October 2009 Archives

While in Yerevan, I also had the pleasure of visiting the museum dedicated to famous Soviet film director, Sergei Parajanov.

To say that the guy was a little eclectic would be an understatement.

On recommendations from a friend, I went outside of the centre to see what Yerevan was like for locals.

As always, the image is very different from that put on for tourists.

I was surprised to find a mosque not far from the centre of Yerevan.

Located just out of Yerevan is Etchmiadzin, where the head of the Armenian church resides (think Armenian equivalent of the Vatican).

Etchmiadzin

A child is being baptised in the small temple nearby. 

After the priest finished the baptism, I approach him to get a blessing and realise that Armenians (as with the Catholic faith) perform the cross opposite to the Orthodox faith. Catholic – forehead, chest, left shoulder right shoulder, Orthodox – right shoulder, left shoulder.

Feeling blessed and that god is on my side, I decide I’ll hitch hike to Khor Virap after returning to Yerevan.

Do you know where is Armenia? 

It seems that sheer chance governed my trip through Armenia. I somehow stumbled upon that post when I was in Azerbaijan and agreed to meet up with Roseanna to see Yerevan and hear about places to go.

Prior to heading up the cascades.

Er?

And?

I'd told Roseanna that I'd been thinking of going to Nagorno-Karabakh and she mentions that they have a client coming in to their tour agency (Discover Armenia) looking to head there, but he won't be arriving for a few days. I think that I won't be in Yerevan long enough to meet up with the guy so put the thought in the back of my head. I definitely did not expect to meet him the way I did, but that's another story.

I spend another few days in Yerevan because I love it so much, taking in several sights:

Museum of Manuscripts

Newly built pedestrian street.

Yerevan philharmonia, a steal at only 500 drams (less than $1.50 USD). The same price applied at the Russian language theatre.

Recently built cathedral.

In the evening I catch the republic square fountain show:

So I’ve been in Georgia for two days and it’s rainy. What to do?

Leave the country. Hope it gets better when I return.

I walk from Luka’s to the Tbilisi avtovokzal and hop in a marshrutka that’s due to leave in five minutes. Forty minutes later, we leave. The driver asks me for 300 lari for the trip. I don’t even think for a minute and hand over the money ($195 AUD), the driver takes 30 lari, he said 300 but meant to say 30. From this point on, no one on the marshrutka talks to me, the crazy foreigner that wanted to pay over $150USD for a six hour ride.

I fall asleep within five minutes of taking off, realising that I hadn’t slept the night before (a potentially expensive mistake). I wake up just as we arrive at the Georgia/Armenia border (a mere two hours from Tbilisi by marshrutka). The customs officer on the Georgian side of the border isn’t convinced that I am the person in my passport photo. He asks me for further proof. I make my second mistake of the trip, I show my second passport. The officer starts making calls via the radio, after five minutes he decides to let me leave the country.

I get to the Armenian side of the border, the customs officer points to the queue for visas and says visa. My westerner disguise must be working. I reply ruskiy, head to the queue to get my passport stamped. The soldier starts going through every page in my Russian passport. Where is the Georgian exit stamp? he asks. I have to show my second passport.

The soldier starts working extra hard, he senses a bribe coming. He continues to leaf through the passport, finding the gold nugget he was looking for.

Soldier: So you’ve been to Azerbaijan ey?

Me: Yes.

Soldier: Why?

Me: I’m a traveller and want to see as much of the world as possible.

Soldier: What do you think of Azerbaijan?

Me: It’s nice.

Soldier: Bullsh*t, it’s a f*cked up country, the president is a terrorist and they should all die.

Me: Can you stamp my passport please?

Soldier (realising he’s getting no bribe from me): *stamp* Get out of my sight.

Border crossing between Georgia and Armenia, taken from the Armenian side.

I hop back into the marshrutka and spend the rest of the trip drifting in and out of sleep (catching glimpses of Haghpat and Sanahin amidst the rain. I decide to not stop here due to the bad weather and make a choice to see them on the way back into Georgia).

I arrive in Yerevan avtovokzal to the sight of this amazing monument. I walk around my surroundings and change currency in the first booth I see. Moments later, I’m on the internet, looking at the wikitravel article for Yerevan to find a place to stay since I didn’t organise any couches to surf. I settle on the Envoy Hostel in Yerevan, Armenia.

After checking in and taking my first shower in over a week, I take a quick tour…

… try some local food …

… and laugh my head off before heading back to the hostel for more sleep.

Having left my bag and all of its valuables in the apartment of someone I’d never met after being let in by their neighbour, I head out with Irakli and Shota to grab some dinner.

Shota, being the man of fine tastes takes us to a restaurant where we eat two national dishes: Khinkali and Khachapuri. From dinner, we head to the TV tower for a view of the city.

Due to unforseen rain, we’re stuck out in the cold and have to wait it out. It’s 1am when I finally arrive at Luka’s to meet him and it turns out to be no big deal.

The following day, I walk around Tbilisi, visiting a lot of churches five within the space of two hours. Since it starts raining, I abandon my plans to head to Kazbegi and instead, decide to go to Armenia.

Some of the many churches in Tbilisi.

After the hassle free border crossing between Azerbaijan and Georgia (Balakan to Lagodekhi), I head to the marshrutka stand via taxi which I pay for in Azeri manat. The Georgian driver in his thick Georgian accent tells me about the difficulty in finding work in his country, how much he hates the current president and finally asserts that being Russian has no negative ramifications for my travelling in his country.

With absolutely no Georgian lari on hand, I tell the driver that I have manat and dollars and will need to stop somewhere to change currency. No problem he says and we leave twenty minutes later with myself as the only passenger, though that quickly changes.

