Mongol Rally, Days 24-27 Early on Tuesday morning we took one last look at civilization before heading for the desert again. Our route to Kyrgyzstan was not as straightforward as it should have been, as the borders in this part of the world make so little sense we had to go out of our way not to end up in another country by mistake. As we moved into eastern Uzbekistan a mountain range rose up out of the horizon and we began to feel that we were leaving the desert behind at last. While we welcomed the change in scenery as we climbed up into the mountains, our car was not quite so happy. Halfway up a very steep climb we noticed the temperature gauge climbing, and it wasn’t more than a minute before we joined the ranks of cars broken down on the side of a very narrow and very busy mountain road. Initially it looked like we might need a tow truck, but before we had figured out how to conjure up an English-speaking mechanic on top of a mountain in eastern Uzbekistan our car rallied and we decided we could risk going on. We crept up the mountain with the heater on full bore, which seemed to keep the car happy, though Brenton and James looked like they might expire before we reached the top. We had hoped to cross into Kyrgyzstan that night, but after spending some time on the side of the road waiting for our car to cool down, and many more hours climbing very steep mountains very slowly, we had no chance of making it to the border that night. We stopped for the night in Antijon, which Liz said had experienced “a little bit of unrest” a few years ago. It turned out she actually meant there had been a massacre, but preferred to keep that piece of information quiet for the time being. We were all a little nervous about spending the night in a region described by the guidebook as “the birthplace of Islamic extremism in Central Asia”, but with night falling and no hope of crossing into Kyrgyzstan we had little choice. Staying in Antijon did present a few challenges, but none that we expected. We pulled up in front of a hotel to find that it wasn’t licensed for foreigners, but an extremely helpful man who spoke excellent English made it his personal mission to find us a place to stay. The city was holding Independence Day celebrations in a few days’ time, so almost everywhere in town was full, and he spent some time ringing every hotel he knew of and insisted on driving to those without phone numbers just in case. He also made every effort to convince us to come to a wedding the next day as his guests – we weren’t really sure whose, but were both disappointed and relieved that we could truthfully say we wouldn’t be in the country. Our friendly guide eventually found us a hotel with rooms free. It seemed to be the only place in town with any space left, and it was soon obvious why. Each room was given one towel to share, we spotted a bloodstain on one pillow, and when we lifted the lid of the toilet three flies flew out. In the drawer of one bedside table was some paraphernalia which shall remain unnamed, but suggested that the people of Uzbekistan were not quite as conservative as they appeared. We left early the next morning sincerely hoping that we hadn’t caught fleas, and headed straight for the border. We met another team there who had slept in the line and crossed as soon as the border opened, and were now being subjected to the most thorough search we had seen yet. The guards insisted on looking in every pocket of every bag, as well as turning on every camera, phone and computer they had and looking intently at each photo. We weren’t thrilled at the prospect of this, but when our turn came they weren’t nearly as obsessive. They showed far more interest in the pictures on the blank pages of our passports, and questioned us as to what each meant. With no common language between us this didn’t achieve much, and the photos of the animals were undoubtedly a far more accurate representation than Liz’s reenactment of a goanna. Including a photo of women wearing swimmers in passports was probably not the best idea, and one guard took some convincing that the picture of scantily clad women wasn’t actually a photo of Meg. The Kyrgyz border guards have a reputation for being very relaxed, so we were a little disappointed when they announced that they too wanted to search our car. As it turned out, their search consisted of asking us, “You have anything illegal?” and then sending us on our way. After the hours we had spent on the Uzbek side of the border, it was a little surreal to be through the Kyrgyz side in ten minutes flat. The city of Osh was pressed up against the border, and we headed straight for the city centre in search of food. Our disasters the day before meant we hadn’t eaten a proper meal in more than 24 hours, so we were very excited to find a restaurant that claimed to offer a wide variety of European food. Once we tried to order we discovered that they actually had almost none of the dishes on their menu, but after a day of snacking on peculiar biscuits we were grateful for anything that resembled a meal. After lunch, or breakfast, we took the road south, up into the Pamir mountains. We weren’t far out of the city before the road began to wind upwards and the air became cooler. These mountains looked prehistoric, made out of red rock with deep gorges carved by ancient rivers. One mountain range followed another, and after a few hours of climbing we reached the village of Sary Tash. A turn right took us towards Tajikistan, straight ahead was China and to the left kept us in Kyrgyzstan. The road to China looked the prettiest, so we headed that way for a little longer before we decided to camp for the night. We camped at the foot of snowy peaks; the green plains were dotted with yurts in the distance and herds of wild horses wandered past. James made a new friend in Gary the goat, but it was far too cold to do much but crawl into our sleeping bags and admire the view. Next day we headed back towards Osh, and then on to Biskhek and the border of Kazakhstan. We stopped halfway to camp for the night, and after our beautiful campsite the night before we were quite optimistic about finding a peaceful spot. Unfortunately, our choice of side road took us up into hills covered in crunchy desert plants swarming with grasshoppers. The flattest spot we could find was covered in broken asbestos and snake holes, and sported a nearby cow carcass. The sight of a dismembered cow’s foot in the middle of our chosen campsite was the final straw, and we moved up the hill a little. The next spot only had the remnants of a long-dead tortoise and a family of giant hornets, so we decided it was hospitable enough and set up for the night. A mild thunderstorm came past as we were drifting off to sleep, and we lay in bed thinking what a great adventure we were having. An hour later a much bigger storm hit us, and we lay there discussing our chances of survival should our car be hit by lightning, with its giant metal basket and full jerry cans on the roof. An hour after that a bolt of lightning came so close we could almost smell the cow carcass singeing, and we cowered in our sleeping bags screaming. Luckily that was the end of it, and for the rest of the night we had nothing worse than driving rain and howling winds to contend with. On Friday morning we moved on towards Bishkek, hoping to cross into Kazakhstan that afternoon. The road wound up and down one mountain range after another, along the edge of turquoise blue lakes and through pastures sprinkled with yurts. The view from the highest of the mountain ranges was spectacular, before the road took us into the clouds and we suddenly found ourselves on very narrow, steep roads with no guardrails, maniacal drivers and a car that had taken a dislike to mountains. Once again, with James at the wheel we were pulled over and asked for a “fine”; this time for not stopping at a stop sign. In Australia this would have seemed fair enough, but we hadn’t seen a single person pay any attention to a stop sign throughout Central Asia, and were fairly sure that if we ever stopped we would cause an immediate pile-up with such an unexpected manoeuvre. Having had some practice with corrupt policemen by this time James managed to haggle quite successfully, and we got out of there more cheaply than we might have. We moved on quickly after this, and finally reached Bishkek by dinnertime. None of us were keen to attempt another border crossing on empty stomachs, so we pulled up in front of the nearest restaurant. This turned out to be a very swanky place which we would not usually have gone near in our very unwashed state, but the food smelled delicious and the staff didn’t seem to judge us too badly. We crossed the border late that night, and fought our way through passport control in a scrum of people who probably had a charming variety of contagious diseases. James became less chivalrous towards the girl clinging to him for protection when he saw the series of ulcers down one side of her face, but we made it into Kazakhstan before midnight and didn’t have to drive too far to find a place to camp. This time we found ourselves in a field of plants with the approximate texture of barbed wire, but with only a few minor injuries we were much better off than the night before. We are now finally making straight for Mongolia, or as much as we can without running into China. If all goes well, in a few days’ time we’ll be crossing into Mongolia, leaving the roads behind and travelling with the yaks.
Posted on: Sat, 16 Aug 2014 06:30:52 +0000
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