Modes of Transportation in Central Asia

In our trek into and out of Central Asia from China, we've tried a number of different transportation options.

Bus

Perhaps our worst, but most authentic experience was our bus ride from Tashkent to Samarkand. We heard from a fellow traveller that it was easily done, without the hassle of negotiating prices. So one morning, after a leisurely breakfast, we headed to the public bus station.

First of all, it was raining. It rains about once every 6 months in Uzbekistan. In the drizzle, we were first taken to the train station by our taxi driver. When we finally got to the bus station, we found a little stall marked "Samarkand bus tickets." We walked over, and then the fun began. First, the ticket seller refused to sell tickets. She couldn't sell tickets, she said, until the bus pulled up in front of the stall. When was the bus going to pull up? She had no idea. So we joined the rapidly growing huddle of people next to the stall, as it continued to pour. An hour and a half later, there was a false alarm. Someone thought tickets were beginning to be sold. Vigorous pushing and shoving began as people pushed handfuls of money in the direction of the stall window. Mark was nearly bowled over. This stopped after 15 minutes.

Half an hour later, a bus arrived. It was the Samarkand bus, but it did not pull up to the stall. The locals started to pile on, only to be chased away by the chauffer. When it finally pulled up, people started piling in again, ticketless.

Meanwhile, I had at this time worked my way up to the ticket window as people had gotten tired of waiting. The ticket seller opened her little window, and again there was a furious jostling of elbows as people tried to get to the stall. Armed with my big backpack, I managed to be 3rd in line, and got a ticket. However, it was too late. By the time I had gotten onto the bus, there were no seats, and barely any standing room.

It turns out that bus drivers in Uzbekistan are more interested in overselling seats than providing safe transportation. The ticket seller sold only a total of 10 tickets in a 40 seater bus. With a ticket, the bus driver were forced to find you a seat. Without one, you paid 50% extra for the privilege of standing 5 hours to get to your destination. It was 100% more for a seat. All this for a slow ride as the driver stopped every 10 minutes to cram more people and produce into the bus. Not a good option.

Shared Taxi

One of the most popular options for backpackers. The theory is great. You find 3 other people to charter a car to your destination. It is flexible, as you can go anywhere, and leave anytime. None of the hassles of having other people picked up. So we tried this one too.

We wanted to drive from Bishkek, the capitol of Kazahkstan, to Tashkent, the capitol of Uzbekistan. Early in the morning, we made our way to the parking lot where the shared taxis were congregated. Once we arrive, we were swarmed by touts. Shoving signs of their destinations in our faces, shouting in our ears, they stopped just short of hauling us into their cars. We managed to shake them off and start inquiring other, less aggressive drivers. For Tashkent, the market rate was supposed to be between 150 to 200 USD. All the drivers started at 400. For one proud owner of a Mercedes, he was talked down to 200 and refused to budge. He told us we weren't going to find any other cars going to Tashkent. Finally, we found a nice Audi with a driver who was willing to accept 150USD. We piled our bags in and took off. However, 100 meters down the road he started asking for money. For "benzene (gas)", he said. We gave him 50 USD. "Useless! Sum (the local currency)!" We didn't have any. His face red, he tried to dump us by the side of the road. We finally made him drive back to the parking lot, where he almost ran Mark over. Finally, after getting into and out of another shared taxi, we located a Nissan that worked out. We got to Tashkent safely, but the ordeal of the bargaining wore us out.

Plane

Perhaps the most civilized option, we thought. We were finally leaving the Central Asian portion of our trip and flying back to Xi'an. We had made it from our guesthouse to the shiny new airport 4 hours early. We hoped that it would be easy sailing from then on.

The first inequity was that the airport refused to accept the local currency. We were in Uzbekistan, yet the exchange office refused to turn the Uzbek Sum back into dollars. They were happy to take our US dollars and turn them into Uzbek Sum that we could not use, but not the other way around. When we poked our head into the gift shop, they also refused their own money. US dollars only. Even the cafe in the waiting lounge had a large sign saying, "We do not accept Sum!"

Secondly, none of the strict security rules in Western airports applied. Although you could not bring explosives, fireworks, and guns onto the plane, you could bring an array of knives that varied from scimitars to samurai type blades. Liquids? Of course that was allowed.

Thirdly, the pushing and shoving culture was not restricted to cheap bus tickets. Adhering to the rules of queueing, we lined up to check in our luggage and get boarding cards. Not the locals. Once the ticket agent showed up, the line turned into a swarm as again passports and tickets were shoved in the general direction of the desk. It didn't help that one of the ticket agents had trouble using computers, or that as our boarding cards were being printed the machine broke down. This every-man-for-himself mentality applied to every situation that arose. Passport control. Customs. We nearly laughed when we pulled up in our shuttle onto the tarmac. A man, luggage in hand, broke free of the vehicle and sprinted towards the entrance of the plane. Were we going to leave without him?