After arriving in Tbilisi and quickly running to a money change kiosk, I pay the driver and am to spend the night couch surfing with a Georgian by the name of Luka. Apart from an address, an invitation to arrive any time and a phone number that’s currently unreachable, I don’t have much more information. I pick a random direction and decide that it’s the way to Luka’s place and so start walking.

Arriving at the metro station and not knowing where to go, I ask the first person I see if they speak English. Irakli does speak English, helps me buy a sim card ($1USD gets me 3 minutes talk time and 300 free SMS, much better compared to the high prices I was paying in Azerbaijan). Since he’s not busy at the moment, he agrees to join me for the next hour before meeting his friend.

Walking around Tbilisi, I’m glad that I’ve picked such a lightweight backpack. We head straight for Tbilisi’s star attraction, Sameba (Holy Trinity) Cathedral. Georgians mostly follow the Georgian Orthodox faith.

After visiting the cathedral, we head into the centre of town where we meet Irakli’s friend Shota (named after the famous poet Shota Rustavelli, after whom the main street has also been renamed). Irakli, Shota and myself find the location of Luka’s place and find no one home. The neighbour’s seem to be aware of this and happily open the door and let me in.

Walking inside, I find another four backpacks on the floor in the living room, the walls of which are covered in maps, drawings and pamphlets, typical of many hostels. Many of the comments left by previous guests are along the lines of Luka it was great to stay at your house and I’m sad that we didn’t get to meet, but thanks for your hospitality. I find this absolutely amazing that someone can be so trusting and hospitable to strangers. I decide there’s nowhere in Tbilisi I’d rather stay, leave my bag, lock the door behind me and head outside with my new friends.

One and all, I'd like to finally add a long overdue video gallery to the list of material on this site.

Check out the Fountain show in Yerevan, my English lesson in a Tibetan School and Cruising in a Lada. For those of you not afraid of graphic videos, you can watch breakfast, lunch and dinner being slaughtered.

Enjoy and comment on what you want to see more videos of.

I arrive in Zaqatala with 15 manat left. I find a share bed for 5 manat, leaving me with 10 manat to reach Georgia. Next to the hotel I stay is the local mosque, the following day is the holiday of Eid/Bayram. I want to go to the mosque during the holiday, so go out as soon as I find a bed for the night to see if it’s feasible.

Mosque in Zaqatala, Azerbaijan.

Attached to the mosque is an Islamic school where I meet a fellow by the name of Mohammed (what are the odds?) and we get into a long discussion about the existence of god and the purpose of faith. I tell him about how little manat I have left, he tells me that it’s no problem, the following day is Eid and Allah will take care of me. He invites me into his house for the night and tells me he’ll feed me and give me any money that I lack to get to Georgia.  I’ve already prepaid my accommodation so I agree to meet him the following day at the mosque.

Strolling around in the evening after Mohammed and I part ways, I’m drawn to the WWII memorial.

Next to the run-down memorial is a run-down looking cafe. The sun has almost set, it’s dark and a couple of rough-looking guys invite me to join them. One of them, covered in tattoos and with the appearance of someone who’s done time and been in a lot of fights introduces himself as Raphik. Our discussions gets to the story of how the guard on my train tried to plant heroin on me to have me busted by Kazakh soldiers for drug trafficking.

From there Raphik tells me other tricks that they could have pulled (concealing heroin in their hand, reaching into my pocket and pulling it out or distracting me and planting it in my bag) and I become a little apprehensive trying to figure out who I’ve gotten myself involved with. He goes on to tell me about some of the things that went on in Russia during the bandit times (after the fall of the USSR) and mentions that he was in Moscow for quite some time in that period. I don’t ask whether or not he participated in the stories he tells.

I tell him about my encounter with Mohammed and how he said Allah will take care of everything at which point Raphik’s expression turns completely serious.

Raphik: This person you just met told you Allah will get you to Georgia without any problems. Do you really trust someone you just met when they tell you things like this?

Me: Yes, I can see that he believes in it so much that I believe in it also.

Raphik: Follow me.

It’s late in the evening, the streets in Zaqatala are unlit. Raphik is covered in tattoos and has a few scars from street fights. He’s told me a few stories of fights he’s been in. I don’t even hesitate when I get up and follow him into the dark streets. As we walk, Raphik ignores all the “normal looking” characters and gives a greeting to the “rough looking” ones. He quickens his pace and I follow. We stop at a house, he looks up and down the street, opens the gate and says I should go inside. Would you have followed him?

I go inside the house to meet Raphik’s family, his wife and son, older brother with wife and son and also his parents. They’re in the the middle of dinner when we arrive. Raphik retells the story of how we met, of my travels and of what Mohammed had told me. Raphik’s father tells me that he would never follow someone like Raphik if they asked him to follow them, which is why he could never travel like I have.

We eat dinner for the next hour and in the process, I realise just how little money the family has. Raphik long ago stopped his life of crime to raise a son with his wife. His outward appearance still puts people off meeting him. His generosity is unimaginable back home, but completely typical in Azerbaijan. After we finish eating, I offer the last of my money to Raphik for his generosity, he tells me to put the money away before I upset him, that Mohammed was right, Allah will look after me and that I should go to mosque the following morning.

The following morning, given the lack of shower in the share room, I cleanse myself in the sink of the bathroom, put on the last change of clean clothes I have and head to mosque. Mohammed is nowhere to be found, I walk around for a bit, come back and find the mosque is now open, I go inside to find what I estimate to be several hundred men listening to the imam. I do likewise, praying as the people around me do.

After the final prayer as I’m walking away from the mosque to my room to grab my bag, one of the men outside the mosque who saw me the previous day talking to Mohammed tells me that I’m not leaving without sharing breakfast with them and points me in the direction of the cafeteria.

During breakfast, I find Mohammed, serving tea and breakfast to everyone present, when he sees me, he smiles and tells me that he knew that we’d meet here. Allah is looking after you Ivan, I still remember those words.

