look what the cat dragged in

drug in?

The only reason I'm typing this instead of napping is that in the war between hunger and sleepiness, hunger won.  I'm sitting at an outdoor table a few blocks from my hotel in Johannesburg. I left Istanbul at 6:30 last evening, short layover in Doha, and arrived here around 8:30 am. I am sure I slept in the plane, but I don't remember it. I arrived feeling sort of wrung out. Then there was the usual passport control, changing money, getting my bag and waltzing through customs. The ride to the hotel took nearly an hour and I was starting to fall asleep in the car.

Actually this place I'm staying is a bit more like a cross between a B&B and a hostel than a hotel. It's an old converted sort of open style bungalow, with uneven wood floors, old cupboards, and nooks and crannies everywhere. It oozes charm and character in a shabby yet genteel manner. The grounds, set behind an old stone wall, are lovely, cool and restful in a way that makes you want to find a hammock, a book and a tall cool drink, and while away the afternoon.

But no. The manager of the hotel, whose name is Christina, and I set off for the Mozambique Consulate as soon as possible. She drives a sort of rattle trap cargo van. She conversed with me, talked on the phone, and did a a couple other things as she drove.

A man was stopped in the middle of the road at an intersection, saying he was out of gas, and she gave him some money. This after having said how much (how little) she makes running the hotel, and paying for private school for her son. Sometimes it's those who can least afford it who are the most generous. I tend to get hung up on things like how the gift will be used, which is probably mostly irrelevant.

Every house around here has a high fence, bars, a security service (armed response, or so the sign says), and electric fencing along the top,or some combination. A woman I waited next to at the consulate talked about the problem with crime, particularly theft. It seems to be a recurring theme, especially when Johannesburg is the topic. She and her husband sold their shop a few years ago because they were constantly being robbed.  Even in Melville, the section I'm staying in, many shops have a barred gate that is closed even though the shop is open, so that they can control access. I am used to being careful, especially as a traveler, but this is more than that. I guess we all adapt to our own worlds in time, but as a short term visitor, it's startling.

The jacaranda trees are in bloom, purple all over, and the ground beneath has a carpet of purple snow. The weather is just about perfect, sunny and warm, with a delicious breeze.

On why I'm going to see an elephant

This next leg of my grand adventure requires some explanation, lest you think I've gone round the bend with this 'see the world' idea (I guess it might be too late to prevent you thinking that).

My younger son Tyler and his wife Lilly are in Mozambique for a year while Lilly works on her doctoral dissertation research. Let's assume for a minute that I will get good news regarding the bar exam-stay with me here, I know this is convoluted. Next, let's assume someone hires me. Most new employees don't get two or more weeks off during their first six months of employment (although one can hope, of course), so I'm assuming I will have no other window of time to visit Tyler and Lilly during their sojourn in Mozambique once I am home. Likewise, no money to do so. So here's the logic: I'm in the neighborhood, I don't know when or if I can go otherwise. So go now-splendid idea!

Alternatively, if I don't pass, or don't get hired, I'll be in another kind of pickle, won't I? And going to Mozambique to visit will be off the table in that case as well. Once again, this possibility works in favor of going.

There are a lot of assumptions involved. And you know what assumptions do. Still, to pass up the opportunity of this trip, all of its parts, seems more likely to induce regret than to grasp it might. I suppose my choice says something about myself, as choices are wont to do. It also says that I'm learning to recognize more all the time that we have only today, and what we make of it. Tomorrow is a beautiful hope, but I'm unwilling to put ALL of my eggs in tomorrow's basket.

This explains why I'm going to Mozambique.  I hope. If not, see paragraphs two through four again. But why an elephant?

Between studying for the bar and time to leave on this trip, I did not have time to get a visa for Mozambique. My first task was to obtain the Russian, Belarus and Uzbek visas, and then the China visa. By then it was too late to send my now very valuable passport off to DC for a Mozambique visa. Are you bored with this story yet?  I'm boring myself with the telling.

So I tried to walk in to the Berlin Mozambique embassy and get a visa, but I didn't have enough time in Berlin to accomplish it. Tyler and Lilly did some research and found that I could obtain one in Johannesburg, South Africa. Since almost all flights to Mozambique route through Joberg anyway, this is what is known as killing two birds with one stone. Sort of.

But I can't count on getting a visa the same day I arrive. So, what to do to kill time in South Africa? Here is where the elephant comes in. Finally. I am going on a very short safari. And of course I probably won't see an elephant. But one never knows.

All of this to say that I have a flight to South Africa this evening, which will not get there until the following day. I have a layover in Doha, Qatar. I confess that I knew nothing about Qatar, including the fact of its existence prior to this. It turns out they are hosting the 2022 World Cup. See how broadening travel can be?  It is a small, very rich country just to the east of Saudi Arabia, in the Persian Gulf.  It is an absolute monarchy and a very conservative Islamic society, but progressive moves have been seen in more recent years. Women obtained suffrage in 1999. In case you want to know more, here's the Wikipedia link: http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Qatar. I know quoting Wikipedia indicates something seriously lacking in my scholarly approach to learning about Qatar, but if all goes as planned, I will not be there long.

it's not the arrival that we remember, it's the journey itself

I gained three hours today, unexpectedly. I should have seen it coming but to tell you the truth (because why lie about it?), it didn't really matter until after I had arrived here in Istanbul.

I realized this evening as I walked past the Sultan Ahmet Mosque and the Hagia Sophia, that the first time I was here, I had not yet started law school, and it was smack in the middle of Ramadan. Another life time ago.

My flight here was absolutely the most entertaining flight I have ever been on. The man across the aisle from me heard me speaking English to the flight attendant, and he immediately struck up a conversation. He and his colleagues were on their way to a conference of urologists in Georgia (former Soviet republic Georgia, not the state from whence came Charles).

Bakhadirkhanov Mukhamed Zarif introduced his colleagues, and when they brought out the whiskey, I was obliged to drink a toast with them after a short speech by the other doctor about friends and hospitality and I'm not sure what else, his English was not so great- I agreed heartily in any case. The assistant traveling with them predictably was a young, good-looking woman. I don't know why they were traveling in coach.

They continued to drink throughout the flight, and to socialize with others on the plane. There was some musical chairs, and very moderate harassment of the attendants for more cola (to chase the whiskey). I was a disappointment, declining to participate in the ongoing drinking.

The attendants tried periodically to keep things in line, and the men never got obnoxious, they just got their way. When it was time to land, the attendants couldn't get all of the glasses picked up from the trays so they left them, and as we came in for landing, I noticed that my friend did not have a seatbelt on, and his bag was sitting fully out in the aisle. I think the attendants decided to pick their battles. Dealing with them all the time would no doubt wear thin very quickly, but for the duration of the flight, it was yet more insight into how their culture works. I am continually surprised and delighted at the friendliness of the Uzbek people. They asked me to tell all of you to come to Uzbekistan, which I am happy to do.

I'd forgotten how lovely Istanbul is, and I regret that I will have little time to reacquaint myself with it. I went on an errand for Lilly this afternoon, unsuccessful as to my objective but resulting in accidental discovery of a charming little neighborhood, full of life at end of the day. The narrow streets lent a more intimate feel, as families and people on their way home stopped at vegetable markets, meat shops, the bakery, and many other small shops. Cafes abounded, and life seemed to slow down despite the fact that it was in the middle of a large city.

My hotel has a rooftop terrace 8 floors up, and I took this photo from Europe looking across the water to Asia.

to do list

Today was a day of errands. It seems odd, but there are things that must be done even in this life of leisure. Most things take about four times longer than they would at home, and each task may involve several attempts prior to successful completion.

On the list for today: get more US dollars, print out a Mozambique visa application, confirm my safari, get Kleenex and Halls cough drops, and if possible, find an English language bookstore.  Pretty utilitarian, but each task involved places I did not know of, and other than the safari item, none could be done without venturing out into Tashkent.