As we finally touched down in Urumqi, we thought that perhaps this event-filled plane ride could no longer surprise us. We were wrong. Once the plane landed, as it was coasting towards our gate, the passengers in unison got up, took their luggage from the overhead compartment, and surged towards the front. For our part, we had had enough. If you can't win 'em, join 'em. We violated all plane etiquette, grabbed our stuff and pushed forward onto Chinese soil.

Train

After the trans-Siberian, Mark and I often wondered the following: Were we going to be so sick of trains after our trip that we would never want to see one again?

Scarred by the bus experience from Tashkent to Samarkand, we decided to splurge and spend an extra 2 dollars per person for a train from Samarkand to Bukhara. We could not contemplate the waiting, pushing and shoving, and the uncertainty that during the many stops our backpacks would mysteriously disappear. A finer choice we could not have made.

In our usual obsessive-compulsive manner, we had arrived a good hour before our train departed. The platform had plenty of seats, it was a fine day, and most surprisingly, there were no crowds. We had a beverage seller finger our Pacsafes and marvel at the construction, but that was all the hassle we got. When the train arrived, we embarked and found nice comfortable chairs. Shortly after departure from the station, 2 packets of crackers were deposited on our tables. Steaming cups of chai were brought around. All this free of charge. As we dug into our snacks, plates of hot food were also brought around for us. Harkening back to my memories of New Jersey transit, I thought, "What a difference! How nice it is to make a big deal out of a train trip!" Besides bad Russian movies and loud Indian MTV being blared from the television, we really had nothing to complain about as we saw the countryside roll by.

In the train, then, we had our winner for "Favorite mode of transportation in Central Asia." We hope to do a lot more of it in the coming months.

Bluster

When I was groing up, my conservative Chinese parents stamped the following into my head: Well-bred folk do not make a fuss in public. Do not allow anybody to lose face, they said, and do not show "hard" emotions to people. That means no loud arguing, no vigorous hand motions, no anger.

Well, travelling in Central Asia has been a trial to these tenets my parents hold so dear. It appears that bluster is part and parcel of everyday life.

A few days ago, we were in Bukhara. Tired, weak (from a gastrointestinal malady that struck both us and every other person staying at our guesthouse in Samarkand), and weary, we had booked a hotel in advance. On arrival, the manager showed us our room and disappeared. We had wanted to talk to him about the price, and also to register our passports. When we asked the maid, she shrugged and said that the manager had already left for the day. So we left our bags there and wandered around the Lyabi Hauz square, took in an Uzbek wedding-dress fashion show, and checked out some more hotels. Several things were readily apparent. First, that the quoted internet price (40 USD) for our hotel was exorbitant. Second, that almost all the hotels were empty. Third, that a beautiful new hotel down the street had a gorgeous room with a balcony for 45 dollars. Armed with this information, we went back to our hotel and asked to speak to the manager again. He showed up half an hour later, and we began our negotiations.

Manager: "40 dollars."
Us: "That is too expensive,"
Manager: "This is already the discount price" (a lie—this was what was advertised on the internet). "You stay one night, I can find you cheaper hotel tomorrow."
Us: "No, it's too much. We are leaving."
Manager: "You already walked into the room. You used the refridgerator" (another lie—it was not even plugged in). "You are cheap, three-dollar tourists. I will call the police if you leave."
Us: "We just put our bags down. We are leaving."
Manager: "You pay 70% of the price and I let you leave."

He proceeded to call us names. We walked in the room and picked up our bags. Suddenly, he changed his attitude. "How much do you want to pay? 35 dollars? 30 dollars? You can stay as many days as you want."

At that point we were offended beyond staying. We walked back to the new hotel only to find that they had given the room with the balcony away. Another scene. Mark, who grew up used to this sort of thing, started raising his voice. Asking to speak to the manager.

At the end of the day, we ended up with another room, no balcony but beautiful nonetheless. For the bargain price of 35 dollars. I was beside myself. Were we ugly tourists? Were we being rude? The boy at the front desk who gave away our room had seemed upset. We had violated my parent's cardinal rules of good behavior.

The next morning, however, the boy at the front desk greeted us happily. The hotel was unfailingly courteous to us for the duration of the stay. If not for Mark, I would have bought into the entire act and allowed my conscience to continue chastizing me. And paid a good deal more money.

