Uzbekistan

Crossing the border into Uzbekistan hit me with a sense of definitely being in a different country. All my other border crossings have been through remote border outposts, no hint of the change in culture language or people other than brief interaction with  border officials. The Osh border is in the middle of the city and the Uzbek side hustles with an airport bazaar. My sense was a gentler feel, a familiarity which I attributed to the sudden change from crylic alphabet. I could read the letters if not the language.

The ride out towards Andijon was on busy highway, and most of my ride through Uzbekistan was limited by the narrow corridor between the Tajikistan and Kazakhstan borders. My initial attempt plotting a route towards Samarkand were foiled by two non-international Tajik border crossings.

My second day finished at the foot of the high pass heading into Tashkent. I didn't have the energy to tackle the pass so stopped at a local store for a drink and mull over options. The storekeeper kept me enterained with some fun interaction, gradually gathering a small crowd of local men. The small crowd gathering where ever I stopped, became a theme of Uzbekistan. A few days later I stopped to cook breakfast unknowingly outside a school. Until the two teachers eventually dispersed the crowd I was surrounded and bombarded with questions.

Back at the store I had noticed a environmental reserve down the road which looked like camping territory. I had just headed off when two park Rangers pulled alongside. Within minutes I was set up to camp in the park office, which was used for the night shift officer to sleep. By the time I had unpacked, the officer had arranged a shower with neighbour's across the road and fresh bread from another neighbour. My shower hosts were delightful people, with the daughter training to be an English teacher delegated as translator, I discovered her mother was also a teacher. Another brief encounter but rich in simple generosity and courtesy.

Next morning I headed up the climb to the Kamchik Pass, slowly in the heat. Ahead I could see a big toll gate structure, buzzing with Police. I was immediately pulled aside "no cycles allowed over the pass, you need to get transport". I had barely finished my pleas with the officer when his colleagues had pulled over an empty van. Protest over the bike was bundled into the back of the van. My driver was as hyper as the other traffic on the road. Music blaring, Uzbek, Russian, Kazakh, Turkish, beats across most of central Asia. Periodically my phone would be commandeered to translate another question. A fun but hair raising ride, however the long dark tunnels at the top would have been a huge risk on the bike, so I was marginally safer.

The road to Samarkand was a forgettable brush with continuous heavy and noisy traffic. Then into Samarkand itself. Off the busy highway into whisper quiet ancient narrow twisting streets, ending at the traditional guest house I had found just a short walk from the famous Registan Square. Everything about the majesty and architectural beauty of the mosques and monuments exceeded expectations, despite my reluctance to be a "real" tourist. But the bonus for me was the historic charm of the guest house itself and the sense of history in the twisting lanes as I wandered in fascination.

Beautiful bread at every stop

The vibrant market immediately across the Uzbek border

Somas became a lunch regular

My slightly quirky hotel in Buka - a pity reception forgot to give my passport back on checkout

Leaving Jizzax and a rapid transition into desert

Courtyard of my beautiful old Samarkand guesthouse

History and beautiful architecture of Samarkand