We woke up the next mooring in our grimy hovel of a soviet apartment in Astana, Kazakhstan, city of wonder and newness, to some violent knocking on the thick steel door of our apartment, I threw on a pair of pants and stumbled my bed bug bit ridden body over to the door, shirtless, just stinking of Ultrathon, and still working to get my eyes to focus.

It was our Babushka, the woman who rented us the apartment. Knowing that my Russian was bad, she was very careful to speak slowly and use easy to understand words. As far as I could tell, she had just come over at 8:00 in the morning to chat. So chat we did. She bustled around the apartment, noting approvingly that we had been “cooking” in the place (if boiling water for coffee and pouring bowls of cereal counts, then yes ma’am). After we had reached the full extent of my vocabulary and thoroughly chatted all the topics which I knew how to chat, she finally got down to business and we began brainstorming together places for me to hide the key when we left the next day at 5am to wheel to the airport. Finally we decided on a grubby little hole in the wall in the stairwell. And with that, she leaned over and kissed both of my cheeks. “You are such a good boy! Such a fine ‘sportsmen’” (which is the Russian term for a male or female athlete) “So brave you are! Can I call you my son?”

Oh, shucks. Sure you can call me your son, lady. And with that, she kissed both of my cheeks and gave me a big gelatinous hug, and disappeared through the door. “Be careful! Good luck, my son!” she called out as she locked the deadbolts one by one. The conversation had been a gleamingly positive interaction amidst the sea of Kazakh grumpiness. Why, showered as they are with money from the heavens, giant booming growth, and not that many people to spread the wealth among, can so many of the people we meet in this country get away with being so darned grumpy? Thank goodness for people like Nurbek (our RFID engineering friend for the bus)and our dear Babushka.

I then headed into the kitchen to burn the last bits of a lavender scented candle which we knew would do nothing to combat the mildew stench of the place. Scott rolled out of bed, no doubt awoken by our conversations, and we tried not to scratch our bed bug bites as we crunched mouthfuls of Imported Russian cereals.

From there we headed directly back to the ornate confines of the Radisson hotel, where we spent quite a few hours lapping up their wireless internet, which at nearly 20 k/s was the fastest we’d experienced in months.

When we began to get hungry again, we headed out in search of food. When we tried to do so, of course, the usual problem presented itself, namely that Astana has not too many restaurants, and what it does have is mostly hyper expensive. So we ended going to a grocery store where we purchased food for a picnic: dark bread, grapes, kefir, tiny oily fish, a couple larger smoked fish, some salty smoked string cheese,  loaf of raisin and nut bread, and a package of locally produced prosciutto type stuff.

It was all quite delicious and we talked about what a wild wheel we had had the day before as we dug into the food.

The rest of that day was spent bouncing from location to location in Astana, searching for internet, but always coming crawling back to the Radisson, which as far as we can tell, after trying multiple internet cafes, and even the supposedly wifi enabled mall, the only place in Astana where a fellow can actually connect his own computer to the interwebs. City of the future indeed…

The search for internet was reminiscent of our search for train tickets in Almaty. We would come into businesses, with the intention of paying them for use of the internet, and they would greet us with hostility and grumpiness. There were a few marked exceptions, but this was proving an incredibly tiring place to travel, not so much because of the logistical hassles, of which there were many, but mostly because of the constant drain of negative interactions with the locals. Kazakhstan had been a very important place to visit, but I was excited to get on a plane the next day and head back to Mother Russia. It had been some time for me, and I was excited to see which parts of my bright eyed and bushy tailed youthful experience of the place still held true now that I was becoming a gnarled and cynical traveler.

That evening, we were rolling by the giant medieval beer hall, “Line Brew,” that we had seen on our first wheel of Astana when we were called over by a couple of characters standing outside the restaurant smoking very thin cigarettes. They turned out to be sunglasses distributers for some of the larger malls in Astana and Almaty. And when we told them that we were sponsored by Maui Jim, taking out our Dawn Patrols as proof, they became very interested in what we were doing and invited us into the interior of the restaurant for a drink and some sausages.