During breakfast, I meet some of the other students of the school who let me know that since Mohammed’s father died, both he and his mother have to spend every spare minute working in order to put food on the table, a fact that I’d been oblivious to. How can one man be so poor and yet offer everything he has to a complete stranger he’d met the day before? I have such an amazing respect for my friend.

I parted ways eventually with my humble friend and made it to the border of Azerbaijan for a grand total of two manat, leaving me with another eight. I show my Russian passport on the Azeri side of the border, this border guard, rather than try and extract a bribe quizzes me extensively about life in Australia and whether it’s possible to get work there. His colleague joins me and I give them advice on how to apply for a working visa to Australia, they wish me well in Georgia and I wish them happy festivities.

At the Georgian border, I show my Australian passport, laugh at the fact that their passport scanning machine has a sticker saying Department of Homeland Security and give a solid thankyou when they say “Gamar Joba, Welcome to Georgia!”.

Just as Mohammed said, Allah got me to Georgia…

I rock up to Sheki without much of a plan of what to do. I start chatting with one of the attendants at the avtovokzal and mention that I'm looking for a place to stay. He makes a phone call and ten minutes later I'm greeted by a man who takes me to stay at his place (his name escapes me for now, if you have the Lonely Planet Caucuses edition please comment). He mentions that he's in the Lonely Planet under Sheki places to stay, I tell him I believe him (I've given up on looking for guidebooks while travelling).

I stay with him and his family for a night, and realise the problem faced by a lot of people in this region with working in the tourist industry. Their culture mandates that the guest is treated with the utmost respect and should be wined, dined and left well rested which raises a dilemma when it comes to accepting money for such services.

The family that takes me in, brother and sister on the right, neighbour's kid (who has a crush on the sister) on the left.

The town is fairly small so I manage to see all of it within a day.

Old church converted to Museum.

The store that sells the best Sheki Halva in all of Sheki, directions courtesy of wikitravel.

Courtyard of the Caravanserai hotel which still functions as a hotel, even if you aren't staying there, have a look.

Sheki Khansarai, it's worth it to do the free tour and hear the stories about the place. Also if you get a chance, have a look at the video about Sheki.

After seeing the sights of Sheki, I take a bus to the village of Kish where I look at the ancient Albanian church (complete with human remains in the open grave).

I remembered reading somewhere that there was an old fort within two hours walk of Kish and a small percentage of the locals seemed to know what I was talking about, so I set off following their directions.

The village of Kish.

I stop for nutrients along the walk.

The view from the walk. Not long after I took this photo, I came across two Azeri soldiers standing in the field. They took my passport details, radioed to their higher ups and said that unfortunately I was not allowed to cross into the dangerous region. To this day, I have no idea what they were guarding.

After I returned to Sheki and said my goodbyes, the family urged me to stay one more night so that I could join in the Bayram (Ramadan) festivities with them. In retrospect, I should have stayed.

After leaving Johnny, I head to Ganja where the first hotel I walked into was incredibly expensive. The receptionist realises that there’s no way that I can afford to stay there (maybe my smell gave it away), she tells me about  the cheap hotel in Ganja (Hotel Kapaz) – Next to the statue of Nizami.

Unfortunately for the staff at the hotel, I meet a local Sabuhi, who invites me to stay with him (forewarning me that he lives like a poor student).

Poor guy, I help him devour some of his pomegranates and grapes.

In the evening, we proceed to make shashlyk and feast like kings. Left to right, Myself, Sabuhi and his room-mate Cesaret.

During the day, we take in most the sights of Ganja:

The puppet theatre – Sabuhi tells the performers who are rehearsing a new show that I’m a tourist and that I’m leaving before their next show. They let me watch the rehearsal and meet some of the stars of the show.

Senor Rooster at the Ganja Puppet Theatre.

The bottle house of Ganja, a sight that many locals don’t know. The owners said that the house was built as tribute to the son lost in WWII. Rocks and bottles were imported from various regions of the USSR. This place is seriously cool, I tried to get the owners keen on the idea of hosting Couch Surfers, they were more interested in smoking.

Look, it’s a flamingo chilling, I can watch these for hours.

The absolute must see sight of Ganja, Azerbaijan is the Mausoleum of famous Persian poet Nizami Ganjavi.

The story goes that they built the tomb on the sight of his father’s home town. They wanted to move the mausoleum into the centre of town (making it more accessible to tourists and others wanting to pay their respects). A series of misfortunate accidents occurred while setting up the mausoleum closer to the centre, so they left the mausoleum where it is now.

I also visited the museum in Ganja, where there is an exhibit dedicated to the Khojaly Massacre. Cesaret, Sabuhi’s room mate was from the region where the massacre occurred, and it was deeply saddening to see his reaction as he walked through the exhibit.

Addendum: After visiting the museum, I subsequently visited Armenia and Nagorno-Karabakh. While on a tour of the museum of Nagorno-Karabakh in Stepanakert, I asked the tour guide (a young 21yo girl) about the massacre and what her thoughts on it were. She adamantly stated that there was no massacre, that the civilians were shot by Azeri soldiers and that she couldn’t care less about what happened, a saddening truth highlighting how neither government is doing anything to prevent the youth feeling anger and wanting to gain “justice” for the war – I’d met plenty of Azeris and Armenians who had nothing but pure hatred for the other side and wished they would all be wiped out. Young and old had stories about how the other side persecuted them, justifying their hatred.

On the Aktau/Baku ferry, one of the passengers (Johnny) invited me to stay with him at his home in Masalli. Johnny is ethnically a Talysh, there are close to a million of them, they speak their own language, more related to Farsi than to Turkish like the Azeri language.