First, a fun conversation with a French couple and a Swiss couple, who are all staying here too. I think each of them spoke at least three languages.  I was dallying too because it was right brisk outside, somewhere around freezing, and of course I am still ill prepared.

To get US dollars, you must go to the National Bank of Uzbekistan, go to a special window with your passport and a credit/debit card.  Not too hard once you find the one location where this can be done.  Finding a place to print something was harder but eventually I stumbled onto a place. I rewarded myself with a coffee break after these early successes (around noon). By 2:30 all but the books were checked off, and I've given up on that one for now. I hope to find one in Istanbul tomorrow.

I was on the metro on my way back to the hotel and I decided to veer from the path and see if I could find the one (yes, one) UPS location in all of Tashkent. This involved a bit of help from a friendly police officer. Amazingly, it was right where the map said it would be. The difficulty was that as you come up on to the street, there are always several exits, and no way to orient yourself directionally. With almost no street signs, and overcast skies, I come out of the ground unsure which way I'm facing at first.

After some discussion at UPS, I headed back to my hotel to pick up the items I wanted to ship, and to stop for some Som in exchange for some of my fresh new dollars.

As before, it felt like I was purchasing crack. As I came past the corner where someone is always calling out "dollar", "change money", "madam, how much you want", I hoped that today would be no exception. And there he was. We haggled for a few moments, and I was soon the proud owner of another wad of currency. I raced to the hotel for my items and two metro rides back to UPS.

By the time I got back it was a little after 5, and they close at 6. I knew they were not going to be happy to see me that late in the day. It turned out we had to go through each individual item, which felt intrusive to this spoiled American. I felt a little foolish after the transaction was complete, because we had argued over some of the items, which the woman at UPS said I could not ship. So who knows what will actually arrive. My load is slightly lighter, but I'm not sure I made a good impression on America's behalf. No diplomatic posts await me, I suppose.

The day was cold, but the metro is warm, sometimes uncomfortably so. I went from chilled to sweating in minutes.

I can't understand the announcements, but I have learned that the very last word spoken by the announcer at a station stop as we pull out is the name of the next station. I might not actually hear that either, but I can usually tell if it "sounds like" the one I need. Also, as I get on, I figure out how many stops until mine, and I keep track with my fingers as we move along. So far no one seems to have caught on to my code. The transfers were the hardest part, because I can't read the signs well enough, and more than once I've discovered I was headed for the exit rather than the other line I need. At 1,000 Som a ride, it's a cheap mistake anyway (about 33 cents).  Alas, it appears I am done with Tashkent's metro, just as I was getting it down.

I fly to Istanbul in the morning, and I have a taxi coming for me at 6:15. Good by to Uzbekistan.

looking out the window

The countryside along the train's path is littered with small agriculture based settlements.

Gypsies seem to often have a donkey pulled cart, the cart itself a wooden frame supporting a bed comprised entirely of a large net, so deep it nearly scrapes the ground below. Sometimes it contains crops, others refuse, or blankets, and on top a child or two.

The yards outside the walls are divided into tidy plots by an earthen mound that runs round each one. The preferred watering method seems to be periodic flooding, which these dirt walls facilitate.

Between settlements the desert returns, and there are flocks of sheep, or herds of cattle with a lone caretaker, and maybe a small mud brick shelter, or what looks like a gypsy wagon. My imagination falters at how life must be here for days, years on end.

Then as we approach a river or canal, the fields return- cotton being harvested by women and men bent over in the rows with a sack beside them; rice paddies green with new plantings; corn stubble with the stalks stacked in rows on the ground. Individual garden plots still have the bright green orbs of cabbages in rows.  In the markets you can find the physical evidence of harvest-potatoes, carrots, onions, green turnips, and more.

A donkey stands in the field by his owner, ears high, with a blanket and saddlebags made of some sort of rough grey wool, hanging almost to the ground on both sides. I wonder what they contain on any given day.  Riders on horseback sit and watch the train go by, a temporary distraction from the day's work.

Footpaths run out from the houses, between fields and plots. What's left after harvest is gathered in the fields and mounded-for fuel, perhaps, or animal fodder?

Near cities there are more signs of mechanization, such as tractors, but otherwise it seems like donkeys, horses and humans do the work.  Although I have no desire to regress to a life as basic, as hard as these country people must lead, I am intrigued by them, their practices, their understanding of their place in life. A lot of the allure of travel is the temporary taste of another way of life, the more foreign it is, the more exotic.

I wonder too at the apparent randomness that allows me to live in comparative ease, with freedom of place and nearly unlimited choice, as compared to those here who may never travel as far as Tashkent. Easy for me to assume they have dreams of education, opportunity or freedom from want, especially with regard to the place of women, but that is presuming things I cannot know.

I'm back in Tashkent, listening to the rain outside, and very glad I don't have to go out in it and carry in wood for the fire, or milk the cows.

night falls in Bukhara

I leave Bukhara tomorrow morning on the train, bound for Tashkent. The end of the Uzbek leg of this journey looms. I went out on an errand at dusk, and then sat drinking coffee at a shop on an outdoor patio that was raised above the courtyard in front. A lone sheep stood tied by a thick rope to a tree below, seeming disoriented or perhaps lonely, if sheep do get lonely? A group of boys played soccer (football here), vendors gradually packed up their wares, and a group of Germans chatted around me.

After dark, which comes so early now, I walked home in the warm night. Once past the turnoff from the shops, it grew very dark, as there are no street lights. The only light came from cracks in the walls or an occasional light over a gate. Fortunately the puddles are mostly dry now. I hated to turn in at my gate, it feels like the end of something.

I'm sipping a beer in the inner courtyard of my hotel on the theory that the internet connection is better here than in my room. Also, as I left earlier, I got caught up in a tour group that was also going out. One of them accosted me, wanting to know where I was from. They are from Denmark, and with my blond hair, she was wondering if I was too. She seemed disappointed to find I am American, but maybe I imagined that. I would be interested to observe the group's recessional if they don't stay out too late.  Little things amuse me.

my 15 minutes

How odd that I have already lived Saturday, and yours is just beginning.

You know how we all get our 15 minutes of fame? Who knew mine would be in a hardly known little town in central Uzbekistan? It happened today, so sorry you missed it.

The day began with a taxi ride to the avtovoksal, the bus station-one of them anyway. My taxi driver, who I think is the hotel owner's father, is a colorful character, perhaps 80 years of age and full of vinegar. He kept up a fairly steady conversation in spite of little common language.  When I didn't understand his question, he would repeat it more loudly, and then do little motions like in a game of charades until I got it.

We came to an intersection where a long line of cars were waiting to turn left. He went around them all and just pulled into the front of the line, as I slunk down in my seat. He seems to be enjoying the prerogatives of old age.

He asked if I was from Germany, Australia? I cut off the guessing with an answer, knowing he would not even suggest American. No one does. In fact, as I walked back to my hotel a few minutes ago, three Frenchmen called out to me, "Bonjour", and asked if I spoke French. I think they were a few bottles of something in, but I humored them, and entertained myself as well. They kept trying French, so I asked in German if they spoke German, then in Spanish if they spoke Spanish. Alas, they spoke only French, thus aborting a perhaps entertaining conversation. But I digress. Back to my moments of fame.

I caught a minibus ride from the station, packed in the way back.  My taxi driver apparently thought I wanted to go to the ceramics workshop, so he told the van driver that. And so I was dropped off at that spot but no way to tell the driver that wasn't what I wanted, because what did I want?  Just the middle of town, wherever that was. So instead I walked, following the way the van went after dropping me off. I had decided that Gijduvan was a backwater town with no real center, until I stumbled on the bozor (bazaar).

It seems like most towns have one, and it's the center of life for the town's occupants. Of course, that's why I like them. This was a mad crush of people through the mostly shaded walkways between densely packed stalls. People were going all directions, carts and men with loads yelling to get through, transactions under way all around. I was entranced and then eventually felt a little claustrophobic. The press of the crowd never let up

potatoes and pomegranates

I had two objectives today: escape the tourist bubble that surrounds central Bukhara, and also find out when I can catch the mini bus or shared taxi to Gijduvan. After four hours of wandering this morning, I still don't know how to get go Gijduvan, but I've watched Bukhara as it comes to life for the day.