They only drank Leffe beer, they explained, which here in Kazakhstan is frighteningly expensive, but they assured us that they were footing the bill, and proceeded to order a few sizzling plates of sausages. We talked with them into the night, over 12 dollar glasses of Leffe beer, about the sunglasses industry. One of them was a Slovenian chap, who had moved to Italy to play professional Soccer at the fall of the Soviet Union, and now had built a business for himself importing Italian luxury goods into the post-soviet world. The other was an Slavic Astana local, from back in the times when the city was a Soviet backwater full of caucasians. He spoke with gusto about the tumultuous changes that were happening in the city now, and summed it up quite nicely in Russian, which I will do my best to translate:

“For you it may be these bicycles and the Maui Jim. For us Kazakhs, it must to the Hummer and the Gucci.”

On our way back to the hotel, we ran into some rather inebriated Kazakh teenagers. There were four of them, who called out to us in Russian flagging us down to chat. We probably should have just ignored them as the old woman had said, but one of the lessons of AsiaWheeling has been that most people are friendly, so we decided not to, pulling our bikes over. Unfortunately, we immediately began to get a bad vibe from these guys. They were drunk and emotional, envious of us, and looking for opportunities to assert themselves. And not long after this group photo was taken, we began to feel downright hostility coming from them, even with the possibility of violence.  As we slowly made our way away from, they grabbed us by the shoulder and insist that we continue talking.

And so it was that we executed the first red alarm escape of AsiaWheeling. The fellows of course spoke only Russian, and as I was doing my best to dissolve the situation in my broken Russky, and Scott was doing his best to be endearing with the smattering of words that he had picked up since we’d landed in Uzbekistan. We were discussing in English our plan to, once we had found an opening, just hop on our cycles and disappear. We began to wheel the bikes away from the guys, which made them irate, and they began to close the gap.  Then it seemed our last chance before they would have encircled us. So we hopped on the cycles and began pedaling.

The guys did not give chase, thank goodness, for they looked fast, and with there being no handicapped access ramps in Astana, our escape route would have been easy to intercept for a man on foot, so robbed as we were of the ability to wheel up onto the sidewalk. All said, it was a hair raising experience, and we were quite happy to lock the door behind us, retreating into the rotting, stinking, and insect infested apartment that we were calling home. We hustled to pack up our things, slather on the bug repellant and go to sleep, for we had to get up in a few hours to wheel to the airport in time to catch our Air Astana flight to Novosibirsk.

We woke up that next morning in our rather filthy apartment in Astana, Kazakhstan and wandered into the kitchen to begin boiling water for breakfast.

As I fiddled with the single electric hot plate style burner that had been placed on the no longer operational and rather rusty soviet stove, I found myself scratching all over my stomach and sides.

A strolled into the bathroom and picked up my shirt to see my body dotted with bites… bed bugs. Well, I guess they would come sooner or later. Tonight I would need to figure out some kind of new strategy, but for the meantime, it would serve me better to focus on making this coffee.

That I was able to do, and soon I was joined by Scott, who also seemed to be rather covered in bites. We both grumbled a bit and sat down to a crunch audibly on mouthfuls of cereal and some of that delicious 3.2% milkfat Kazakh milk.  I have the not-so-enviable habit of salting my cereal, so we had purchased as well, a large 10 cent bag of salt, which I was happily utilizing.

The entire apartment had a dank mildew smell to it, so the evening before, we had also purchased some lavender scented candles, which we figured would be helpful in mitigating the smell. They turned out to do very little, however, other than provide a bit of flickering cheer to this otherwise soulless place. What we really needed was some heavy duty Sri Lankian or South Indian incense, but we were a very long ways (north) from that part of the world.