Along the way (Johnny gives me a lift, with his friend Sayid) we pass a speed trap consisting of two policemen hiding under a tree with a radar gun. Johnny stops and they exchange a few words. Later he tells me that they'd caught him speeding two days earlier and asked him for a 20 manat (30AUD) bribe to not take his license for speeding. He replied that he had two licenses with him, if they could catch him, they could have one of them.

At one point, Johnny turns to me:

Johnny: You want to take a bath? I know a great place where the girls give the best blowjobs, my treat.

Me: Maybe later.

Johnny: Or how about we go shoot some guns, have you ever shot a gun before?

Me: No.

Johnny: Good, if we find some time, we'll go shoot some guns. I have pistols and a rifle, if you want, an AK47.

Me: Tempting.

Johnny: How about to go to Iran, the border is thirty kilometres from my home.

Me: I don't have a Visa.

Johnny: No problems, I know people here to take care of it for you, pay a small amount of money and you can get one to go over there.

Me: Bribing my way to Iranian visa, tempting.

As we're approaching his town, we pull over and Johnny points out two car wrecks that were involved in a head-on. The driver of one of them died, Johnny was the first to arrive on the scene to watch the driver die. The driver was his twenty-two year old nephew, he'd shown me a photo of the car crash earlier on the ferry.

Next up, we take a photo with one of his towns cops.

Johnny: Lets take a photo with the pig Ivan.

Cop: *laughs nervously*

Johnny: Don't worry, it's only going on the internet.

Cop: No, please not on the internet.

Johnny: Shut up and smile, I'm joking.

*take the photo*

Johnny: I lied, it's going on the internet.

Drinking tea in his local chai-hana (tea house). The man on the left of Johnny is the uncle of Hadji, another of the passengers on the boat who walked/hitchhiked his way from Baku to Mecca. The man to my left is Sayid, who came with us from Baku and who took me around the sights of the area.

The following day after sightseeing in and around Linkoran, we're having lunch and copious amounts of vodka follow. Out of the four of us drinking, I'm the only one not driving. We approach a couple of cops on the side of the road and Johnny offers one of the cops a 5 manat bribe. The cop replies, you know we don't need your money Johnny. After some insistence the cop takes the money.

Me: What was the point of that bribe?

Johnny: We were out drinking. The cops would never think about hassling me for drinking, but now if they pull over the other two drivers, there won't be any problems for them.

Me: Why would they never think about pulling you over here?

Johnny: I'm well respected here, everyone knows me. I used to have an army and fight against the Azeri government. I was against our current president and in support of another man, because of this, we fought wars with the president. I've spent six years in prison because of this, but I've quit all that, I have a family now, a wife and children, they don't want me to die.

It's amazing to see how much the neighbourhood and his friends respect him. Irrespective of whether it's fear or admiration, his favourite restaurant always has a table ready for him, vodka food, everything.

It shows most in his five year old son's attitude. Not being used to not getting what he wants, he throws tantrums over anything that doesn't go his way. Hi bites, he spits and soon he messes with me. He spits on me once and I slap him across his face, hard enough to bring him to tears. When the kid inevitably runs to daddy, Johnny asks me what happened. I told him the kid had been spitting, I hit him so that next time he got the urge to spit, he'd remember the pain, I'd expect the same sort of discipline for my children. Johnny thanks me and tells me he's never had anyone have the courage to do that.

Waking up on the park bench outside the Aras hotel at 8am, we start looking for the Thousand Camels hostel. When I eventually arrive in the old town, after a detour of breakfast, I’m twenty metres from the hostel when a guy (Ali) on the street asks me if I’m going to the hostel and says I can stay with him for cheaper.

After agreeing on a price, he invites me into his cafe and pours me some tea, taking me back to his place and offering me breakfast. The view from his balcony is amazing, it overlooks the maiden tower.

Maiden tower in Baku Old Town.

Do I look delicious to you?

Om nom nom.

Mosque located near the monument dedicated to the Turkish assistance in the war with Armenia.

Azerbaijan is experiencing some serious growth thanks to the oil money they’re making. With GDP growth at close to 30%, there are construction projects going on everywhere in Baku (and nowhere else in Azerbaijan).

New Museum in Baku, not quite open when I visited. I was kicked out by security after wandering in and looking around.

Another almost finished, not quite yet unveiled building in Baku.

The cargo ship arrives at 2am. Going through immigration/customs at 3am is not the best idea in the world. The entire time I’m in the queue with the other passengers, I’m thinking “don’t mention that you’re going to Armenia, don’t mention that you’re going to Armenia”.

When I’m second in line, the guy in front of me starts making idle chit-chat and eventually asks me where I’m going. Baku, I reply, around Azerbaijan, then Georgia Armenia and Russia. F*ck, I realise I’ve said it just as the words roll off my tongue. The border guard was within earshot.

It comes to my turn to go through the “interview”.

Officer: Where are you going and where did you come from?

Me: From Aktau to Baku.

Officer: And then?

Me: Georgia and flight to Moscow.

At this point the guard from outside comes in and pipes in “and Armenia!”

Officer: Is this true?

Me: Maybe.

Officer: Hmm, this passport looks like a forgery, we’re going to have to take it to forensics. It’ll take a few days to get it back from the lab, we can’t let you into the country until it’s done. Of course, we could help you, if you’d “help” us. Will you “give thanks”?

Me: If you can help me, I can give thanks.

Officer: *as other officer stamps my passport* You should give him a little something for letting you into the country.

Me: *taking passport* Thanks, from the bottom of my heart.

Next interview, I’m in a room with two officers, one a very cute girl, the other her superior.

Female officer: Where are you going?

Me: Baku, then flying home.

Female officer: Do you have any Tenge?

Me: No, I spent it all.

Female officer: Manat?

Me: No, I will get some from the ATM.

Female officer: American dollars?

Me: I have some.

Female officer: Show me.