Children on their way to school and adults to work were dodging puddles and mud slicks from yesterday's rain.

 The numbered minibuses waited at their accustomed places and vendors began what appears to me to be a tedious daily task of setting out their wares-so much is sold on the sidewalk or in a big open marketplace, it requires a lot of schlepping morning and night.

There are not a lot of buses in Uzbekistan, outside Tashkent. Most public transit is via either minibuses or shared taxis. This means you first have to know where the vans and cars gather for a particular destination. Once a car or van is full, it departs. You are guaranteed close personal contact for the duration of the ride.

I came across a sprawling bazaar (bozor), and shopped unsuccessfully for some clothes. Huge bolts of fabric were stacked or piled, bejeweled and riotously colored, half mannequins sported half an outfit, or sometimes none at all, but none had a head.

Apples, pomegranates and potatoes are in season, grapes and melons petering out. Meat hangs on hooks, soft cheese is stirred and restirred in buckets, and bricks of cheese and tubes of salami-like meats sit out. One area had honey vendors with comb still on the frame, bees who were harvesting, and tubs of what looked like creamed honey, some with the detritus from an extraction, beeswax, and of course containers of honey, including re-used plastic water and soda bottles.  Nothing much goes to waste.

I bought some samsa (similar to a samosa), nan, the ubiquitous round bread that you see everywhere, including on the back of a bicycle. A vendor sold me bananas-she laughed that I wanted only three.

I passed these drinks, and wanted to try them, but given my stomach issues yesterday, I refrained. You buy your drink, and consume it standing there. There are no plastic cups, plates or forks and spoons in use here.

I found myself at an outdoor table at midday, listening to the noon prayer and sermon(?) from a mosque.  It is Friday, the holy day for Islam.  While roughly 95% of Uzbeks would identify themselves as Muslim, very few are actively observant, a lot like many Americans would say they are Christian but do not attend church or observe other rituals.  For whatever reason, the mosque has a mystique for most tourists and travelers, and I am not immune.

scenes from Bukhara

Neat party trick this - a heavy, rolled up carpet they are carrying

Outside the Kalyon Mosque, built in 1514 to replace one destroyed by Genghis Khan, with space for up to 10,000 

Across the way from the mosque, the Mir-i-Arab Madrassa, paid for by the sale of 3,000 Persian slaves in 1535.  Other than between 1925-46, it has been a fully functioning madrassa since it was established. There are said to be about 180 students studying there today, all male, of course.

all's well that ends with me getting my dinner

Or something like that.

I walked in and sat down at an empty table, and waited patiently, as I could see that the sole waitress was busy with a group of students. I got distracted by a cartoon on the TV for a bit, and then an older woman called from across the room "hello". I said hello back, she waved me over, into the kitchen, where she took me to the stove and said, "this is my menu tonight" and proceeded to explain what each thing was, taking the lid off each kettle as she went. I told her what I wanted - plov, and she in turn told the waitress, whom I deduced does not speak English.

Two young women from Japan asked to share my table midway through. I like that custom, and wish it was done in our world.

an Uzbek civic lesson

Sherzod was a delight to ride for hours with, both going to and coming from yurt camp. He was willing to discuss any aspect of life in Uzbekistan, and was just as happy with silence. He was ideally suited to answering questions about current events and politics in the region, based on his education, his language skills and his having lived under Soviet rule and then independence.

Babies are born in hospital, not at home (except gypsies). Education and healthcare are provided free. Sherzod's opinion is that their education and health care is better than of the other former Soviet republics, but not as good as the Baltic states. Home ownership is the norm here, even in flats or apartments. In a village, when a couple gets married, they build a house, with help from the community. In the city they must buy rather than build, but it is common to do so.

I asked if anyone still works with camels, and he said that there are nomadic people deep in the desert who still use them regularly.

Sherzod seems to have a good grasp of what is going on in the Ukraine. He explained, but I did not follow it well, the division that has been present historically. He talked about the first snow happening there recently, and the country has been without gas (natural gas) for heating and other purposes for months. Russia is refusing to sell them more until they pay some up front, because they already owe something like $6 million, I can't recall the number now, it might have been in the billions. That's in US dollars. He was talking about something happening now that winter is here.

We talked about the US too, he is well informed about world affairs and like much of the world, he keeps up with US politics. He said too that the mass migration that took place after independence was mostly Jews, and while some went to Israel, most went to New York City. "No one who goes to the US ever comes back" he said. Surprisingly he felt there was no anti-Semitism in Uzbekistan, and hadn't been. Hard to say, I know that Russia did some forced resettlement of Bukharan Jews, but I have never read whether Uzbeks did too.

Sherzod is fairly well traveled, and has a quite balanced world view in my opinion. I don't know how representative he is as a Uzbek, but I feel fortunate to have spent time with him.

what I saw on my way to Bukhara

Cotton fields, often with people bent over picking and filling bags that look like those plastic feed bags I get chicken feed in.

Stands of apples that looked like red or yellow ornaments in rows, alongside orchards.  A kang nestled in the shade of one of the trees

Lines of jars of honey, glowing in the sun like liquid amber or gold, in so many shades it was impossible to count

Donkeys! Pulling carts, carrying people or loads on their backs, tied to a tree, or wandering unmoored along the side of the road. So picturesque, I have no discipline when it comes to limiting the photos I attempt.

Herds of cattle, sheep, a few horses

More and more cotton, in some places there are big tufts of cotton attached to tall grass or trees, blown there in the wind.

Men wearing robes over their pants and shirts, some in plush velvet with elaborate trim, and some made from a sort of suit material.

Gypsies with their typically picturesque and rough attire, walking along the road or riding on a donkey- I would not have known they were gypsies, but Sherzod told me. He said they live outside the system- no birth certificate, being born at home, no schooling, no papers. Freedom, but at a cost.

A man in knee high boots with a scythe in hand in the field, with his donkey yoked to a cart beside him

Long lines at the petrol station, but not for gas (natural)

Potholes to swallow the car

An ancient well at which caravans used to stop on their way along the silk road

Men on bicycles carrying big bundles of corn stalks and shelves of wheat

New fields of rice, green and bordered by earthen curbs to allow the necessary flooding

Periodic police checkpoints, which make Sherzod grumble, but we are never asked to pull over

And more cotton, always more cotton.

colder'n snot

Tuesday morning:

The Tibetan practice of sewing their children into their clothes for the winter, and foregoing bathing themselves makes a little more sense this chilly morning. During the night it rained-in the desert no less, and turned markedly colder. I have on three shirts, my fleece and my rain jacket, but I'm still cold. The bathrooms are outdoor, unheated mud brick structures with an open doorway, so time spent there is the shortest possible. The showers are locked, probably not functioning, and I'm pretty sure there is no water heater here anyway. I'd rather be dirty and slightly warmer.

The other guests, whose guides knew better than to stay here two nights, are all gone now. Based on the settings laid at the table it appears more guests are expected tonight.

I'm alternating between my yurt, where I can wrap in blankets but the air is cold, and the dining building, which though unheated, is warmer but not particularly comfortable or inviting.

One of the vagaries of travel-sometimes you are filled with wonder and delight at the sights, sounds, and smells assaulting your senses. And sometimes you just wonder.

Tuesday evening:

I'm sitting here on the other side of the planet from the one I usually inhabit, in a round mud-brick building with 20 or so strangers collected from various places. We are in the middle of a desert I'd never heard of not long ago. It's just the sort of moment that I would not be able to imagine from my chair at home, yet here I am.

And then these other westerners get up to dance along with the Uzbek music being played and sung, and I think to myself, time for bed. I leave in the morning for Bukhara.

yet later on Monday

Life moves at a glacial pace here in the desert.