With stomachs full of coffee and cereal, we then went at the long overdue task of washing our clothes, which were positively filthy. The Uzbek and Kazakh washing detergents are some of the best in the world, we’ve found. They have a way of getting your clothes really, deeply, unprecedentedly, clean. The reason for this, we’ve heard, is because the regulations here in the post Soviet world allow for the use of certain chemicals which in America, Europe, and even China are illegal due to their terrible impact on the environment. Whatever the reason, we found ourselves the proud recipients of a batch of really, truly, clean clothes, and this was something to be proud of.

We strung them up in a system of clotheslines that we erected in Scott’s room.

With that task done, we set to wheeling. We began by heading out to the edges of the old Soviet part of town. You see, dear reader, Astana was originally a small soviet city, mostly populated by ethnically Slavic peoples. But when the new republic of Kazakhstan was formed, the new government felt that it needed to create a new identity and a new capitol city for itself. So, fueled by millions of oil dollars, it began construction of a concept capital in Astana, flooding the city with ethnically Kazakh peoples, and building a new city center across the river form the old soviet center (which is where the train station and our apartment were).

The soviet part of town was pretty hard scrabble, with crumbling single story homes, no sidewalks, and large plots of dirt playing the role of yards.

We wheeled on through the rougher parts of the Soviet section of Astana and on towards the river. The general quality of the buildings and the expensiveness of the cars on the street increased steadily as we approached the river. We rode past a giant stadium, with these magnificent air intake valves,

and the giant housing development of “Highville Kazakhstan.”

But it was when we crossed the river on the main central bridge that we began to see some truly gigantic and startling buildings. The first of which was probably this monstrous Wayne Manner style gothic behemoth.

We rode on from there onto a street lined with ridiculous themed restaurants, all of which were separated from the highway by a row of small trees. As we looked closer, we could see that the row of small trees was also filled with the bodies of napping construction workers.

We took a right to head into the strange themed restaurant development, and wheeled it thoroughly, gawking at the startling, over-the-top presentation of Greek, Chinese, Turkish, Korean, and Traditional Russian architectural styles. About half of the restaurants were completed, and the other half were still under construction. All of those that were finished were staffed by magnificently costumed workers, who scowled at us distractingly as we rode past.

From there we headed into a giant mall, where we ate lunch. The mall was uncomfortable, eerily quite, mostly devoid of people, and full of unused shop fronts.

We ate at a shockingly branded Russian style restaurant, where we ordered a meat cutlet, a piece of chicken, some beat salad, three thick pancakes with sour cream, a pickled herring and mayonnaise salad and two manty. The food was not bad, but not amazing either, and the plates on which it was served were some of the flimsiest and most untrustworthy pieces of dinnerware ever to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting diner.

From there we rode on to the Khan Shatyr, a huge shopping center, built under a giant translucent ger-style tent structure that was carefully designed to capture the sun’s radiation to aid it in staying warm during the brutally cold Kazakh winters. The ger, as I am sure you already know, dear reader, is the preferred nomad-friendly collapsible home popular among the Kazakhs and other Central Asian nomadic cultures. It looks like this:

Which is only vaguely like the khan shatir, which looks like this.

The closer we got to the Khan Shatir, the more gigantic we realized it was. We began by circumnavigating the thing, riding our speed TRs all the way through the huge oval of parking lot that surrounds the structure. Then, though we had already been in a mall that day, we decided we needed to go in.

It was really something inside there, bathed in light, and full of white paint and potted trees.

Like the mall in which we’d eaten lunch, it was full of tons and tons of unused retail space, but unlike the mall in which we’d eaten lunch, it was also full to the brim with Kazakh families out to enjoy the afternoon.

The first thing we did inside was stop into the architecture museum, where we could pour over the plans for the new giant indoor city that the Kazakhs are planning to build.

With oil money showing no signs of stopping, the government of Kazakhstan is planning to build an entire Khan Shatir style indoor city, complete with Venice style canals and a 3/4s size golf course!

The blueprint was really impressive, and reminded me of some of the none federation spaceships in Star Trek: the Next Generation.

