I come to a decision. From now on I’ll give up regular work and become a vagabond. It will be easy enough in Central Asia. If you try to live rough in European Russia you usually end up with a camp bunk as your bed. In Asia you can doss down under any bush and there is plenty of casual work to be found. I’m excited by the prospect of living without the blessings of regular work, the bathhouse on Saturday, and political meetings on Tuesdays.
My new friends and I travel on to Bukhara and Samarkand, picking up work as we go. I make adobe bricks, dig foundations and paint roofs. We spend our nights at chaikhanas, sleeping on low-slung cots that double as tables. In the mornings we drink bowls of green tea as we wait for the wine shops to open. Despite being Muslims, the Uzbeks are fond of alcohol. They also like to sit in circles smoking hashish.
“Try this, genuine Kashgar marijuana!” someone offers me.
It gives me nothing more than a pain in my temples. It’s just as well that I don’t take to hashish. Being an alcoholic is enough.
In Bukhara I work as a stoker in the brick kilns. You have to be very agile to avoid getting burned. The strongest men make up to 80 roubles a day, an amount which would take me nearly a month to earn back in Chapaevsk. The trouble is that no matter how much anyone earns they never save a kopeck. They drink it all away and I am no exception. I make so much money that I never have to be sober.
After a while the Central Asian climate begins to wear me down. My bones ache and I find it hard to sleep. I decide to return to Chapaevsk. The problem is that however much I earn I can never manage to save enough for a ticket home. After finishing a job I have to toast its completion; by the time I sober up my pockets are empty and I need money for my hair-of-the-dog.
I decide to look for work in a more remote area away from temptation. I return to Fergana, go down to the labour exchange and come to a quick arrangement with a Korean who has a plantation in the mountains. The man takes me up on the back of his motorbike, dipping the machine to left and right around tortuous hairpin bends. On left-hand curves my stiff right leg sticks up higher than my head. My hands are shaking so much from my hangover that I fear at any moment I’ll lose my grip and fly off, hurtling down to the valley floor hundreds of metres below. Rising up through clouds that soak our clothes and faces in moisture, we finally reach the plantation. Onions, garlic, watermelons and rice grow on high terraces through which glacier water flows. The Korean’s entire family, from tiny children to an ancient grandmother, work from dawn to dusk, yet they need extra labour to help weed the terraces. State investigators are bribed to keep away.
I am given a few roubles a day, food and packets of Beggars of the Mountain cigarettes. We work barefoot in freezing water while our bodies are exposed to the burning mountain sun. Our backs blister and our hands crack. At night we drop into pits lined with paper sacks and throw our exhausted bodies onto heaps of old rags.
A cobra slides into our pit. One of the Tadzhik labourers catches it by the neck and prepares to kill it.
“Stop!”
The Korean grandmother peers into the pit. She makes a sign for us to wait. Then she brings a large glass jar with a plastic lid and puts the snake inside. For the next three days she leaves the jar out in the sun. Liquid oozes from the dying snake. We feel sorry for it, but the old lady collects the liquid and uses it to make little cakes. The whole family eats them but we refuse. The Koreans explain that people who eat them will be immune to snakebites for the rest of their lives.
The one advantage of working in the mountains is the absence of alcohol. This enables me to return to Fergana after a month with enough money for a ticket home. Before I can leave town I have to go back to the hostel to pick up my passport. On the way I notice an inviting bar, with tables laid out under shady trees. I deserve a drink to celebrate, and I’ll still have plenty of cash for my ticket.
‘ALCOHOLICS AND LAYABOUTS!’ proclaims our banner in bold white letters on black cloth. We are a filthy procession of swollen-faced men and women. Some have black eyes; some are on crutches. A trolley rolls along behind us, supporting a camera which is filming us for Fergana TV. A local who had a starring role on a previous march tells me that we’ll appear on the news tonight.
We parade down the middle of the road in full view of shoppers and passers-by. People laugh and shake their heads but no one shouts abuse. They probably think: ‘There but for the grace of God go I.’
The police picked me up after finding me passed out in a ditch. They hosed me down, put me in a cell for the night and in the morning forced me to stand in the yard with the other detainees while the superintendent lectured us on the evils of drink.
When we return from the penitential march they make us pay for our night’s lodging and fine us each 25 roubles, except the two men who carried the banner. They’re excused five roubles of their fines, which no one begrudges.
After my release I go back to the labour exchange. I am hired by another Korean with a plantation in the mountains, but again on my return I drink away my pay before I can reach the railway station. It’s the same story all summer. I take jobs in Kuvasai and Kizil Kiya in Kyrgyzia. Finally, when the weeding season ends, I manage to reach the railway station without being diverted and settle down in the station buffet to wait for the Tashkent train. My disreputable appearance must have given me away: a cop comes over and hauls me off. Fortunately some foreigners are staying in Fergana so I don’t have to repeat the penitential march.
The police want to know why I haven’t paid my first fine. I’m still registered at the chemical plant so I say I’m waiting for my wages. The superintendent tells a policeman to escort me to my hostel to collect my passport, which they will hold until I pay off my fines. The policeman and I set off on foot. The man is so tired after his night shift that he lets me continue alone, making me promise to hand in my passport the next day. That’s the last the Fergana police see of me. I pick up my passport and head for Margilan.
At Margilan station an Uzbek buys me a ticket and in return I smuggle a caseload of tomatoes to Tashkent for him. I find that city in uproar after a spontaneous explosion of nationalism during a football match between the local Milk-Churners team and the visiting Ukrainian Miners. Rioting spreads into the streets after the game. The police and local militia are busy breaking up fights and beating up anyone they can find. Train passengers are warned not to walk into the town. I spend a few days in the station trying to find a way home. The conductors on Moscow-bound trains are unusually strict and won’t let me on without a ticket. At last a Kuibyshev train pulls in. I approach a young conductor standing on the platform.
“Hey mate, take me along with you.”
He looks me up and down: “Have you got any money?”
“Not a kopeck. If I had I would’ve bought a ticket.”
The lad laughs and asks sarcastically: “Would a ride as far as Kuibyshev suit you?”
“It would. Then I can catch a local train.”
“So three thousand kilometres isn’t far enough for you! Where is your final destination?”
“Chapaevsk,” I reply, looking around to see if I might try my luck elsewhere.
“You’re from Chapaevsk then?”
“Yes.”
“What part?”