The what? desert

I remember my parents subscribing to Saturday Evening Post as a kid and I always enjoyed a little feature they had entitled “Where are you?” They’d have some little cut out from a map with numbers of highways and town names and you had to figure out, of course, where you were. I’d pour over atlases until I could figure it out. So, I’ve always been a map junkie and feel like I know a fair amount about geography, even if I call Longitude, latitude occasionally. But, I’m telling you there are names of deserts and areas in this part of the world that I’ve never had any clue about. Our latest find was the Qizilqum desert. Hell, I can’t even say it much less pronounce it correctly. As we crossed it yesterday, John said that there were now at least 10 people in Australia who knew where it was because he texted the name to friends and talked about it. It’s just one of the literally hundreds of places that never get noticed on a map because the world is so wonderfully complex and we are so finite in our little corner of it. It’s actually a really good feeling for me to remember when I’m traveling just how unimportant I really am.
We left Khiva at 7:30 because we were told it would that the 250 mile ride would take us a minimum of nine hours to cross the Qizilqum and so we opted for the early departure. The earlier we leave, the earlier we get there sort of thing. The first two hours or so were pretty standard. We wove our way along another map place I’d never heard of the Amu Darya river, or the Oxus River as they call it. When the snow melt is in full flow it can be up to a quarter mile wide and wider in areas where the terrain is really flat. The river nourishes the land beside it and it’s a prime agriculture area. Good rich earth and a hardy people make a good environment for sustainable life.
We got to a train bridge where the tracks are on one side of the bridge and the one lane for trucks runs alongside the tracks. When we arrived, the bridge was closed. We were told that for safety reasons, they didn’t let vehicles cross when the train was on the bridge. Not a comforting thought, I must say. I got off the bus and started wandering around as I am wont to do. There were cars parked in line, trucks with who knows what kind of cargo hidden inside, and a few buses. On one of the buses, there were nothing but elderly women and a few kids. A boy of about 10 smiled, I pointed my video camera at him, he smiled more broadly and I filmed. A little girl of about eight appeared and I gave her a “Thumbs up,” which she returned, and I filmed that. I put the camera up to the window of the bus to show them what I had taken. That’s always been fun for us to do. They break out into the most wonderfully happy faces. I filmed some of the women in the bus until this big, burly, brusque man came up to me and gruffly said something, obviously in Uzbeki.
I said: “Salaam a leikum” and put my right hand on my heart as is the custom, but that brought nothing in response. He looked like Mr. Clean on steroids, except that he wasn’t nearly so clean. He was bald and spoke roughly. Naturally, I didn’t have a clue as to what he was saying, but eventually I thought I heard the word “Cuba” spoken with an Uzbek accent. I asked: “Cuba?” trying to speak it as he did, and he again repeated Cuba. I said: “Cuba good.” I asked: “Militar?” he made like a machine gun and went: “Rat-tat-tat.” Scowling he looked for a response from me.I finally figured out that he served in the Soviet army in Cuba and was showing his displeasure at the U.S. so I simply said: “Cuba si, yankee no.” Well, that did it. A huge smile broke out on his face, his gold teeth glistened, he gave me a big bear hug, turned me around to show me to all his friends as if we were long lost relatives who just found out we had the same grandfather. He shook my hand which disappeared somewhere inside his and we were best buds.
After a little bit more “Conversation” I was shown that it was now okay to resume my filming. The ladies came off their bus since it appeared that the train was not immediately coming and I began to film and show them their video. There was a wonderful old face. A woman who obviously from the shape of her gums had no teeth, but the warm, gentle face of a woman who had probably seen far more than I could ever comprehend. Another elderly face with equal character seemed ready to be filmed and then another and another, all of which provided some great video.
It turned out to be a women’s group on some sort of Uzbeki cultural trip just for women. The little girl with the big smile was hugging her mother and it made for a great shot. Everybody else on our bus just watched me as if I was really crazy as I wound my way through the group. The ladies posed and postured enjoying every moment. All the men from the cars and trucks just watched very much amused at the whole scene. Our group just looked like I was nuts.