From there we continued on, up to the next level, from which things were no less impressive. This level too was full of unused retail space, and also a new joint venture between KFC and a local company, which they were calling “Rostik’s.”

Nice one KFC.

Soon we found ourselves in a totally overwhelming video arcade/them park section of the mall, which made me feel like I was on some kind of none too enjoyable hallucinogenic drug.

We looked up at the sky and could see the sun beaming through the strange translucent roof above us.This place was too weird for words.

We needed to get out.

And so we did, but if we were thinking that would make this strange trip end, we were most certainly wrong. We headed next across the street towards the center of the new urban development in Astana. We stopped part way there when we noticed the locals were lining up to have their pictures taken in front of this giant statue of Luke Skywalker and a naked lady.

We couldn’t resist joining in as well.

From there, we headed on, under the giant overarching office-building-gateway of a  government building and onto the main drag, the Sheik Zayed Road of Kazakhstan, if you will.

Then the buildings became truly bizarre. For one reason or another, this place put us into a strange dreamlike state, and we rode through it as through in a trance, only half believing the things that we saw.

Part way through, we realized the physical part of us was thirsty and we wandered into a completely empty grocery store, where we wandered down unreal isles filled with all thousands of bottle of the same brand of water. So we bought some with the Technicolor currency of this strange land, and headed back out.

We continued further into the madness, past giant blocky structures, and slender towers, towards the central monument, a golden orb, suspended in the points of a giant crown, which is the symbol of this bizarre city.

We continued on from there, towards the large parliamentary building at the other side of this futuristic drive.  The government building is framed on either side by two truly unsettling golden rook shaped buildings.

Barely able to believe our eyes, we wheeled on. The parliamentary building was giant, and very impressive, seeming always close by, but proving always to be larger and further away than first estimate.

As we approached the gigantic government building, our fellow pedestrians thinned out and eventually disappeared, and eventually they were replaced by a very heavily armed and dense military presence.

With all the solders eying us as we wheeled, we decided it might be prudent to make a right turn and head over to investigate a huge turquoise curled up behemoth that turned out to be an opera house.

From there, we wheeled on, past the huge blocky center for measurements and standards, and the most monstrous Chinese business hotel of the entire trip. I imagined it being like a Mecca for Chinese business hotel connoisseurs, with the finest disposable slippers, the most delicious complementary toothpaste, the fastest in-room Ethernet jack this side of Seoul, and plenty of branded towels. I am speaking, of course, about the Petro-China Hotel. A place, no doubt, built for all the PetroChina executives that came to do business in Astana and couldn’t, until the establishment of this place, find a decent Chinese business hotel.

From the Petro-China hotel, we wheeled on over a newly laid and still quite sticky tarred gravel road.

When we saw a giant white mosque, we decided to turn onto their sprawling grounds to give them a look. They were quite beautiful, mostly gardens, with manicured and sporting raised cobblestoned paths for wheelers and strollers to utilize.

It had been a wheel for the record books and we were, I must say, a little burned out from all the wild things we’d seen. Astana was proving to be like nowhere else on Earth.

And so we wheeled back, stammering to each other, and attempting to find some previously constructed schemas with which to process what we’d just experienced, back down the giant newly paved main street of Astana and eventually back through the forest carnival area that we’d explored the day before. As I mounted the bridge back across the river to the Soviet side of town, I felt a wave of relief washing over me. Finally we were going back to a hard scrabble raw place, where things made sense.

We got back to our squalid apartment, and spent a few minutes just drinking water and attempting to relax. What a wheel that had been!

That evening we wheeled around hungrily for quite some time trying to find a restaurant that was less than 20 dollars for a plate of food. We finally settled on a pizza place, which made us this kielbasa and hot dog supreme pizza, with a side of corn and tongue salad.  It was none too tasty, but got the job done.

Once we’d filled our stomachs with matter, we headed over to the Radisson hotel, where we were able to, after a little sweet talking with the ladies at the front desk, manifest for ourselves two free 24 hour passes on the lobby wifi (Great Success!).