More guests arrived as the day went on, first a group of four Koreans who are teaching in Tashkent, with their taxi driver, and then a group from France and a group from the Netherlands.  The Dutch were chatty and cheerful, and the French kept entirely to themselves other than one woman who said "bon appetit" or "au revoir" as she passed at meals.

At about 4:30 I went on a short camel ride with Tian, who teaches Korean, led by the camel handler. It was a lot like riding a horse, but a delight all the same. I was giddy as a child. Then while some of the others went on the camels, the Korean group asked me to go with them. But where? I climbed in the car and as we drove away, someone in the back seat came up with the English word for our destination-lake, they were going to see Aiderkol. Kol means lake in Uzbek. It was further down the asphalt lane, and then off on a narrow sandy track. I wondered if the car would get stuck, but it did not. Mostly we took photos there. I would have liked to walk along it and look for birds, but I was a tag along, and didn't want to impose. And this group's favorite thing to do seemed to be to take selfies while making the peace sign. As it grew dark, we drove back to camp, stopping to let some cattle and sheep move off the one lane road in front of us.

The Korean group invited me to eat with them, and it seemed churlish to refuse. I think it was at the instigation of the driver, who seems to have taken a liking to me. "Irin" he says and then tries to serve me more food, or vodka, or include me in whatever is happening.  When a bottle of vodka appeared on the table, I did wonder about how the evening would develop. We sometimes talked together and sometimes the four just spoke in Korean to each other. It was good even though I knew none of what they said, they were kind to me and having fun themselves. When I asked the driver a question, it would be translated in Korean by Tian, who spoke some English, to the male of their group, who spoke better Uzbek than the others. He in turn would translate to Uzbek for the driver. The driver's answers often did not require translation. We all laughed frequently.

In the night the rain came.

Rett, I heard that singing yesterday! An old man, sitting outside the Amir-i-Zinda, was making those multi-tonal sounds like the Mongolians in the movie, what was the name?  "--- Blues", I think?

Monday afternoon

Before leaving my hotel this morning, I emailed my brother Clay to say where I was headed. I suppose it's no different than most of my trip, where no one knows where I am, just where I've been. But this time I was to travel several hours in a car alone to the middle of the desert to stay in a yurt I knew not where, and perhaps alone.

Sherzod picked me up a little before 9am, and we wound our way out of Samarkand, down a highway bordered by herds of sheep and sometimes cattle. I saw shepherds on foot, on donkeys and one with an old motorcycle. We stopped to wait for the animals to pass. Soon the cotton fields came into view, and eventually this too gave way to the sand.

Sherzod learned English in Singapore and Malaysia, after attending university with a major in international relations. After working in other fields, he now runs a community based tourism service. His company markets and arranges things like this yurt stay, home stays, camel riding in the area around Lake Aidarkul, a salt lake in the middle of the Kyzylkum Desert.  We talked periodically, with long comfortable silences between. His education made him an ideal person to ask about politics in Uzbekistan. He told me somewhat sheepishly that his father is a retired KGB officer. I said, 'but you're not Russian', and he said all nationalities could work for the KGB. He remembers the Soviet days, and talked about the hardships that immediately followed independence. The Soviets had not allowed any regional infrastructure, in hopes of deterring attempts at independence. In this area, the Soviets planted cotton, and in the process of watering it, the Aral Sea has been catastrophically reduced.  Then when the Soviets pulled out around 1990, there was no one to sell the cotton to, no one to pay the workers, no jobs for many people for a while. The region had been made almost wholly dependent on Moscow over the years. Sherzod said that unemployment is still high, but the country has developed significantly, economically and in terms of infrastructure. While technically a democracy, the sitting president has been overwhelmingly re-elected for many years, and he has tremendous power. However he is old now, and the next election is in February. Sherzod said that it is no longer verboten to speak critically of the government. So we shall see.

When we stopped for gas (natural gas, not petrol), I had to get out of the car and join the other waiting passengers in the shade. No one but the driver can enter the station. I took my pack with me, and Sherzod did not seem to take offence.  There were sometimes explosions at these gas stations in the old days, which I guess is why passengers may not enter-limit the collateral damage.

At Yongqishloq a new driver took over. I never learned his name. He was younger, and spoke only a little English. He did point out some men mining for gold along the way. And every time I lifted my camera, he would let off the gas and say "stop?

At about 1:10 we arrived at the yurt camp. The driver found an old nan who wordlessly led me to my yurt. He pointed out 'toilet'. I had not used the bathroom since we left and had avoided eating or drinking because I wasn't sure about toilet availability along the way. I figured if I had asked, one would be found, but by the time I considered it, I just really wanted the drive done.

Surprisingly, no pit toilets here, western style instead-the building is rudimentary, unlit and no door. But my expectations were low, so I was pleasantly surprised.

Then food-I ate what was put before me, there is no menu of course. Actually, I ate some of each thing. They brought me three whole tomatoes and four small cucumbers (make your own salad?), bread, a dish of squash, onions and some really good sauce, a dish of mushrooms, tomatoes and other unknown ingredients, a bowl of soup, and of course chai. I tried it all, then left and wandered out a bit into the desert. Coming back, I saw one of the men coming to get me, saying lunch. I said no, I am done, but he said second lunch rather insistently. So I followed just to see what he meant. It turns out there were two more dishes- a dumpling dish, and a plate of fruit. I don't know how one person could possibly eat all they gave me. I didn't try. I tasted both of the new dishes and left again.

There seems to be no one else here, although another table was set for lunch. I may be the only guest.

On the agenda: ride a camel to the lake, relax, read, doze and wander in the desert (without getting lost), for the rest of today and tomorrow. Sherzod is to pick me up Wednesday morning and transport me to Bukhara, where I shall magically become one year older.

people

Breakfast today: two French, two Belgians, one UK (London), two Australians, one Swiss (Basel again), and me. The common language was English, which seems to be the most common travel language generally. By the time breakfast was over, four of them who had never met before had agreed to meet up later in the day and share a taxi back to Tashkent.

Late morning I was walking in the general direction of my hotel and someone popped right in front of me with a big smile. It was Curly, the woman from Melbourne that I met in Tashkent outside a mosque. We had lunch on a kang, and then I went off in search of the post office.

I went where the map said it was. Unable to locate it, I asked a man. He immediately called out to a young woman who was helping an old woman get in a taxi. She came running and addressed me in clear English, I asked my question, she in turn talked with the man, who told her something about where the post office could be found. She said, "Come, I will take you."  A few blocks later, she asked someone again, and there it was. It was a cavernous empty room, but indeed there was a postal employee who pointed out the box for my post cards. According to what I'm told, there is a good chance they will not be delivered, but the fun is in trying.

I am surprised at how helpful and hospitable people are here. As I walked back to my hotel, two young women wanted a photo with me. I don't know why, they just wanted that and nothing more. So I asked for one as well.

to walk where they walked

I'm making a rough circle in my route through Uzbekistan, ending back in Tashkent for one day before flying to Istanbul. Due to that, and the yurt stay/camel ride, I left some of my things at Gulnara Guesthouse, where I stayed the past few days, and will stay again when I complete the circle. Traveling extra light and loving it. I don't recall who to attribute this to, but I concur - the level of enjoyment in travel is inversely proportionate to the amount of baggage you bring.

I am unsure about availability of cash for the next couple of places, so I exchanged $300 US today. The resulting wad was about 10 inches thick. So much for traveling light!

Makes me wonder how ancient travelers did it, when the only form of money was metal coins, or goods. Speaking of ancient travelers, Ibn Battuta once passed this way. He was a traveler originally from Tangier, in northern Africa. He left home in 1325, and traveled far, writing about what he saw.



I dropped my stuff and headed out to explore what is known as the Registan, comprising three madrassas, one of which was built by Ulug Beg, the grandson of Timur (Aka Tamerlane). Ulug Beg's actual name was Murzu Muhammed Taraghay bin Shahrukh and he is famous for his interest in and developments in astronomy, geometry and related fields. Aside from the place being blanketed with vendors, it is beautiful. Some of the towers have taken on a lean, but being as old as they are, it's a wonder they are still standing.