When it comes to bargaining here, bluster plays an integral part. The pretense of wounded feelings, rules disobeyed, or offense given is employed on the part of the seller in raising prices, or on the part of the buyer in lowering them.

For instance, we had agreed on a price with a cab driver to hire him for a day trip to Shakrisabz. On our return he asked for more money. His face contorted in anger and his voice grew louder. He complained about the wear and tear on his car and his fatigue. Mark simply handed him the agreed upon sum and said, "Do you want this or not?" He tooked the money, and then it was all over. The pantomine stopped. He smiled and waved as he pulled out of the parking lot.

Likewise, there was the proprietess of the two-room museum in Shakrisabz who locked us in while trying to extort more money from us. She stamped her feet and yelled at us. She gave all sorts of reasons why we had to pay over double the going price for museums. However, once she gave up and took the money, the act was dropped and we were friends again. No hard feelings all around.

It's been a particularly difficult lesson for me to learn. My parents aside, I had always prided myself on being open-minded and knowing what distinguishes cultures from each other. I was so sure I knew what was appropriate social behaviour that it took Mark several conversations with me before I understood that this entire business of bluster was used on a daily basis. I suppose that is why different cultures clash because pig-headed people like me on both sides think they know what is going on. Thank goodness for patient Lebanese.

As told to Tintin

Imagine, if you will, showing up in the run-down parking lot of a third-world country's long-distance bus station at 6:30 in the morning, being trundled into the back of one of many waiting Russian-made cars (after much intense haggling, sometimes devolving into pushing and spitting), and being driven across two borders to a completely separate country, whose relations with members of the first are very strained.

Now, imagine doing it to ten hours of Russian techno music. It's amazing how boring a synthesized back-beat can be.

That was how we got from Bishkek to Tashkent, from one of the poorer Central Asian countries, through its richest, into its most cultural. In doing so, we crossed the Kyrgyz-Kazakh border, effortlessly (though it is a bit telling that the customs declaration form has the word "Free" written diagonally across it, in big, bold, baby-blue letters and in three languages), spent a grand total of ten hours in Kazakhstan marvelling over their crazy language—so much for our double-entry visa—and were dropped off at the Kazakh-Uzbek border by our friendly Lada-driver.

Yes, it is a crazy language. In Kazakh, verbs not only have tense, aspect, and mood. They also have evidentiality. Meaning, you can't just say, "He wrote this." You have your choice of six different possibilities. "He wrote this, and I saw the result," or "He wrote this and someone else saw the results and told me about it," or "He wrote this and told me about it, but I probably didn't see it," or, most declarative, "He wrote this, and I saw him write it," and more, all by just changing the verb's ending. Don't ask me why.

We walked across the Kazakh-Uzbek border, into the waiting, loving arms of taxi touts and gipsy kids. We picked an older minibus driver with five other passengers in his car, told him where we wanted to go, and trusted him to get us there. Thirty minutes later, we were unceremoniously dumped by the side of a major road, with blustering assurances that we had arrived, about an hour's walk from our destination. And not a single other passenger said a thing about it. Welcome to Tashkent.


Tashkent
The former Soviet Union's fourth largest city (after Moscow, St. Petersburg, and Kiev), and the only Central Asian city with a functioning subway system, this was our introduction to Uzbekistan, and to its tricks. The most distressing of these was the levying of entrance fees at random gates throughout the city.

For example, the Kukeldash medressa. This is a Muslim school near where we were staying. After about 10 minutes inside its front door, we were approached by a man (who, as they all would for the next ten days, appeared frankly out of nowhere, in Russian-tailored suit and too-pointy shoes) pedantically calling himself the "Deputy Director of Foreign Relations". He was, I was informed, "in charge of meeting all foreign tourists to our medressa," from whom he would extract a 1000-sum entrance fee.

(Ask the old men whiling away the afternoon inside the medressa's courtyard who this guy was, and they'd smile a knowing, toothless smile. "He's just a guide.")

Of course, if you were Uzbek, the entrance fee was simply your nationality. To make matters worse, if you tried to find a sign anywhere dictating a particular entrace fee, you would be flummoxed. These signs didn't exist.

It took us about four hours to determine that entrance fees, like everything else in Central Asia, were eminently negotiable. What was most distressing about this particular scam, though (perpetrated at every site that could remotely be considered a monument, including looking at the one remaining wall of a Timurid palace in the middle of nowhere) was that you never knew who these ticket collectors were.

