tourists were shepherded swiftly across the border back into Kazakhstan. It seemed, as we motored across the salt flats of the Mangystau region towards the Caspian, that perhaps the winds had changed and fortune was back on our side.
Alas, any such notion was swiftly disabused upon arriving for our crossing to Europe. Stricken by a storm, our ferry was delayed by 3 days, leading to a long stint in a port hotel, passed primarily in the canteen surrounded by Russian and Kazakh truckers. Unfortunately, as the only other options to enter Europe involved passage through either Russia or Iran, we had to stick the course. At midnight on the third day we were summoned at last for the customs process: 16 hours later Will emerged victorious, and we ventured to Aktau for our flight to Baku (land borders into Azerbaijan are currently shut). Met, bizarrely, by fleets of London-style black cabs, we made our way to the port of Alat to collect our vehicle. Inevitably delayed, another night in a port hotel followed. The next day our purgatory at last seemed over: fate, however, had one final trick to play on us. As Will again disappeared into the nerve centre of the harbour, I prepared myself for another long and tedious wait. This time, however, it was anything but boring, as our French friends had left a present for us in the boot: Tramadol, a strong painkiller which it turns out is illegal in Azerbaijan. Upon discovery of this contraband William was swiftly detained and the car turned upside down, with a date in drug-smuggling court promised. The guards refused to explain exactly what had occurred so for a while it seemed we had been duped and were unsuspecting drug mules for some French kingpins. Thankfully, however, our naïve and frightened faces eventually told and we were at last released.
After this astonishing sequence of events brought our Central Asian adventure to a close, a long and eventful passage through Georgia, Turkey and up through the Balkans followed – but that is a story for another day. One final twist remained, – passing through Northern Italy we were blindsided by a rather larger vehicle, and, with the grave assessment that our car should be “demolished” and not repaired, that was that. How sad it is that we were unable to return her all the way to Paris in one piece: nevertheless she accompanied us on the most incredible journey from Central Asia, truly a most unforgettable part of the world.