Me: *take out some money from pocket, holding it in hand, show it to her, ignoring her outstretched hand*

Female officer: *realising she won’t get the chance to take some of my money* Those are not American dollars *laughing* they are Azeri dollars, we have them everywhere. Off you go.

Charlie and I walk away from the immigration point and head into the city centre looking for the Aras Hotel, supposedly the cheapest in town to sleep until 8am. We come upon some restaurant and after some troubles communicating (they only speak Azeri), we think they let us sleep a few hours on one of the couches. We get setup, only to have them come in and tell us an incredibly high price. We leave.

We arrive at 4am and after some extensive banging on the door, the guy sleeping on the couch finally wakes up comes outside and tells us its 20AZN (Azeri New Manat) for the night, each. We ask if we can have it for 5 each since it’s only a few hours of sleep. He says wait a second, goes back inside, locks the door and climbs back into bed.

While waiting for the ferry to depart for Baku, I meet an American (Charlie) who’s travelling around the world by bicycle. We take in ALL of the sights of Aktau within a few hours, museum, WWII memorial (eternal flame), MIG jet (just like Shymkent), mosque and a swim in the Caspian Sea (much cleaner than the Baku side since there’s no oil refining happening close to the coast).

Aktau WWII memorial (eternal flame)

MIG Jet

Mosque in Aktau.

There’s a park containing some of the weirdest statues I’ve ever seen.

For those looking to catch the ferry from Aktau, Kazakhstan to Baku, Azerbaijan, the only place you can get tickets from is Tagu, a travel agent located right next to the WWII memorial (eternal flame) in Aktau microrayon 7.

I arrived on a Sunday to find that the ferry left on the previous Friday and tends to leave roughly once a week. After checking with Alyona at Tagu every day, I eventually left on the following Friday on a cargo ship by the name of Dagestan. The cheapest ticket cost me 14,100 Tenge ($111AUD, $94USD). The cheapest plane ticket was 23,500 Tenge. Factoring in five nights accommodation and living expenses, the plane would be cheaper.

If you want a private cabin, rather than paying the extra 3,000 Tenge to Tagu, simply upgrade when you get on the ship, you can negotiate for 1,000 Tenge or you can just go into one of the unlocked cabins at night like the girl on the ship told us because she took a liking to us. I ended up sleeping in the shared seating area because it was comfortable enough.

The ship did have a cafe on board, though the choices weren’t magnificent. Though I’d brought enough food and water for two-three days like the lonely planet suggested, there were no delays in the trip. Speaking with a passenger that’s made the journey five times, he’s never experienced delays.

Alyona told us to get to the port at 6pm which we did, though it was 9pm before we started going through customs/immigration. There is an unsecured wireless access point in the terminal. Just after midnight, we boarded the ship but didn’t leave until close to 4am.

If you entered Kazakhstan by train from Uzbekistan (Kungrad-Beyneu), you should have two stamps on your migration card which will let you stay for thirty days without registering. If you’re from the SNG countries, former USSR, you need to register within five days (not five business days like in Almaty), the migration/OVIR office is in microrayon 3 right next to the hotel kerimet (the cheapest one in Aktau, shared room 1500 Tenge, single room 2000 Tenge).

After missing the lunch time train to Aktau; apparently it’s my responsibility to know that the train comes to the station one hour before it says so on the ticket; I catch the midnight train.

Since I’m riding plaskart (shared wagon with no assigned seats), when the train pulls up, a mob forms at both doors to my wagon. One of the guards selectively lets people onto the train with their bags, and tells others to go away, I’m in the group that has to go away and so end up joining the group at the other door where we all take turns to push and shove our way on.

I walk down the carriage to find that every bunk either has someone sleeping on it, or is being saved for someone with another person’s luggage. Likewise with every seat. Soon I’m at the very end of the wagon.

People are still pushing and shoving around me, so I just stand there and wait until someone finally moves over so I can settle into the worst seat on the entire train. The spot right next to the door for the toilet and smoking area.

It’s a fun game playing contortionist in order to get some sleep, any time I stretch out in my sleep, I’m woken up by someone opening the door , into my kneecap.

At a quiet point in the middle of the night, when everyone is too tired to go to the toilet or smoke, I finally pass out for much needed kip.

“F*CKING, SH!T, CVNT F*CK” I’m woken up from my sleep by the sound of my own voice, shouting loud enough to wake the entire wagon. The intense pain in my foot sends shockwaves up my body. I slowly piece together what happened based on the person still lying on my foot and everyone nearby looking up.

The guy lying on the third level bunk rolled over in his sleep and fell off, deciding that my right foot would be his point of impact. Eleven of his family members sitting around us, could not care less, grandma laughs openly.

When the man finally gets up, someone finally translates that he’s sorry. I accept the feigned apology, in too much pain to do anything but nurse my foot. Someone in a rush to get to the bathroom walks past me, opening the door into my throbbing foot, sending new waves of pain into my foot and cursing into my words. Grandma laughs again.

Not a single person offers to swap seats with me. Not a single person asks if I’m ok. Not a single person fetches the guard to apply ice. The pain is too intense to do anything.

I finally contort myself into a position where I can shield my foot from the toilet door and people walking past, but it’s far too uncomfortable to sleep in, not that it matters given the pain I’m feeling.

Everyone very quickly goes back to the sleep that I’ve deprived them of, and I’m left with my pain, my body breaking out in a sweat from it.

It’s still another seven hours until Aktau, I have nothing to do but think. At one point, I almost laugh, thinking about all the stupid things I’ve done (Tibet with no permit, climbing mountains without supplies, hitchhiking on the back of a tractor with a raging yak) and find it funny that the one thing that could cancel my trip is a broken foot thanks to some idiot falling out of bed.