Which meant, you never knew where the money was actually going. Often, the touts were the souvenir sellers closest to the door. Sometimes they'd approach you from miles away. Sometimes they'd be kids. But they'd latch on to you like rabid dogs, ignoring any logic, until another—likely more docile—tourist walked in.

By the way, the Kukeldash medressa wasn't worth the 1000-sum entrance fee.

But mostly, Tashkent has been a city of fast internet, Nutella, and the world's oldest Koran (from only a few decades after Mohammed's death).


Samarkand
Now this! This is Central Asia. Samarkand is grandiose. It's magical. It's well-preserved and under-touristed. It dramatically lights its monuments up at night. It's walkable. It's steeped in history. And it was our favorite city in this entire region.

It was in Samarkand that we were most impressed by the cult of personality that has developed around Amir Timur (aka Timur the Great, aka Tamerlane). Born in Shakhrisabz, a small town 90 km south of the city, and buried just outside the guesthouse we stayed at, his name is everywhere. His museums are ubiquitous. And his statues of flowing concrete show no hint of the lameness in his right leg from which his name derives.

It was in his museum in Shakhrisabz, though, that we had one of those quintessential travel moments. This museum contains two rooms, with facsimilies of Timurid coins, glazed tiles, pottery, and (for some, inexplicable reason) Alexandrine relics. All the signs are in Uzbek, but a too-eager docent is more than happy to take you around the rooms, point out the coins, and explain them, for your benefit. In Uzbek. You aren't allowed to refuse her company.

After our ten-minute tour of poorly-lit historical replicas and dioramas worthy of Sister Viola Pratka's first-grade class, we were escorted to the front door, accompanied by the only English words to come out of our Virgil's mouth. "Five thousand." (This is nearly triple the price of admission to most monuments in Uzbekistan).

"Five thousand?! No. We'll give you 2000."

"Five thousand. Real price! Not me! Director! Bank! President Uzbekistan!"

We held our ground. She held hers, blustering on about how this price was actually set by President Karimov himself. Because he's got little better to do.

So, she locked us into the museum! Walked to the door, and bolted it shut! And, just like that, we became prisoners in a Central Asian country.

We pulled out our books, sat down on a bench, and made like we didn't really care. We had enough water to last us till she went home. The ruse worked: our detention didn't last more than about 10 minutes before we were released, on 2000-sum bail, back to our guesthouse.

This guesthouse was run by two unmarried sisters. They lavished breakfasts, fresh figs, and for-a-fee travel services on all their guests (we availed ourselves of laundry). But it struck us as strange that one of these matronly, overly-interested ladies remarked, one morning, that 80% of her tourists got some sort of GI malady during their stay there (we did). And that she had a special tea, brewed from quince leaves and branches, that worked wonders (it didn't). Hey...At least they had a tremendous view of the Great Man's mausoleum.


Money
Speaking of our bail.... The Uzbek sum may actually be worth less than Monopoly money (OK. I looked it up. It's not. Monopoly money is worth about a third the value of the Uzbek sum). Currently, the US dollar trades at 1,282 Uzbek sum. Unfortunately, the National Mint hasn't printed new bills since 1999, and the largest they ever printed was 1000 sum. This means that the biggest bill in existence is worth seventy-eight cents.

Not that prices are commensurately cheaper. Budget guesthouses still cost between $15 and $20 US, per person. And nobody (not even banks) takes credit cards. Change $100 USD into sum, and you end up with a veritable brick of money. Here, for example, is 111,800 sum.

That's $87.20.

Bukhara
After the alopecia-inducing bus ride to Samarkand (Peggy's writing about that one), we swore off Central Asian buses and booked a train to Bukhara. Clean, comfortable, and fast. And, for three hours, the wheels tapped out the diambic rhythm of the first two words of La Marseillaise.

Allons enfants...allons enfants...allons enfants... We didn't realize how appropriate that would be.

Bukhara is, frankly, a suburb of Paris. Central Asia's holiest city, the birthplace of Avicenna, and the site of its oldest and most grandiose mosques, medressas, and minarets, has become a carnival of carpet sellers, hat hawkers, and the bus-loads of retired French tourists who love them. How many white-haired French men did we need to see with their necks bedangled by three different cameras and their heads covered with Kyrgyz felt hats of dubious quality?

This isn't something you expect when you book a trip like this. Uzbekistan—off the beaten track, desert-bound, and holy.

And completely cheapened. Bukhara is caricature. It is Central Asia, as told to Tintin.*

It was also the first place we were threatened with police action for deciding to go to another guesthouse than the one we'd originally booked.

Two days was all we could take. We booked it back here to Tashkent.

*Yes, yes. Tintin is Belgian. I know.