On The Road To Bukhara

I left Khiva later than I intended, primarily  because I had to adjust the air pressure in the tires, and because the hotel manager was very interested in what I was doing.  I was hesitant to leave, because I started the day with the Traveller's Trots, and I knew the temperature was going to be high. Remaining hydrated was going to be a major concern all day, and I needed to keep fluids in me . . .  I attempted to solve this problem with a Lomotil.

Right after I left the hotel, the moto started dieing at low rpms.  That is not so much a problem at a stop sign, as I could thumb the starter button and it would fire up right away.  However, at a low speed in a corner, this presents certain challenges.  I thought I was going to have to stay in Khiva and sort it uot, but instead, being obstinate, I just maintained a lot of throttle (about 3500 - 4000 rpm) and sounded a lot like an alto Harley Davidson.  (This problem sorted itself out after about 100 kilometers)

Then I couldn't find fuel in Khiva.  There is a fuel shortage in Uzbekistan, at least at gas stations.  There is plenty available in the black market, you just have to find it.

So I left Khiva with those three things on my mind.  Those three, and the heat.  I set up a hydration plan in my mind, and it worked pretty well until I got to the eastern stretches of A380/E40.

The area around Khiva, and through Urgench, the provincial capitol, were green and almost lush.  I saw many, many canals, as well as rice paddies.  I had a flashback to  South Viet Nam when I spotted two young men in shorts with their hoes over their shoulders walking down the road to their rice paddy near the road.  In an instant, I was transported back to 1968 . . .

Mr. Garmin and I had a disagreement near Biruni about which way the road was supposed to go, as I refused to believe that the pot holed and broken tarmac I was looking at was E40.  Mr. Garmin was right, I was wrong, and I wasted half an hour trying to convince myself that I was smarter than a machine.  Once I got straightened out, I continued to follow almost all of his directions (At one point, he tried to get me to take the long way around, but I refused.  I was right and he was wrong.  Score for the day: tied at 1 - 1).  In and near all the major population areas, I searched for gas.  There was none to be found at any gas station.  Near Tartkul I stopped at a station, and the guy at the machine shop next door crossed his forearms in front of his chest indicating it was closed, and there was no gas.  I asked him in perfect English, "where is petrol?"  In perfect Uzbek, he said "across the street and down the driveway."  Fortunately, he also used hand gestures, the lingua franca of traders since the beginning of, well, trade.

I motored over there, noting the brick standing on end by the side of the road.  This, I learned, is the sign that the nearby house has fuel for sale.  The young men (there are always several as soon as the moto stops, soon joined by elders who spring from nowhere to see what is going on) and I discussed the moto, where I was from, how old I was, how much the moto cost, was I married, did I have children, and finally, how much fuel they had that I could buy.  They started at 5 liters and I worked them up to ten.  They wanted dollars, and we agreed that ten dollars for ten liters was fair.  With that ten liters, I could make it to Bukhara.

After awhile, the road leaves the river, and takes the traveller through barren land.  There is not much to distinguish one mile from the next, as the terrain is bush dotted sand and gravel spread on low, rolling hills.  From time to time, slightly taller hills and prominences are seen in the distance, but the road never approaches them.  

That is not to say that there are not manmade structures on the land, because power lines of different sizes are often seen, as are what appear to be some kind of industrial structures, perhaps related to oil or gas.  Moreover, there are many microwave relay towers.  They are often found with a police check point very near.  I was asked to submit my passport for recordation at one, given a bowl of cold water, and then released.

There are also little clusters of small buildings, mostly just two or three, that appear along the road.  At these I could (and did) buy cold water, half of which I would drink on the spot, and the other half would go in my Hydroflask for later.  The Hydroflask is amazing.  In 109 degree temperature, it kept my cold water cold.  That is a blessing!  At one of these little stops, there was a Chinese restaurant.  Out in front were parked several large, yellow dump trucks, full of gravel.  As I rode in, all the drivers ran towards the bike taking video and photos.  They were the Chinese that are building the highway, which you can see in the photo above. There is a segment of maybe 150 kilometers of concrete paved highway that is flawless.  The speed limit is 70 kph, ignored by everyone. The trucks and I leapfrogged for a couple of hours as I stopped for water more often than did they. 

I bought some water there, and the owner indicated I should come inside where it  was cooler, sit down and drink it.  I did, and a young girl, maybe 13, perhaps his daughter, was keeping a close eye on me.  I wonder, as I see these young people, how their lives will develop, whether they will have more joy than sorrow, whether they will have an opportunity to realize a dream.  Later in the day, I stopped at another place, and a young man there kept saying his dream was to go to America.  He is a mechanic, and can wrench any diesel engine made prior to twenty years ago.  How will that help him realize his dream?  And why isn't his dream to stay in Uzbekistan and help it grow into a vibrant country and economy?

After the Chinese built portion of the road was left behind, the road became various degrees of bad.  By now I was in the severe heat of the day, and I had to stop for a few minute wherever I could find shade.  I even started looking at tall bushes as candidates.  Sand had blown across the road in a few spots, providing another riding challenge (all of which were successfully negotiated).  I was overheated, and now every physical challenge took more energy, and I was nearly depleted.

Thirty-five kilometers from Bukhara, I was 98 % done.  I sat in a bus stop for shade, drank the last of my cold water, and put some water from another water bottle on my handkerchief.  That water was hot, so I had to wait for it to get cool.  When it did, I bathed my face, neck and hands with it, then tied it on my head.  I hoped as it evaporated under the helmet, it would cool me down, and it worked to a small degree. 

I plugged the hotel's location into Mr. Garmin, and set off for Bukhara, the final leg.  When I arrived at the hotel, there were four BMW R1200Gs motos there, all with Swedish plates, and the names of their riders.  One said, "The Stig."  Could it really be Stig?  I haven't found them yet, so I don't know.  Anyway, I checked in, got the bike unloaded, took a shower, and started feeling the effects of the stomach/bowel ailment and overheating.  My temp was 101 orally, so I wasn't in heat stroke territory by a long shot, but I was shaky, nauseated, dry, and having little spasms in my knee and elbow joints. I debated going to the ER to get a couple of liters of saline, but decided to wait and see if it would resolve.

By 1:00 am I was feeling better.  I went back to sleep, awakened at 6:00, then went back to sleep  until 10:00.  I am definitely feeling better, but even so, I had a nap this afternoon.  Tomorrow I will get up really early and go wander the streets of Bukhara, because it is too hot now.  I went out at noon to find a money machine, and drank a liter of tea and half a liter of water before I got back to the hotel.

I learned several lessons, and know I will learn more before the trip is over.  One is, start a heck of a lot earlier in the morning. . .