I decide that if this pain continues, the following day I’ll get an X-ray and if it’s broken a cast and call it a premature end to the trip. This hurts far more than the pain in my leg.

The seven hours pass by at snail’s pace, I pass them by counting the number of people that bump into the foot, or simply brush past it as they walk past (I give up after thirty). When it comes time to go to the toilet, I almost pass out in the toilet from the pain.

As the train pulls into the station, the entire family, still oblivious to my pain goes into a frenzy to collect their bags so they can be the first ones out of the train. When one of them bumps into my foot, grandma laughs again. I burn an image of her face into my mind so that should I see her again, I’ll punch her, unashamedly.

The train stops and I manage to get my bag on and slowly limp off the train. It takes twenty minutes to walk from the train, 200m to the taxi stand where I can get a taxi to a hotel.

I reach my bed, drop the bag and pass out from the pain. Six hours later I wake up, force myself to hobble next door to the cafe, eat, hobble back and pass out until the following morning.

After a bit too much partying the previous night at Sabit’s house (our taxi driver form Kungrad to Moynaq), we get to the train station two minutes before my train takes off, talk about cutting it close.

I have a ten hour train trip, and have run out of cym, and as such am faced with a long day with no lunch. My plan is to walk down the carriage until I find a group of people to befriend and hope their natural Uzbek hospitality kicks in when it comes to lunch time and they notice I’m not eating anything.

I find a good group, a couple, a mother and daughter, and a husband and wife and spend the first few hours showing them photos and telling them about my trip. They reward me with tea, lunch and a bunk bed to sleep on.

I decide to wander up and down the train to see if I can find some foreigners to travel with. Big mistake. As I reach the guard for the next carriage, he asks me where I’m going, I give him some story about looking for my friends and do this for the next few guards also. Coming back, I stumble upon some of Uzbekistan’s finest (most crooked) cops (менты – slang term, pronounced Mentee).

Cops: Documents.

Me: *Giving them passport* Here you go.

Cops: Where are you sitting?

Me: The fifth carriage.

Cops: What, you think you can just wander around the train, where’s your registration?

Me: Here it is for the last night, the rest are in my bag. – Foreigners are supposed to have an OVIR registration slip from their hotel for every night they’re in Uzbekistan. I start to get the feeling that the rules are different for Russians and former USSR republics, similar to how it was in Kazakhstan, and start to think I could be in some trouble.

Cops: This isn’t the registration, you’re going to have problems at the border, the fine at the border is 1.5million cym ($1000AUD), you should come with us and answer some questions *cough* bribe us *cough*, and we’ll take care of the registration for you.

At this point their boss shows up:

Head cop: Ivan Alexandrovich ey, where’s your registration?

Me: I have all of the registration slips from my hotels in my bag, I can show them now. – I’m lying, I’ve gone close to five days unregistered.

Head cop: Where’s your OVIR registration that all former USSR citizens need to have?

Me: No one mentioned that to me, they just said hotel registration will be fine.

Head cop: Your Russian is strongly accented, where are you from?

Me: Australia.

Head cop *cracking a smile*: Get out of here son. *to the other cops* his registration is fine.

I head back to my seat and spend the rest of the trip to the border thinking about how to talk my way out of this fine.

We reach the Uzbekistan side of the border and everyone’s passports are collected. After an hour or so of waiting, we’re allowed to go outside for a smoke/stretch. After a few minutes, I hear my name called, turn to find a couple of border police, the guards from my carriage and a couple of other guys. I start to recite my story, I was told that a registration from hotel would do… BLAH BLAH.

Immigration Officer: It says in your passport that you’re from Australia, is that right?

Me: Yeah.

Immigration Officer: You live there?

Me: No, I’m homeless.

Everyone laughs, I notice that they’re all a tad drunk. We talk about seeing the world, and they keep telling me how cool I am. Happy to have befriended the Immigration Officers, I now stop worrying about the fine and as we chat, I don’t notice that everyone from the other carriages has hopped back onto our train. Our guards don’t notice it either.

The whistle blows and the train starts to leave, the guard realises and swears, back on the train he shouts and runs in front of the other passengers to get back on the train. We run alongside the train jumping on the train before it takes off, thankfully leaving no-one behind.

As I walk past the guards cabin, the guard comes out, Ivan, we need to talk. You will sit with us and eat melon and tell us about your trip. I sit down with them as they cut up a melon and the guard leaves presumably to do work. When he comes back, one of his friends turns to me.

Friend: Have you ever tried heroin?

Me: No.

Friend: Why not?

Me: It can do some scary things to you.

I shoot at a glance at the guard who’s just returned, eyes wide open, with an expression as if he’s not altogether with us. He doesn’t react. We go back to eating melon and chatting, when the friend excuses himself to the bathroom.

A minute later, the guard excuses himself and the friend returns, syringe visible in his shirt pocket, same expression as the guard. He pulls out a small bag with a couple of grams of heroin.

Friend: Man you want to try some of this heroin, it’s unreal.

Me: No thanks, but you might want to put away the syringe in your pocket before we reach the Kazak border.

Friend: Oh f*ck man I can’t believe I forgot about it.

He puts the syringe into his jeans pocket and thanks me for telling him, offering to give me the heroin as a present. I politely decline, thinking there’s no way I want to be accepting drugs as I’m crossing borders between two of the countries with the most corrupt police forces and worst laws against drug crimes. He tries to insist by putting it into my pants pocket. I firmly grab his hand before he’s able to put it in my pocket and shake it and sternly tell him that I don’t want any now, maybe later.

Shortly after, I find an excuse to leave the group and return to my seat, where the other passengers thought I’d been arrested and taken off at the Uzbek border. The friend walks past me, clearly high, winks to me and goes to his carriage.