A car full of men smiled and I went over and said the customary: “Salaam.” They returned the greeting and a conversation occurred. One said something which I didn’t understand, but he put the numbers 45 on his cell phone, pointed to the boy and put 10 on his phone and looked at me. I figured out he wanted to know how old I was and I put 70 on the phone. He didn’t believe me, so I got out my passport and showed him the 1941 birth date. But that wasn’t nearly as interesting as the American passport which was passed about. I kept a keen eye on where it was, but it was no problem. One wanted my phone number, but I thought he was offering to let me call home so I dialed in my daughter’s home phone. If she gets some strange call one of these days it will just be her phony father’s doing.
The women now discovered that I was an American and now they wanted photos on their cameras and phones, so here I am posing with a bunch of past-middle-aged women all by myself with everybody, Uzbeki, Aussies, Canadians all just trying to figure out what this was all about.
I know I looked crazy to everybody standing in the middle of 20 or so Uzbeki old ladies having fun and everybody saying things that those on the other side of the conversation had no clue what was being said, but I was really having fun. It was just human contact and these are the moments I’ll always remember. I’ll never forget how Mr. Cleans face just broke out into the most delighted look when he realized I wasn’t the enemy. I’ll always remember the little 8 year old girl hugging her mother so sweetly it crossed any cultural barriers that politics and borders can create. When I was traveling at 19 and all by myself crossing the Syrian plains these moments were all I had as far as human contact, and so I cherish them still. They are just a part of who I am. John later gave me a supreme compliment when he said: “Jim talks well with strangers.” But the thing is that I can’t/don’t/won’t tap into that aspect of my personality when I’m home where I’m far more stand-offish. y I’m more critical of behavior I see and sit back and observe rather than participate. I’ve never understood why it’s so easy for me to involve myself on the road and yet keep my distance when I’m at home.
It was finally decided after an hour or so that the train was not coming, the guard blew his whistle, and everybody scrambled for their respective vehicles. We played leap-frog with the old lady bus for a while. They’d stop for their break, and we’d pass them. They’d all wave as we went by. Then later on we made our potty stop and they zoomed by, all waving from the bus as I stood beside the road and waved. Much later we made our lunch stop, and they had made the same stop except they were 30 minutes ahead and so were all getting back on the bus. I saw the driver and his cohorts standing at the doorway and waved to them. They smiled and waved back. I went up to the side of the bus and waved to the women inside. You could see them turn their heads saying: “IT’s the crazy American,” as they all scrambled over to the side of the bus and waved and smiled and laughed. Then almost like she was surfing above the crowd came this sweet little face who made her way to the window and gave me the thumbs us with the most wonderful little smile. If Max wasn’t already engaged, I’d have arranged a wedding on the spot. Maybe Alex likes older women
The weather became stifling hot, and guess what, the AC went out. We were then told that the Koreans were building a new road, and nobody could figure out why they tore up the old one just to build a new one beside it. Anyway, our hot, muggy ride became a bumpy, lurching, hot, muggy and very slow ride. The road was as bad as our Torugart Pass road with the exception that we weren’t careening down mountain roads in the dark.
Dilshot, our guide, came down the aisle of the bus with a backpack of money to “Exchange” our dollars into Uzbeki Som. The exchange rate is 1,700 to one US, but that’s just the official rate. The going rate is 2,200 to one. The basic currency is 1,000 notes and so when we exchanged $100 worth we wound up with 220,000 worth of Som. We had two bundles of pre-packaged notes like you see in all the drug flicks, and we all felt very rich. If you exchanged $470 worth you were a millionaire.
Our ride took us 11 hours and 30 minutes, more time than it took to fly from Seattle to Beijing but we finally arrived, hot, tired, jerked around, but safe and otherwise sound. I personally had a better day than any of my travel mates just because of our rail bridge stop. It was really fun and even the moments of discomfort with my new best friend was one of those experiences I’ll never forget. I’ve always said that language is an artificial barrier to be crossed by people willing to make it happen. Just another day in a series of really cool days. We’re running out of time, but it’s all been worth it.
[ed. Jim is back to being able to post his own blog entries... so I take no responsibility for typos and grammatical errors from here on out. ;-)]