When midnight rolled around, we hopped on the bikes to wheel back to our apartment. As we rode, I realized that for the first time on the trip, the air was cold. I could have used a sweater, or a leather jacket even. The smiles of Indonesia certainly felt very far away as I covered my body in Ultrathon brand high intensity bug repellant and climbed onto the bed bug ridden couch on which I’d be sleeping for the next couple of days.

We woke up on the bus just as it was landing at the Astana bus terminal, which unlike in many cities, is conveniently located right next to the train station.

From there, our friend offered to walk us over to find a hotel. It had not been a good night of sleep for him, and he was eager to get to sleep, so we were extra grateful for his assistance.

The first hotel we wandered into was none too fancy, offered no internet, and was nearly 80 dollars per night, so we moved on. “This is one of the cheapest hotels in town,” our friend advised, “maybe you two should look into getting an apartment.” This sounded like a decent idea, so we headed back to the train station where crowds of old women in headscarves were calling out “apartment for rent” and wandering around.

We selected an especially sweet lady, who took us back to her grubby but very spacious soviet style 3^rd floor walk up. It was sort of a gross place, even by asiawheeling standards, but we decided we could do it, and the price was less a third of the cheap hotel, so we pulled the trigger.

We locked the bikes in the apartment and headed out with the old woman to make a copy of the key and to visit and ATM so that we could pay her.

Scott headed off to find money, and I wandered into a bustling and very Russian feeling market with the woman. She made a copy of the key and came back grinning. “I can tell already. You two boys will be like my own two sons.” I thanked her for the compliment. She then began to tell me about all the dangers of Astana. “Astana is not safe like in the soviet times”, she cautioned. “Kazakhs like to fight and some like to steal. Be careful. If anyone comes up to you, don’t let them know you speak Russian. Don’t speak to them. Don’t look at anyone. Don’t do drugs here, the police will find you and beat you. Lock the door to the apartment when you sleep, or else homeless people will come in at night.”

Fair Enough and duly noted, ma’am.

We met back up with Scott, paid the woman, and headed back to grab the cycles. It was high time now for a little Astana wheeling.

Our first stop was another one of those Kvas wagons, where we had got another frosty glass of the good stuff, served up for the people by a yellow aproned lady.

We headed from there in search of some breakfast, which was perhaps even harder in this new town than it had been in Almaty. We did eventually find a place, though, and it was a weird one, something like a cross between a traditional Russian Traktir, a Bob Marley themed joint, and a luau. We ordered some small and somewhat tasty Russian salads, a plate of four very tasty Manty, and a very oily and bizarre cup of turkey soup.

So with a little food in our stomachs at least, we headed further into the city. We noticed a heavily decaled Ford Fiesta, and stopped to investigate it. From what we could tell, it looked like it belonged to some Scottish guys, doing the Mongol Rally, a race from London to Ulaanbaatar for Charity. Good on ya, mates.

We stopped into a medieval themed restaurant, where we confirmed that they did indeed have wifi, but that we would need to buy both food or drinks from them, and a 3 dollar per hour internet access card to use it. So the place ws noted and we wheeled on.

We pedaled from there to a large river that bisects the city of Astana, and rode along it until we spotted a pedestrian bridge. We wheeled up and over that bridge and into the park on the other side. The park was full of people and rides, all hidden amidst a sea of trees. It was a very mysterious place to wheel through, feeling simultaneously like a forest and a twisted carnival.

We paused in the middle of the forest carnival area to buy a couple of cups of sticky black Nescafe from a kiosk. The woman inside seemed put off that we had arrived to do business with her. But we fought threw the negative energy and bout a couple rounds of joe.

A little more caffeinated, we wheeled on, finding ourselves soon at the foot of a large shopping complex called Mega.

So we locked the bikes outside and headed in, figuring we had an apartment now, we might as well grocery shop. We spent quite some time in the grocery store, looking at all the brands, choosing the appropriate canned coffee and buying things to make cereal in the morning.