An hour later, after we’ve passed through the Kazakh border, a group of soldiers come onto the train and make their way for me ignoring the other passengers. They look through my passport, and tell me to open my bag. They search through my bag and have me empty my pockets. I look to the end of the carriage to see the train guard talking with the head of the soldiers. I realise that he’d purposely had his friend offer me narcotics in order to be caught by the military, presumably to get a portion of the very big bribe they’d demand. Convinced that I’m not carrying any heroin, they let me pack my bags, and to show that they weren’t targeting me, they casually look into the bags of two other passengers nearby.

The soldiers leave the train shortly after and a few hours later we arrive in Beyneu with no further dramas.

While en-route to Moynaq, we stop to change cars at Kungrad and decide to organise a car to the Aral Sea. If we go through a tour agency, the car will cost $600USD, our plan, in true Russian style, is to approach any driver with a suitable vehicle and offer them money to take us.

Remembering how good a driver Yura (Inylchek Geology Expedition) was, Gianluca and I negotiate with the driver and friend of a Vassick and head off to Moynaq.

Welcome to Moynaq, a former fishing town on the coast of the Aral Sea. In 1978, this place was a huge resort town in the USSR, the beaches were filled with holiday makers in a bigger version of Issyl-Kol in Kyrgyzstan.

Now, all that remains is a shell of its former self. A desert of abandoned fishing ships, rusting away, abandoned buildings and the new coast of the Aral Sea over 150km away.

A man approaches us as we’re taking photos of the ships in the desert. Sayvul used to work in one of the tugs currently rusting away (second one pictured with skeleton visible). He now looks after the monument and the ships and gives some background on the area to incoming tourists.

Sayvul, the Karakalpak groundskeeper (Photo taken by Gianluca)

The story of the memorial is incredibly infuriating. President Karimov ordered a monument dedicated to the Aral Sea be built in Moynaq. One side shows the 1960 map of the Aral Sea, the other from 2008. The winning bidder for the contract, in order to cut costs, decided not to build a new monument. Instead, they painted over the Moynaq WWII monument, repurposing it as the Aral Sea monument. All of the soldiers that were sent from this town to the front lines in World War 2 were listed on the memorial and have now been removed by a fresh coat of paint.

Our river show up to take us to the new Shore of the Aral Sea, some 150km away. We make a stop at a spot just ten kilometres from the town, a small pond of the former sea, so incredibly saline, its similar to the dead sea experience.

A small pool of the former Aral Sea.

Swiming in the former Aral Sea, an extremely salty pool. The salinity increases your buoyancy to let you play superman in the water.

One of our friends after a swim in the Aral Sea. The white on his skin is dried salt.

After we finish the Aral Sea teaser experience, we head off to the new shores of the Aral Sea, only to find our car stuck in the sand. After pushing it out, we all hop back in and start driving. Two minutes later, the drivers say they don’t know the way (obviously, we figured that we could find it as we went, hence the load of food and water we bought prior to the trip), they’re too scared to try and risk driving out in the desert without directions (pansies) so they give up and turn back. I am fuming that this incompetent pair would agree to taking us to the sea for a sum three times the average salary, only to turn back and quit the first moment there are problems.

Unfortunately, we don’t have the time to organise another car and driver, and thus are unable to drive out to the Aral Sea.

On the way from Khiva to Moynaq, we stop by Nukus, a middle of nowhere type city with nothing of real interest, except…

… the Stravinsky Art Museum, the third largest Art Gallery in the former USSR (after the Hermitage and Moscow’s Art Gallery). Thanks to the founder and collector, Stravinsky, a lot of works banned in Soviet times ended up in this backwater town where they’re now on display. Unfortunately the price for photography was over ten times the entrance price for the museum and as such I have no photos of the amazing works found inside. If you happen to be travelling between Khiva and Moynaq, or west from Bukhara/Khiva (Uzbekistan) to Beyneu/Aktau (Kazakhstan) make a stop here to see some of the works on display.

Since the girls are on a limited time schedule, they leave for Khiva (Хива pronounced Hiva) a day earlier than I do. I share a car to Khiva with an Italian guy Gianluca who’s planning to travel Iraq, Afghanistan and the Caucuses. We get talking and decide to one day buy a Lada 1400 or Uaz (former military jeep) and drive around Russia.

Can you spot the foreigners?

Along the way, the bridge just out of Urgench (not far from Khiva) is interesting for one special reason.

The bridge is made out of old ships parked and welded next to each other.

We stay in the same guesthouse and later in the day bump into the only other guests there, Alice and Georgie and make plans to go to the Aral Sea with them.

The day we show up to Khiva happens to be a national holiday, Independence Day and everyone comes out to celebrate. They celebrate by walking around town, for the whole day, doing pretty much nothing, there’s no big party no drinks, no music, just people spending the day out with their families and friends.

Inside the mosque at Khiva old town.

Khiva old town.

Khiva seems to be the one town in Uzbekistan where almost everyone is clued in on my I’m a Tashkent local scam.

Me: How much is the local price?

Ticket seller: Do you have any documents?

Me: They’re in my hotel, this isn’t a passport regime, I don’t need to show you anything.

Ticket seller: then you pay the full price, 11,000

Me: I’m from Tashkent, Chilonzor, opposite the bazaar (My friend Igor Supertramp lives here)

Ticket seller: Fine 5,500.

Me: No way is the local price 5,500, give me the proper local rate.

Ticket seller: Come back tomorrow with your passport.

Even sweet talking one of the old ladies at one of the museums doesn’t work.

A Khiva sunset.

Khiva at night. Tacky or tasteful?

Walking around Bukhara (бухара pronounced Buhara), I stumble upon the Photo Studio of Shavkat Boltaev a photographer with some amazing works. I chat with the man for a couple of hours and leave inspired to take more photos. If you come to Bukhara, make sure you pop by his gallery. From the Nasruddin Navruz guesthouse walk towards the pool at Lyabi Haus, turn left and keep walking until you see a sign saying free photo exhibition.

