Few times in my life have I been as exhausted as I was, rolling the last bit towards the border between Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan. My legs were done days ago, and my entire body completely worn out. Even the muscles in my face felt sore after days of hard squinting to avoid going blind from all the non stop gusts of sand, trying to shove me all the way back to Iran. As I’m fairly good at ignoring muscles begging for rest, this wasn’t too much of a concern. My biggest issue was another kind of tiredness – I was in desperate need sleep. Lot’s of it.
Crossing borders in Central Asia requires patience and a good poker face in general. But the Uzbek borders and customs are notorious for being particularly horrible for overland travellers. While going through your stuff more tidiously than impatient kids searching their parents closets for birthday presents, the border guards are known for pouncing at any given opportunity to get you in trouble.
As I got to the customs, I was unprepared and simply too exhausted to give a damn. Too tired to even react when the control lady pointed out that my money and declarations form didn’t match up. Or when she for 10 full minutes was ‘reading’ my diary (in Swedish).
Sure – when she specificly asked me if I was carrying a copy of ‘Mein Kampf’, I came back to reality for a brief moment. But mostly I was just nodding and smiling on auto pilot, while simultaneously trying to take some kind of mental power nap while still standing up with my eyes open.
Considering what’s normal – I was quickly through. In less than an hour they stamped me in and let me pass.
I’d say the most probable reason for this definitely wasn’t me cooperating well. I mean I got caught with not even having declared my cash correctly, but they let everything slide. My best guess would be that I was simply stinking up the whole building so badly that they wanted me out before all passing out.
Just as I was about to leave, Iris & Reto – the Swiss couple I’d been starting off Turkmenistan with – also showed up at the customs. With clean clothes, big smiles and an absolutely dreamlike smell of shampoo they for a moment seemed to have made the better choice when deciding to take a transport instead of cycling through the desert.
And man, was I happy to see them!
They weren’t as lucky as me at the border though. After having gone through every single piece of equipment they were carrying – including looking though each and every one of their 1 000 or so photos from their tour – we yet again teamed up and started off our second country together.
The wind obviously didn’t take notice of the country borders, and was roaring in our faces just like it had done the last week or so of cycling. However, in comparison to what that week had included, the last 100 km into Bukhara were like a dream. An overcast sky, no time pressure and us being three people taking turns to break the wind being the main reasons.
First impressions of Uzbekistan?
A-M-A-Z-I-N-G.
I have still difficulty defining this. But the Uzbek people just have this… glow. We rolled through village after village and seemed to be greeted by every single person we passed. Children, middle aged men, teenage girls or grandparents didn’t matter. They all lit up as we rolled passed them, shouting ‘Helloooo!’ as if they had been out there for hours, just waiting for us to arrive.
On paper, this is so similar to Iran. But the feeling was another. In some subtle way this felt more sincere. The smiles all seemed completely geniuine, as oppose to the Irianian (sometimes) forced politeness.
Soon our three person caravan turned into a fully operating office. The front person obviously only had one job – to tackle the wind. The second one was the controller, managing the rotations, keeping the group together and forwarding the internal communication.
Then came the third person, with the most demaning responsibility of all – Public Relations. Waiving back and making sure everyone got a smile and an ‘Assalamu alaikum’ in return when greeting us.
However it was obvious that the workload was completely off, and soon we had to ditch the controller completely in favor for getting a second Public Relations worker. One responsible for the left side, and the other for the right side of the road.
Let’s just say this was a fun day.
Late evening we rolled into the old city of Bukhara and found our way to Hostel Rumi. All by word of mouth, this has become the meeting point of all touring cyclists entering and leaving Uzbekistan. And sure enough, just as the sun set and we were rolling our bikes into the courtyard, we were met by six or so other touring bikes and a table full of smiling people just about to dig in on dinner.
Judging by everyone’s weird tan lines and the ridicoulous portions of their food – it was clear. These people were definitely cyclists.
In the end I think I spent three full days in Bukhara. One just to become human again, and a couple to explore the city and get myself and the bike ready for the rest of Uzbekistan. All while stuffing myself with unreasonable amounts of food to get back the weight I lost in the desert.
Wanna become a millionare? Go to Uzbekistan. This equals 100 bucks.
The one obvious highlight for me in Bukhara was meeting all the other cyclists. Ever since I left Sweden like 5 months earlier I had only bumped into a handfull other two wheeled travellers like myself. Most of the time, I’m looked upon like a complete ailien wherever I come crashing in with my fully loaded bike. And somewhere down the road I think I’ve started to consider myself as somewhat of a weirdo as well.
Here – for the first time, I truly felt like I was part of a community.
Sure. It really is one weird ass community. One where saddle sores is a completely legit topic of discussion during dinner, and one where the top speed of mosquitoes (14 km/h for anyone lacking this possibly vital piece of knowledge) is considered to be truly valuable information.
But however strange it might be, it really is like someone said during breakfast one morning:
‘Guys? I do know it’s a twisted one. But this really is my tribe – and I love it.’
One thing is clear though. While having bicycle adventuring in common, we’re still as diverse as any other group of people. Everyone’s reason for doing this is different. Everyone has their own style. Their own goals. Their own story of how they ended up on the saddle of a bike.
During my days in Rumi Hostel more than 10 cyclists came and went. Noone the other alike.
There was the British guy Nick, who started off from home a bunch of months ago – going ‘until he finds somewhere worth staying’. The silent Italian couple going around Cental Asia for a few weeks as their honeymoon. The older German couple, on the last leg of their serveral stage world tour. And Peter from Belgium, who had a heart of gold – but who hated anyone in a uniform and got in trouble with authorities when doing so shouldn’t even be possible.
There was the Slovenian former javelin-man weighing in on 90 something kg of muscles, always sitting in the same chair with this constant smile on his face – describing everything as ‘Super cool!’ with the cutest lisping I’ve ever heard. Then that loud guy who was travelling with rather than on a bike as he had hitchhiked most of the way from Europe.
Then there was me.
And a couple of dudes who I think can pose as the perfect example of how one touring cyclist does not equal the other. These guys are both in it for the long run, but have – apart from their mean of transport – absolutely nothing in common.
Patrick from Germany is currently on his 8th year of touring – aiming to go to every country in the world with his bicycle. Dressed in lycra from head to toe he has the most light and aerodynamic set up I think I’ve seen, and he covers something like 200 km on any normal day on the bike. Patrick is a sportsman and the world is his arena.
And then there is Olivier from France.
Six or so years ago he left his hometown, and has been on the road ever since. Carrying everything from toothbrush to paraglider, he is the Jack Sparrow of bicycle touring and really has the bike to match it. This guy is a traveller down to the core – and let’s just say he’d need a bit of a tailwind to cover 200 km like Patrick.
This bike really is a pirate ship – parrot and all.
Coming to Bukhara I was drained, in every sense of the word. But leaving, I was filled with this childlike inspiration and motivation I hadn’t had since the very start of my tour. I had been reminded of my reasons for going on this journey, and even gotten a few new ones. Being still, I could feel my love for being on the move stronger than I had done in months.
My body surely would have done well from sticking around a few more days, but my mind just wouldn’t have it. I was packed up and ready to go. Ready to fully explore this new country I was in. To live life the best way I know how. I was ready to head out and create new stories.
And of course. To outrun some mosquitoes.
Fredrika