This was the commercial center of the city when Buttara would have passed through, with six streets intersecting and silk road merchants and travelers doing what they do today. Then, of course, they were traveling on camels and donkeys, staying in caravanserai, and gathering in the markets for news as well as goods. No internet, just word of mouth and a few hard to obtain books.

Until ships usurped their place, the caravans traveling this road were the  only way to get goods such as silk in the West, and to do so meant traversing deserts and mountains. It wasn't just one route, of course, it varied with weather, seasons, lack or abundance of water, and human intervention such as war, politics, or bandits. Cities were born, prospered and died based on these influences along the route.

This is the history that fascinates me and the reason for coming to western China and especially to Uzbekistan.

What to wear, what to wear

Weddings are big here in Uzbekistan. There are two places nearby that seem to have one every night-not just weekend nights, but so far every night of the week there has been one at each place.

I was in a coffee shop doors down and suddenly great horns began to play. And great they were, about 6 or 8 feet long, like those used to herald the King's arrival. They formed an overhead arch with them for the bride and about 30 others, possibly family and friends. Much excitement ensued. Later as I walked past, the men were outside in small groups based on age. I saw money being paid or collected in the middle aged men's circle, maybe the father of the bride?  I noted how nice the men looked in their dark jackets as I passed. The bride resembled a multi-layered, frothy frostinged cake.

Dress up is a bigger deal here. Even in the Chorsu Bazaar, there are stalls upon stalls selling sparkly, brilliantly colored dresses and accessories for the women, and those are not the high end stores. Men wear suits for everyday work, and some schools' uniforms are black suits for the boys, and black skirts and sweaters with white blouses for the girls.

Its fun to watch, but it makes me feel a wee bit underdressed.

Young women wear heels, of course, it is the way of being young. But the challenge here is that none of the sidewalks, if there, are smooth, many are cobbled. Manhole covers may be askew, people use the sidewalk area as an extension of their business or home, or just park across it. And walking in the street is common everywhere except on thoroughfares.

I have with me: black Keen's and a pair of flip flops. The flip flops of course are not suitable for public use here. It makes the choice of footwear easy.

Not all who wander are lost

By my estimation, I walked about 6 miles today.  My aim was to meander through the back streets of the old city, which is where I am staying, and make my way to the TV tower, which is the tallest structure in central Asia.  Alas, I did not have my passport with me, so I did not get to go up in the tower.  But I did find a lovely stream in  my wanderings.  It is so odd, when you are in the old neighborhoods, you don't hear the traffic, all you see and hear is the daily life in the narrow winding lanes, where sometimes gates stand open and you can see inside to the courtyard, which may have a floor of dirt, or beautiful tile, it may have the family car, or tables, couches and clothes hanging on the line.

Pairs or small groups of men sat playing backgammon, drinking chai, watching the women pass. Women gathered in pairs too, between chores standing outside their front gates, holding babies, while little ones played around them.

Often I could see the laden branches of fruit trees encroaching over the edges of the walls onto the common paths. The walls are made of mud/adobe and straw, with intermittent round wooden poles inside the walls (I saw this from a few that were disintigrating).

Yet Tashkent is the largest city in central Asia, with somewhere around four million people.

Today was garbage day, meaning a garbage truck would pass down the largest of the lanes, and people would come as if ants out of an anthill, carrying their garbage in buckets or grain bags, or whatever they had. The garbage men stood behind the truck and recieved the items, although it appeared that they also sorted through it for useful things.  Some of the women who appeared with their trash looked as if they were still in pajamas, with rumpled hair and slippers.

I stopped for a midmorning snack of some sort of baked thing, and the man put it in a newspaper cone for me.  When in Rome...

I visited a cemetery along the way, and the graves were fascinating.  Some of them are conical mounds of the same sort of material the walls of their homes are made of.

It is hard to know how much Som to keep on hand.  No one takes debit or credit cards, not even the train station, so cash is essential.

On to Samarkand via train in the morning.

Tashkent

There is a famous madrassa very near the place I am staying. It was constructed in the 1500's, and was a school for many years, later a caravanserai, and still later used by the Russians for secular purposes. After Uzbek independence, it was converted back to a madrassa.

Historically a madrassa education has been narrowly focused but intense within the confines of that focus. In the 1600's, a young man studying there would have been schooled in Islam, literature, ethics, math, geometry and astronomy. Instruction would have been in Arabic and Persian. Today, it is still young men only who attend, but the curriculum is expanded. It is still heavily based in the Koran and various commentaries and interpretations, but students are also taught Uzbek language, literature and history, geography, English, and physics.

After visiting a famous mosque, I wandered in the streets of the old city. I can't think of an American comparison to the way old sits beside and coexists with modern and new here.

I saw a woman walking by as I sat in the shade outside the mosque who looked English, and she was alone. So I said hello as she went by, quietly and not assuming anything, so that she was free to ignore me or just say hello and keep walking. But she stopped and we had a nice conversation, sharing stories. She is off on the train this evening. I've seen/heard so few travelers whose first language is English, it was nice to spend 20 minutes with her.

Most cars here are small, they have to be to fit the places they go. Lots of Chevy Sparks, and even a few of the old Russian cars. It's a beautiful day, but the chill of evening is falling, I am off to add layers and go in search of dinner.

the language of a smile

I went to buy onward train tickets this morning with trepidation. I had gone to the train station yesterday to do a little recon, and found it confusing and a bit intimidating. However, between the ticket seller and me writing each other notes, and a little assistance from interested bystanders, I now have a ticket to Samarkand for the 18th, and a return ticket from Bukhara to Tashkent for the 26th. In between I am going on a little desert jaunt involving a yurt and a camel.

On my way there, I passed a certain spot where I knew I would hear low murmurs of "change", or "dollars". This is a prime spot for black market exchange of money. I had $100 with me just for that purpose and so a transaction was made.  I was handed this:

and more in exchange for two $50's. Felt like a drug deal, or how I imagine a little deal would feel. The train tickets cost 92,000 Som, which seemed like a lot of money until I did the math on my way home. Just over $30.

I stopped at a small store on my way back and there were three people working. They asked if I was 'inglishe' or 'italia' -the first two most common guesses I hear. I assume it's because they don't see a lot of Americans. They spoke no English, and asked if I spoke Uzbek or Russian. I said neither, just a few words. This, oddly enough is readily conveyed with the use of gestures along with words. I asked the woman whether 'spasiba' or 'rahmet' (pronounced rahkmet) was appropriate, because that is one of my points of confusion. I know that at least here in the capital city, most people speak both Russian and Uzbek, but it is my understanding that since gaining independence from the former Soviet regime, there is some preference for Uzbek-unless you are a Russian who stayed here after independence, which many did. So I'm never sure which way to say thank you, or numbers, or hello (about the full extent of my Uzbek vocabulary, and the majority of my Russian vocab). She smiled and indicated that to others I should say 'spasiba', the Russian, but to her, it would be 'rahmet'. Clears that right up!

I think some new photos are finally uploaded to Picasso, most are from China. If someone can please take a look and let me know, that would be great.

I am in Tashkent, Uzbekistan.  As we were headed toward my hotel, the taxi driver pulled out a very large wad of money and offered interchange some dollars for me. For some reason, there are two exchange rates here, the official one, which is somewhere around 2,375 Som to a US dollar, and the black market rate, which is somewhere around 2,500 Som/dollar. The result is that you look like a high roller, but prices are proportionate. It costs 1,000 Som for one Metro ride, for instance.

On leaving China

Expletives abounded in my head as I sat in the waiting area after clearing Chinese airport security in Hotan. When I looked up from my pointless venting to find a man staring at me, I couldn't decide whether to shout or cry. Of course I did neither, my rage soon dissipated, short lived and wholly pointless.