Also, if you get a chance, come into Anzor Salidjanov’s gallery, between Nasruddin Navruz guesthouse and Lyabi Haus.

Bukhara sunset.

Taking a break after walking around, I sit down to chat with Tahir, a local hat maker who tells me his son speaks great English and will meet with us the following day to show us around.

Tahir’s son Ahad is a former tour guide and exceptional story teller, he spends the following day walking around the sights with us telling us stories about Timur, Islam and the history of Uzbekistan.

The Emir’s summer residence.

One night as the girls and I are getting dinner, a group of middle aged gentlemen sitting next to our table offer us a round (or three) of vodka and two of the guys decide they’ve fallen in love with Alice and Georgie. Baha, a forty something slightly balding Uzbek spends the night calling Alice his honey, mermaid, sunshine, princess and what not. He says that he already has three wives but she will make a great fourth one. He has all of the creature comforts a girl could want, a pool, big screen TV and 32 channels (watch out ladies). He invites us to stay with him for the night, or a month, I will live as a king and one of his wives will cook and look after me, only Alice has to marry him.

Rahat, the Uzbek with gold caps replacing most of his teeth decides he will marry Georgie. His entire selling point is that he doesn’t have a wife yet. Wow ladies, don’t all rush him at once.

Another night, while searching for wireless internet, I come across the Karavan cafe, where, contrary to the sign the internet is not working. I’m offered beers by one of the customers sitting waiting for his mates. As they show up, I start showing photos of my journey. One of the guys is so impressed he tells me he will pay for my prostitute for the night.

We head out to see the sights of Termiz with Tolik, a half Tajik, half Uzbek driver who’s way too laid back to rip us off. First stop, the Uzbek/Afghan border and a quick chat with the border guards.

Me: So how many checkpoints between here and Afghanistan?

Uzbek Border Guard (UBG): Five.

Me: Can I go there?

UBG: It’s a shit country, you don’t want to go there.

Me: I just need an hour.

UBG:  No visa, no go.

Me: Do many tourists cross here?

UBG: Fifty or so a day. – No one crosses the border in the time we chat, most of the guards are asleep in their car and it seems no one has crossed in some time.

Me: Can I take photos for memory?

UBG: That, my friend, is categorically not allowed.

Me: Have any Afghan refugees made it here illegally?

UBG: That’s not your business.

The conversation ends there and we make our second stop, President Karimov’s Termiz holiday house (дача).

Me: Is it cool to take photos?

Tolik: Yeah, no problems.

Me: Have you ever been inside?

Tolik: I live just around the corner, we always go over to swim in his pool.

The next stop is at a mosque where a faithful Muslim tries to convert me. He casually says that all non-Muslims are going to hell. I leave him to his thoughts.

Stop number four is the house of forty wives. Legend has it that a man who had forty wives was slain by his enemies. The women lived together in the house, fending off attacks from sex-craved nomads. In other words, Termiz had the world’s first sorority house.

The party house.

The next stop is Old Termiz.

Old Termiz happens to be situated right next to the Amu Darya river, separating Uzbekistan from Afghanistan. Because of this, photography of the river is forbidden.

Taking this photo can lead to you landing in an Uzbek prison.

When we’re done, Tolik asks us if we want to go for a swim. I ask him if it’s in the President’s holiday house. He says it’s better.

After driving for fifteen minutes, he pulls into a driveway of what appears to be an abandoned building and tells us we’ve arrived. A rope is strung between two trees to prevent us from driving further. An Uzbek groundskeeper comes out, after some chat, we bribe our way in.

The swimming spot happens to be the water reservoir for the town’s water supply. No wonder it tastes so bad.

Arriving at Hotel Osiyo (Осиё), we’re met by the administrator who tells me she can’t take foreigners (as per the Lonely Planet guide book). I tell her I’m Russian. She laughs. I show her my Russian passport. She tells me I can stay. She asks if the other two guests are Russian guys, I tell her they’re British girls. She tells me that she can’t have foreigners stay here. I tell her I’ll be responsible for any mischief they cause. She tells me she can’t give a room with three beds to an unmarried man accompanied by two girls. I tell her she can give us a room with one bed to have a big cuddle party. She gives us a room with three beds.

Zolina the hotel manager is an amazing character. She’s from the Caucuses (Vladicavcas in Russia) and tells us about how safe it is here, how during the Afghan war, they’d hear shelling from Mazar-i-Sharif, how an American helicopter gunship opened fire on a wedding party and how surprisingly, the Afghans no longer hate Russians since most of the Afghan pilots and generals were trained in Moscow.

When we buy a honey-dew melon that happens to be less than perfect, she tells us she won’t eat it. As foreigners, we don’t yet know what to expect from local melons so it’s ok for us, but since she’s accustomed to eating the best ones, they will make her sick.

When we eventually get around to seeing the towns sights, we find the museum to be a let down and decide to see the other sights the following day.

We have dinner with a waiter who can best be described as an interesting character; think Michael Jackson’s child-like qualities combined with Jack Nicholson in the Shining. The guy has the mannerisms of a gay guy (apparently the term is camp) and we have fun telling him that he’s amazingly fabulous. Then our food comes out and there’s far more Shashlyk than we’d ordered, apparently Kusochnei (кусочней) means four small kebabs. Thanks for telling us we’ve ordered way too much food.

The waiter keeps coming over while we eat telling us how happy he is to have met us. Then out of the blue, he mentions that his parents died when he was young, that he lives on the street and how he looks after his brothers and sisters, no one helps him with money. It’s so difficult for him to support them on his salary, he’s been working there for ten years. We find it difficult to get rid of him.

The waiter tells us he’s free the following day to hang out with us. We tell him we’re leaving the following day.