“There’s not much of a roof. I think he’s climbing up so that he can see us change from the top,” Charlotte replied. All this from a state employee at a state-run tourist site; so much for local charm.
It suddenly became quiet. We suspected this was because the guide had found a chink in the metal sheets and was watching us. We dressed underneath our towels. Then we opened the door and ran up the stairs. They were steep and the guide, quick. He shot ahead of me and ran behind Charlotte. I could see him pinch her bottom. He fell back behind me and pinched my bottom. Then, with a burst of energy, he repositioned himself between us again.
We all stopped to catch our breath. The guide insisted that he carry my bag, an act considered both polite and manly in this part of the world. When I refused, he grabbed it from me. Charlotte and I ran. He followed and pinched our bottoms all the way to the top.
Charlotte arrived there first. She turned around and shouted that she wanted to kick the guard in the balls but that she worried he might fall down backwards and break his neck or land on me.
Charlotte screamed at him in English. Out of breath, in a quiet fury, I translated. “I want to give him a piece of my mind,” she shouted. “Tell him you can’t treat women like that. How would he feel if someone did this to his sisters?” The guide looked bemused. From his expression, we knew that no sister of his would ever dream of swimming with a strange man in an underground lake.
Fortunately our driver was still waiting for us. We told him what had happened. He laughed, and then saw a good opportunity. He insisted on twice the fare we had initially agreed upon before he would take us to Ashgabat. We reluctantly paid him the fare he demanded because we wanted to get away.
We arrived back in time for dinner with Roland. He suggested going out for “pizza, of a sort.” We could choose a puffy dough ball with unidentifiable meat or a puffy dough ball with a splash of ketchup. Roland suggested the meatless version would be safer.
“This is the 135th time I’ve had dinner at this restaurant,” he said. “Six months down and a year and a half to go.”
I left the table to use the bathroom. When I arrived back, Roland briefly excused himself.
“He’s very sad,” Charlotte told me. “He used to live in Africa where he saw giraffes all the time. He said he’d made the terrible mistake of studying Russian and when the Soviet Union collapsed, the State Department urgently rounded up all its Russian speakers and posted him here.”
When we arrived back at the hotel, the receptionist had good news: the woman from Aeroflot had called to offer us tickets on a Bishkek flight that would depart at 4 a.m. We tried to sleep for a few hours, but Montezuma’s revenge kept us up, fighting for the bathroom.
On the way to the airport, Charlotte said that earlier in the week she’d dreamed we would cross Central Asia in a propeller plane. I told her that the distances were too vast for this. When we arrived at the terminal, the ticket agent shook her head — no need for explanation. We already understood the Bishkek flight was cancelled. The agent suggested that we wait, just in case.
We stretched out on the sofas. The Aeroflot woman later shook us from deep sleep — the captain had found fuel, so the flight would leave. We walked onto the tarmac in hazy early morning light. One propeller plane stood parked on the runway. Our flight would take seven and a half hours.
We boarded and sat in our seats. Suspicious of Aeroflot flights and worried about fuel shortages, Charlotte made the sign of the cross and asked, “What if we run out of fuel and crash in mid-air?” Tired, I fastened my seat belt and fell asleep. I woke when Charlotte poked me. When I opened my eyes, I noticed an orangey reflection in the window.
“Did you see that?” she asked. “A flame just shot out of the engine. I think you should tell someone.” I shuffled to the back of the plane and reported the incident to the flight attendant. She shrugged her shoulders and said, “It happens all the time.”
We landed in Bishkek hours before a scheduled meeting of leaders from all over the region to discuss trade and other economic matters. This was the first time since we had left Kiev that we managed to reach an intended destination on time. As the only foreign reporters present, we had unlimited access for interviews and even though I was technically on holiday, not at work, I considered this a journalistic triumph. The information would be useful for feature stories that I could write later.
Kiosks at the meeting site displayed local goods but sold none. Charlotte admired tall white felt Kyrgyz hats with black velvet trim. “They’re just like fairy princess hats,” she said. “I’d like to buy some.” We investigated and soon learned the name of the factory that made the hats. When the meeting finished, we left for the factory.
The guard at the gate had gone; the entrance stood deserted. We walked in and climbed the central staircase. We heard the steady clatter of sewing machines; the women who operated them filled a large room. Pleased, even excited, by overseas visitors they took our orders and asked us to return the next day for the hats.
Next we visited the American embassy. The ambassador, an intelligent and kind man, briefed us on local politics. He also spoke at length and enthusiastically about mountain climbing. He recommended that we visit the Tien Shan range. I told him about my trip into these mountains on the Chinese side a few months earlier. I travelled with a group of Hong Kong tourists whom I’d met in Urumqi. A sheep had been slaughtered for a barbecue dinner held in our honour. Later, the Hong Kong tourists and I spent a night in a yurt. I remembered the still mountain air and silt green lakes and told the ambassador about a horse ride at dawn. I sat on a sturdy local horse, behind my guide. The horse carried us down steep cliffs. All we heard was the sound of birds and the trickle of a mountain stream.
“Let’s go into the mountains near here,” Charlotte said. We did not venture high. We remained in a forested alpine landscape filled with icy streams. Charlotte stripped down for a dip. She dreamed of a swim in the Oxus (Amu Darya) River, but said this would do for now. We enjoyed our brief, hassle-free stay in Kyrgyzstan so much that we felt certain our luck had changed and the rest of our trip would proceed smoothly.
After our hike in the mountains, we returned to Bishkek. We went to the Aeroflot office to buy tickets to our next destination, which was Tashkent. An efficient agent served us. She sold us the tickets and never mentioned a word about fuel.
We saw colleagues from London at the Tashkent airport. One lived in the city. He invited us to stay. Not wanting to impose, we said that we would find a hotel. Our colleague looked worried and insisted that we write down his address and contact number.
No hotel would check us in. A man followed us everywhere we went. One receptionist whispered that we had “a friend.” A security services agent had appeared once before. When I landed in Almaty, Kazakhstan, on my way back from China a tall, personable, fit man took my suitcases at the airport, flagged down a car and asked whether two hundred roubles was an acceptable fare. I agreed. He told the taxi driver to take me to a hotel in the centre. I thanked him and boarded the taxi.
“Do you work for the KGB like your friend?” the driver asked. Offended, I asked what he meant, especially as the KGB did not even exist anymore and its Russian successor technically should not function in an independent Uzbekistan.
“He showed me his identity card — he’s from the KGB.” KGB or not, I appreciated the hotel tip. Boris Manço, a Turkish pop star, was staying there. I bumped into his brother in the elevator and he invited me to join them for dinner. Saudis flooded the region with religious books and money. Turks mounted a cultural charm offensive. They forged ties through music.