As we taxied out, I saw the fighter jets taking off in front of us-the military uses the same airport. As we gained altitude, I saw rectangular plots of farmed land whose borders were defined by long rows of poplars, which then gave way to the ocean of sand that is the Taklamakan Desert (http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taklamakan_Desert). Some of the colors and sand formations were amazing. As we went further north, mountains appeared that appeared to be made of sand, half covered in snow. I tried to trace rivers and valleys as we flew but the pilots' flight plan did not cooperate.

I had an empty seat next to me on the leg to Urumqi. The man in the aisle seat must have been on his first flight. He seemed excited and a little nervous, clicking his seat belt buckle endlessly, raising up in his seat, looking around, then flipping the arm rest up and down. When I lowered my tray top, he watched me, and then did the same. Landing evoked a whole series of sounds-loud sighs and grunts, he clearly wanted to express his excitement and I was a disappointment because he could not communicate with me.

I spent my layover time trying to check in for the next flight (booked separately) and then clearing Chinese border control and immigration.

China, the part I saw anyway, is fascinating and complex. I am glad I went. It was barely a glimpse, as each of these stops are bound to be, but it's time to move on to Uzbekistan at last.

The last of Hotan

The one child policy clearly has not been applied to the Uyghur population.  Children abound and they seem to be cherished and mostly happy.

This may be more of a Han thing, but the very young often go about with slitted trousers, at least at home.  I saw a young child squatting on the pavement this morning, shitting and peeing in her bare feet.  Careful to keep my facial expression neutral, I walked on. The next day as I walked and saw excrement on the sidewalk, I felt a revulsion when it occured to me that it probably was not from a dog.  I know that is just my squeamish American view, but still.

The Sunday market is a huge bazaar, held partly indoors and partly out, all in filthy surroundings.  Yet the goods are not somehow. Vending everything imaginable, sellers ply their wares while children run and play, and scooters and carts try to squeeze through the crowd of pedestrians.  Not a single one tried to sell me anything, which must mean that not too many tourists end up there, or they would know what an easy mark we are.

At one stand, a sheep is being butchered while another waits in what I only hope is innocence, next to a vegetable stand, then a keymaker, now scarves, pyjamas, padded leggings for women for the winter and long underwear for the men.  Clothing and cheap plastic toys for infants, huge rolls of fabric, noodles and various dishes, prayer rugs, flashy rings and watches, and more.  So much more.

I follow one path and the market eventually peters out and it becomes a neighborhood street.  I am befriended by a woman who happily talks to me and whom I answer gleefully.  Neither knows what the other is saying but I know she wants me to come with her.  She is the first adult to be friendly to me in a number of days.  Still, I hesitate to commit to following her when I don't know where she is going.  We part ways with a wave.

I ran across a honey vendor who had his extractor and some frames with him, and various bee-related products, and of course this made me think of Clay.

I happened to turn down the street where all the tin vendors are located, and got to watch some of them at work, shaping and pounding out tin by hand.

I walked down a quiet neighborhood street, which was a nice break from the constant chaos.  These streets are just wide enough for a car and a scooter to pass.  Along each side, tall walls form compounds, with large double wooden gates closed to the world.  Just a few were standing open, and I could see inside a courtyard, sometimes covered, with rooms leading off of that.  The courtyard seemed to be a sort of living room in some, and a garage for the family car in others.  Perhaps it is both.  The floors were tiled, and I wished for someone to invite me in for a tour. Shockingly, no one did.

This area is known for miles of pathways covered by trellised grapevines, which provide both fruit and shade, and it creates a lovely dappled sunshine when the smog/sand is not too thick to block the sun altogether. Even though this area is surrounded by desert, it is an oasis due to the two rivers that converge here, and on the old Silk Road, it was a heavenly respite where things like melons, grapes and all manner of vegetables were grown and sold to weary travelers.

I meandered down one of these covered lanes and a young woman on a scooter came after me to talk.  I believe she said she was a nurse (she showed me a picture on her phone of herself with a mask on her face).  Then she went on, but as I came to her house, she came back out with an elementary English book to carry on a further discourse.  She wrote her name in the dirt with her finger, but I have already forgotten it.  Her mother came out and met me too, and then the young woman excused herself, ran inside and brought out a plastic bag with a cooked ear of corn and a slice of cooked squash for me to take on my journey.  The kindness of strangers always delights.

You can still buy charcoal by the block, baked sweet potatoes, baked eggs, and melons.  Lots of melons still, although I am sure winter will end that supply soon.  Were I braver, or more foolish, I would rent a car and drive into the hinterlands to see what I could see.  If ever I come this way again, I will first obtain an English speaking guide for the duration.

Getting from here to there

The author in Rivertown, whose name I can't recall just now, describes his experience living in rural/small town China for a year.  He talks about how people were slow to warm up to him and his family. A lot of it is different cultural expectations and practices.

And here in Hotan, there is not just the Chinese way, but also the Uyghur way, and both are foreign to me.  It is perfectly ok here to cut in line, or push someone else out of line, or bump people as you walk.  Spitting is big business, you hear it constantly, the snort, the hawking and then the spit.  While some of the young children and the teenage girls smiled at me, very few adults seem to smile.

Hotan is a mixture of Han Chinese imported and settled here by the Chinese government, and the longer term inhabitants, the Uyghur people.  It is a collision of two different cultures to be sure. It seems like the center of town has a stronger Han influence.  But as you move even a block away, especially east, there are whole neighborhoods of people living a life that seems to ignore the fact that they are in China.

Away from the center is heavily Muslim and this shows particularly in the way women dress.  All wear head coverings, mostly scarves, and long skirts with leggings under them.  Some cover all but their eyes, but most leave their entire face uncovered, with all hair, ears and neck fully veiled. The variety of styles is impressive.  I do not get a sense of suppression or sadness in these women generally that I have seen in some Islamic countries.  They drive scooters, go to work and seem to have some say in their destinies.The men wear a sort of skull cap that has four squared off corners, dark green in color mostly, with gold or white embroidered designs. I thought about buying a cap as a souvenir, but it seemed disrespectful or somehow inappropriate.  You see women in the long chadors, and fully scarved, in heels and driving a scooter, or talking on a cell phone.  Or both.

Other women, either more progressive Uyghur or some other background, dress in knee length suits, very nicely turned out, still with a scarf, but less fully covered, usually dark or black tights.  These too you see driving scooters a lot.

Whole families travel on scooters, much like in Central or South America. The most I have seen is a woman with four young children on one.  Often a child of about two stands in the area between the seat and the steering wheel, bounded by the legs and knees of the driver.  Sometimes even younger children are sitting in that same area.  I have not seen anyone fall, although they perch so casually, without holding on, even when holding an infant.

As I was walking down the street

I can't tell if this curtain between us and the sun is smog, sand storms off the desert, both, or something else.  I have seen very little sunshine since being here.  There is a sort of yellow tinge to the overcast, and there is a coating of sand or grime of some sort on everything.  I saw a taxi driver cleaning his car windshield with a paint brush in the morning.  There are street sweepers/trash pickers on every major street, but still there is a layer of grit on everything.  This town is surrounded by desert so I would imagine that is a lot of it.

As I walked, I heard hammers and power tools on Saturday and Sunday. There are a lot of new buildings under construction, most of them 20 or more stories, and they seem to work seven days a week. I see a lot of not quite finished buildings, but have not seen a completed one yet. What is sad is the displacement of the traditional buildings and neighborhoods of the Uyghurs that are being destroyed to make way for the new high rises-almost systematically it seems.  Everywhere I look, I see the remains of the old sitting decrepit next to the new, and I wonder where those people went.

The police presence is palpable here.  I have seen several police actions in progress since being here.  They have huge armored vehicles that look like tanks, just on wheels.  They even have the openings in the top where you often see a couple of soldiers/officers with machine guns.There are big military style trucks that are constantly transporting personnel through town, and they have smaller installations all over downtown.  They stand guard in threes, with their backs making the inside of a triangle, with machine guns of some sort (I do not know guns), shields such as those used for riot protection, and various other weapons.  All of them seem to be 20 years old.  It feels more like an occupying army than a police force.  I suppose in this area of China that is what it is in many ways.  Apparently the Uyghurs, or some portion of them, are actively resisting.  Of course, we will never really know.