On our way back to the room, we rolled by this giant gaudy Radisson, which also advertized wifi. We filed that place as well as another possible means of connectivity while in this city.

As we wheeled back by the Mongol Rally Ford Fiasta, we caught the owners just as they were climbing in the car. They turned out to be one Scot and one Pole, and the two asked us to leave our mark on their many times autographed vehicle.

They were leaving that day to head up to Russia. You see, they had run into similar registration problems in Kazakhstan, and were thinking that rather than deal with the massively corrupt officials and the mind numbing bureaucracy of this place, they would just nip back up to Russia where things were sane. Fair Enough.

As a parting gift, they gave us this bottle of Polish Ketchup. They also shared some of their tools with us, which allowed us to tighten Scott’s handle bar post back up, which had been rattling around like mad as of late.

That evening, we utilized a particularly interesting kind of business that we have hitherto only seen in the post soviet world. It is a made to order beer bottling operation. One enters, looks at the giant list of kegs that are on tap, and then the attendant will fill, pressurize, and seal, a plastic bottle for you, from a half liter to two full liters.

It’s a great way to try weird local brews, so we chose one of the brands at random and purchased a liter to bring back with us.

We began the day by attempting to head out to that mojito branded coffee shop that we’d indulged in the day before, but we were sorely disappointed to find it closed. Now we were in a bewildering Kazakh pedestrian mall, and before we knew it we’d been seduced by a Starbucks copycat joint, where we proceeded to spend an unearthly amount of money on cups of coffee and wifi.

Little did we know upon entering that in order to be issued wifi passwords, we needed to spend a certain amount of money, we found this fact out after already ordering our cups, so we just decided to go whole hog and began ordering soups, salads, baskets of bread, Doner Kababs and the like, in order to reach the expenditure required to achieve wifi access.

It was good to be on the internet. Just that brief session left us with a much more positive general outlook on life. We bounded back to our cycles and headed from there up to Transavia where we picked up our passports, paying them another unearthly amount of money.

We then headed off to find train tickets on the next day’s train to Astana, the brand new, Dubai-esque capital of Kazakhstan. We began first at what would seem the logical place to buy tickets: the train station. But we should have learned our lesson from our trials in Shymkent. The train station was a desperate madhouse full of people cutting in line, screaming at each other and ticket selling windows that would close at a moment’s notice sending their lines to disperse out into the room, frantic, frustrated, and ready to cut anyone without the means or the chutzpa to defend themselves.

On top of that, the people in line with us all seemed to be headed to Astana as well. “Oh, you won’t get tickets,” they said “No more tickets here. We’re going to take the train to a nearby town and from there take a bus.”

This was disheartening but also information that was none too trustworthy. People tell us things all the time on AsiaWheeling and half of it is lies. The art is deciding which to listen to and which to disregard. We profess by no means to be masters of this art…

Regardless, eventually we gave up on ever getting service at the train station and, after calling Mr. Berghoff for advice, headed out to find a private train booking office. Luckily these, were on every street corner. Unluckily, it seemed that there was indeed some truth to the communications that he had gotten from our fellows waiting in line at the train station. Tickets seemed few and far between.

Right off the bat, we had the opportunity to buy two first class tickets, for about 80 dollars each, but that seemed monumental (we later found it was, by Kazakh standards at least, not), so we continued on. We would wheel for a bit, spot a ticket selling office, and then I’d go running in to ask the same questions in Russian. Do you have tickets to Astana for the day after tomorrow? No eh? How about bus tickets? Sorry for asking. Do you have any idea who might be able to help us? No? Well sorry for wasting your time.

Each interaction was exhausting. For one reason or another, the people of this city were unreasonably grumpy. I thought I’d known grumpy, living in Russia, but this was a new level. Each interaction felt like an open conflict, wrought with distrustful looks and judgmental comments about my not planning ahead. I was trying to do business with these people, trying to give them money! Why were they angry at me?!?