Needless to say, security is big business here. Hard to imagine what is spent on all this. I can't recall if I told you about the police officer I met at the airport in Hotan.  We had landed and I was waiting for my bag, and a man walked up and started talking to me in very good English.  He was friendly, and helpful too, but I can't help wondering if he wasn't also trying to assess whether I was a security threat.  He told me that terrorism is a big issue here in Hotan, and that he and nine other officers were just flying in for a short term special assignment to help the local police. He gave me his phone number in case I had an issue while in Hotan, which was very nice to have as a sort of emergency option, but the police never approached me, they just stared like everyone else.

And still, the little children play, things are bought and sold, lovers walk together, and life carries on.

I saw a tag today that said "100% silk" and right below that "100% wool".  I wondered about that.  Silk is big here because it is claimed that silk was first produced in this area of China.  It is also a big area for mining jade, and it is sold everywhere.  I know nothing about jade, unfortunately for those on my souvenir list.

Crossing the street is a pleasure akin to playing foosball, one lane at a time, and irrespective of the traffic signals.

"To dare is to lose one's footing momentarily. To not dare is to lose oneself." Kierkegaard

It occurs to me that the biggest part of how I experience this place is how I approach it, what I bring to it. It is a given that I do not speak Chinese or Uyghur. This will define the outer limits of what I can do, but it need not define the experience itself.

Another way to say it may be that if I can get past myself, and observe this alien world, I will get more from it. Aside from a physical threat, which I do not feel likely, any other anxiety is probably self imposed. No less real for that, but perhaps avoidable.

It is harder to be a voyeur when everyone else is staring back at me. As soon as I walk out the door of the hotel, those standing around turn and stare. I had to laugh a couple of times, as scooter/motorcycle riders turned to look back at me after passing me and almost wrecked.

I made a conscious decision to slow down a bit, at least while I am here.  This strangeness and the attention I get everywhere seems to exhaust me.  Good thing I don't have to worry about papparazi in ordinary life. Still, I won't travel all this way to hide in the hotel.

When I go into a store, a sales person either follows directly behind me the entire time, or stands directly in front of me and talks to me. In Chinese, no less.

I admire their curiosity, and I wish I could engage verbally better. Instead I smile (or grit my teeth, it looks pretty similar) and sometimes I take their picture.

I digress

More of China to come, just a little tidbit on the return to Almaty. I decided to take the easy way out of China, not wanting a repeat of my induction ceremonies. I flew back to Urumqi from Hotan but instead of staying overnight and getting the train to the border the next day, I just flew on to Almaty. Just...nothing that simple when dealing with Chinese customs and immigration. I survived unscathed, if you don't count the blood shed.

I knew what hotel I wanted in Almaty, so once I had negotiated a 1,,000 Tenge price for the taxi, I thought I was all set. I thought it was odd that the driver's friend hopped in front, but as I explained in a prior post, anyone can be a taxi in Almaty, so I let it go.

We got to the hotel and they started talking about 26,000 Tenge. What!? I reminded him of the 1,000 agreement and he said that was just the meter drop. That's when I knew I had a problem, because he definitely had NOT said that. He 'generously' offered to accept 10,000 Tenge. My bags were in the trunk, there were two of them, and it was dark. Still, I refused to be completely ripped off, on principle, and because I didn't have that much in Tenge anyway. At that point the driver wanted me to get my money out and count it. Ha! Not a chance.

I finally convinced one of them to come in the hotel with me (and my bags) to discuss with the staff there. If nothing else, I felt that moving it into the lighted room, with witnesses, reduced my chances of getting mugged. Oddly enough, while I knew I was at risk, I never felt freaked out. I wouldn't want to test it, but my sense was that these two guys wouldn't resort to violence.

Stroke of luck, the really competent guy I remembered from my earlier stay there was working. I asked him how much is customary to pay from the airport. I think up he guessed on the high side, but it was worth it to get rid of those guys. 5,000 Tenge later, they finally slunk off.

All is well that ends well, so 'they' say.

This afternoon, after I had walked far, far away, and not desiring to walk all the way back, I tried to catch a bus.  But the people who were trying to help me told me to take a taxi instead, based on where I was, and where I wanted to go.  So I stood at the curb looking for a car with a taxi label.  I could hear two young women behind me tittering, and I figured it had to do with me.  After a bit, one walked up, introduced herself and asked if she could help me get a taxi.  I knew enought not to turn that down.  A car immediately pulled over and she talked to the driver, a middle aged Russian man driving a Mercedes Benz.  I remembered all those cautions about not not getting into a car with a stranger, but on my new friend's advice, I took the plunge.  Soon we had two other passengers as well, and I stopped white knuckling the bag in my hand.  We struggled through the cross-town rush hour traffic, and I was happily deposited a couple of blocks from my hotel.

Where cars park on the sidewalk and pedestrians walk in the road

As I left the train at Urumqi, I ran into a Kazak woman who had come to practice her English with me on the train.  She was with another woman, Marina, who apparently travels for business.  They were headed to a hotel that Marina had chosen, and Deena asked me if I wanted to go too, and share a taxi with them.  I had planned to stay at another hotel, but I had no reservations and I figured, why not?  It made the taxi process much easier, because Marina could communicate with the driver.

But the hotel ended up being a poor choice for me, for several reasons. It appears to be a business hotel that caters in particular to Kazak travelers, and it is not located close to the center of the city, which is where I wanted to be. They insisted on keeping my passport, which I did not like.  I asked about internet, but no internet available in the hotel, other than in a little cafe, where you had to pay 10 Yuan for it.  Next I asked for a map, so I could figure out how to get places.  To be fair, I doubt their clientele usually goes walkabout in the city, they probably take a cab to any business meetings.  But they had no map, and no suggestions about where to find one. I asked them to change some of my 100 Yuan notes, but even though they offer currency exchange, they would not do that either.  It was not a happy relationship, short though it was.

I decided to go exploring anyway, and see if I could figure out how to get to the city centre.

Things started looking up immediately. Just by chance, I wandered down a street with some vendors just setting up for the day-steamed buns, nan and other food. The street was just beginning to come to life, children were just emerging onto the sidewalk, clearly part of their everyday living space.

I wanted to try a steamed bun of some sort but I was pretty sure my 100 Yuan note was not going to work for such a small purchase, so early in the day.  I showed her the note, just as two guys walked up to buy some as well. One of them changed the note for me, and I bought my two buns for 1 Yuan, and happily munched as I walked.  They were delicious.  I know they had egg and some sort of greens in them, but not sure what seasoning.  I came across a young Muslim boy working at an outdoor bakery of sorts, and bought a thing that looked a lot  like a bagel from the stack in front of the shop.  I tried very hard to keep track of how I went, so I could find my way home, going to far as to draw a simple map.

This process got me to the Ring Road, which I thought went round the city. Only the Ring Road isn't really quite a ring, and it has tendrils that spin off, leaving measure which is the Ring and which the false start. I found myself in a pulsing, neon, ultra modern downtown filled with high rise buildings and freeways, and all the crowds and chaos that go with any city. It was in some ways all cities everywhere.

There are exceptions, but generally I prefer small towns for this reason.  Less uniformity, more character readily discovered as a general rule.  The drawback to small towns is that they are not set up for tourists, especially those who do not know the local language.

Imagine someone who spoke only Russian and Kazak coming to Santa Rosa instead of San Francisco, or Morton, IL vs Chicago.  It is just a lot easier to find people who can help you in the larger cities, they are easier to get to, and easier to get around in.
Ordinary people that I interact with give me the impression that they think I am a little crazy to be here without knowing the language. The guy who had changed my 100 Yuan note for me did not speak any English but he said something like "Russki, no English" and some other things I did not understand.  I took him to be telling me that I should speak Russian, not English in order to be there. I would if I could.

There was a delightful discovery of a Uyghur market in the afternoon, filled with vegetables and everyday things, from knives to headscarves, piles of walnuts and various food vendors hawking their wares to the throngs of non-Han Chinese on their way home from work.

Alas, it was about 5 pm, and I did not relish the idea of finding my way home in the dark, so I commenced looking for the Ring Road. I knew the street name the hotel was on, and wonder of wonders, someone understood me! She said to catch the #10 bus, so that was what I did.  Only I got off too soon, and ended up walking past some very smelly butcher shops- using the term 'shop' very loosely.The skins, freshly harvested, were piled on the ground outside, and there  was a hole at the base of the rough adobe structure that allowed the offal to run out.  Two men were sorting through that outside, and it was dirty, smelly work.  It was about this time that I realized I surely had gone the wrong way.

So I tried to flag down a taxi, but no takers.  I saw a line of cars across the street and it took me a few minutes to realize they were lined up to buy gas.  Apparently gas is very hard to come by here.  Often the stations do not have any to sell, and when they get some, the cars line up for blocks to buy it.  There is a police officer with a gun standing at the entrance, and he regulates traffic into the station, and inspects the trunks of each incoming car.  In fact, our hotel had a similar set up to get into the plaza where it was located.  The cars have to stop for the officer, who may or may not inspect, and then once allowed in, they have to wind their way through a maze of road blocks designed to prevent a quick entry.  There are police everywhere here.

Upon returning to the hotel, I looked at options for dinner.  There was a restaurant in the hotel which turned out to be closed.  I went out and walked around in the vicinity, and found a restaurant that was open.  It had white tablecloths and there were some guests eating, it looked warm and inviting. And all at once, it just wasn't worth the effort.  The weight of the day had accumulated on me.  I went to the Metpo and bought a package of cookies and a Pepsi. I took them up to my unheated room, I wrapped up in the cover from the second bed, and read about Greek mythology. I fell asleep shortly thereafter with all the lights on.  Thus ended my first day in China.

it's funny the first time

I decided to keep a log of the border crossing, although I was careful not to let them see me making notes. Because I'm pretty sure that would be subversive activity.

At 4:50 pm we pulled into a Kazak exit station for a quick passport and visa check, and by 5:00 we were rolling backwards to the yard where our undercarriage was to be changed, due to the different gauge of the former Soviet countries.  Somewhere between that and the entry of customs officers for Kazakhstan, darkness fell.

My passport was taken at 6:20, at 6:49 we began to move, but did not go far.  At 6:58 we stopped again, and at 7:06 an officer with a dog came through.

At 7:15 a small group of officers came by and asked me to pull out and open my bags.  They were all men, and mostly just looked at things, asking me to pull things out but not handling them.  At 7:56 my passport was returned and I foolishly put my bags away under my seat again.

At 8:47, the train moved again, but stopped a short while later.  Another group entered, including someone who apparently is a nurse, who took my temperature around 9:15.

At 9:20 I was asked for my passport again, told to stand up, and I took off my glasses this time without being asked.  The officer thoroughly compared me with my passport, checked my visa and then left with the passport in hand.

9:22: an officer stopped in to say welcome to China.

9:25 brought three more officers, two of whom were women.  They wanted to search all my bags and asked about books and maps.  I pulled out the map of China that I have, and then was required to pull out my bags again to show them all books.  I had one still wrapped in cellophane that is intended as a gift, and she took a long time over that one.  She and her fellow officers commented on the books to each other in Chinese.  The map was the source of an extended discussion in Chinese, but in the end they let me keep it. One of them commented that I like books.  I smiled and agreed.

9:35, another female officer arrived, with a male shadowing, and she asked for my phone.  I said I have no phone but gestured to my tablet, which I had laid on the table.  She took it and went through it pretty thoroughly.  Of course I was not on line so all she could look at was what was stored, which is minimal.  I am surprised she didn't ask to view what I had on my flashdrives. Next she went through a lot of the photos on my camera, but eventually grew weary of that-I have a lot.  And then, you guessed it, she went through my bags. I am not sure if I was singled out because I am an oddity or if everyone gets this treatment.

At 10:17 my passport was returned. At 10:42 the train moved, but false alarm.  It is now 11:00 and we have still not departed.

At 11:30 we finally got under way again.

During these border crossings the toilet is locked and you are expected to stay in or near your cabin.  However, fortunately, between the Kazak and Chinese process, they opened the toilets. Eventually I also got hot water for my noodle dish and had dinner in between visits, once I realized that this really was going to take many hours.

When I read in Lonely Planet that the border crossing takes six hours, I thought surely that was outdated information.  I must say, they have been quite thorough.  Fortunately they have also been civil, even courteous at times.  I thought of making a joke a few times but this is serious business and so I refrained.  Lost opportunity.

tentative confidence

You know how one thing builds on another, such as how an uninvited change in life ends up leading to something you would never been have considered before? Well, that's not exactly what I mean, but close enough. As I walked over to the train station from the hotel, it was dark, drizzly, the street lights were minimal at best, and it seemed I was alone in the night. I was alone, as a matter of fact. But my point has more to do with my comfort with the situation. I would not have been able to do that comfortably at one time. Looking back I can see a sort of progression, each experience pushing the limits of the prior one, whether by design or accident. In such small steps that they were not visible to me at the time, I have gained confidence in new situations, whether at work, or traveling, or some other life activity.
I suspect I will need to draw on that supply in the next week. I am excited about going to western China, but I am intimidated as well. Once again, the language is beyond me, so I will have to try to compensate in some way. There remains the possibility of failure, which of course teaches more than success; still I prefer happy results.
Meanwhile I can't help holding my breath a little.

On boarding, it became immediately apparent that I was assigned to a cabin with a railway employee, but he immediately moved me to my own cabin, which has turned out very well.  The beds are more like padded benches, and smaller too, but  the cabin has a power outlet, and best of all, it is mine alone. We rolled out of the station right on time.

With the cabin to myself, I can leave the curtains open, even at night, and watch the lights of the small stations and towns we pass. Along the way, the nature of the stations, and the settlements has changed sublty.  The shapes of the roofs, the cemeteries, the minarets and other things indicate an asian influence.  Outside the villages, there are miles and miles of steppe with no tree in sight, and grey skies.
There are only a few other passengers in this car, plus a contingent of railway employees.  Either they have a full contingent of staff for a long trip and there are just not that many of us, or some of them are riding off-duty.  They keep to themselves unless asked for something. I showed one who was walking by my cup and tea bag and asked about hot water, and he pointed to the spigot.  We have moved on to stoop/pit toilets, which is probably a heads up about what the next week will bring.

I am snug in my cabin, and life is very good right now.

We pulled into a station and I saw a couple of vendors alongside, so I went out.  They were two women with handwheeled carts which on closer inspection look like repurposed old fashioned baby buggies.  I felt slightly smug at being able to negotiate the transactions. I pulled out Yuan (Chinese currency) but she shook her head no-of course-while the staff is Chinese on the train, we are still in Kazakhstan.

When I started planning this trip, Urumqi seemed exotic and beyond my ken, and now I can see past it to so many delights and treasures.  I will only scratch the surface.

a little worse for wear

I am recently returned from the land of internet censorship-one of those places anyway. If I had known before what I know now, I would have been more prepared, but that's the way of all new experiences, I think.

I am posting my notes in chronological order, but I have edited them a little. Looking over the past week, I can see a progression. My first introductions to China were challenging at best. I am reminded of many people in other places who were able to look past American governmental actions and did not judge it's people generally, and me specifically. So as the week went on, while I was hampered by my lack of language skills to a degree I have never been anywhere else, there was a gradual edification process for me. Painful often and a very steep learning curve, but I don't regret the experience.

So if you can mentally wind back the clock a bit, my posts start last week with the train ride from Almaty, Kazakhstan to Urumqi, China.

China

I have arrived in China, in Urumqi. I am attempting to post this via email. If someone can please comment that you can read it, that would be great. More later.

It is the land of censorship, I guess, because I am unable to access my blog (subversive, I know), maps, Facebook, etc.