And so it went for another couple of hours, negative interaction after negative interaction, all of them explaining in one way or another that we could not get to Astana. We’re booked this whole month. Only one ticket available, for 100 dollars. There are two of you! Scoff! Good luck getting to Astana! Why did you not plan your trip in advance? Astana is a popular destination, how can you expect me to accommodate you at the last minute? Buses?! Can’t you read!?

Honestly I could only read as many words as I knew, which was not that many. I was becoming increasingly sapped of energy by the negative interactions, and soon I confessed to Scott that I could not do this much longer. So we decided to just ride to the bus station.

And off we went. It was no short journey and required a fair bit of asking for directions. When we stopped to ask a very old man with a long white beard who looked like he could have walked right out of a 1980s Hong Kong Kung Fu flick, I realized that it was the first positive interaction I’d had in eons. It felt good, giving me some more energy to pour into the ride.

Also, stopping at a roadside milk stand to buy a little Kefir helped as well. The Kefir here in Kazakhstan was really outstanding, rejuvenating in fact, hell I’ll call it magical. The packaging was also incredible.

We found the bus station to be plenty crowded with people trying to get to Astana as well, and we rushed through the jungle of loading busses to dash inside. I was even able to wait in line without being cut.

There was a good feeling to this bus ticket thing, even if it was, assuming I understood the woman correctly, going to be at least 16 hours of riding through the empty Kazakh steppe.

But the tickets were cheap and available, and armed with assurance that we would eventually get to Astana in time to catch our flight to Novosibirsk, we hopped back on the bikes, feeling like a great weight had been lifted from our shoulders. We pulled over to the side of the road on our way back to taste a little bit of the Kvas being served up by one of the many giant steel tanks, operated by yellow aproned ladies that lined the road to the bus station. To dispose of the cups, one would skewer them with a long vertical rod.  This puncturing would signal that the cups were “spent” and prevent patrons from thinking they may be reused.  There may also be a small part of everyone at needs to puncture a plastic cup at 3:30pm in Almaty to sustain sanity.

It was a long hard wheel back to our neighborhood, and we realized we were plenty starving by the time we got there, so we headed into a little Russian bakery to have a snack.

We spent the rest of that day working on correspondence for you, dear reader, and woke up the next morning bright and early to wheel to the bus station. We felt we needed to get there early, in order to ensure a spot for our cycles on the bus. And we were lucky we did, for a few wrong turns added a fair bit to our time wheeling to the station.

Once we got there, it was not obvious at all where we would find our bus. The station was packed and chaotic, and signs and markers were few and far between. Eventually after talking to a number of people, we found our way to a deserted back section of the station, where I wandered over to ask once again of a fellow sitting there on a bench next to his duffel bag where we might find out bus.

He turned out to be going to Astana as well. He was actually a Kazakh PhD student fresh back from America, and heading to the new capital to give a report on what he had learned on his visit (Nice!).  He was more than happy to show us the proper way to purchase luggage permits for our cycles and bags and how to snag the front spot in line to load them into the belly of the bus. While Scott was chatting with him and a group of fellow travelers who were forming around us, I snuck off to buy us some of the larg triangular shaped Kazakh Somsas. They were full of meat and cabbage and very tasty.

Then we were on the bus. It was going to be a very long ride, and with no bathroom on board, I was careful not to drink very much water. I tried to write as we drove but so bad were the roads, and so violent the resulting bouncing around of the bus as it went over them, that I found computing a complete waste of time. I chose instead to stare out into infinite of the steppe which just rolled mesmerizingly by.

A few hours into the ride, the crew started playing highlight reels from Kazakh dog fights. Dog fighting is a very popular spectator sport here. It’s also savagely violent. We could not tell whether to be amused or slightly sickened by the footage, so we settled for a combination of both.  This popular music video should illustrate the theater of brutality in Kazakh popular culture.

Perhaps 5 hours in, we stopped at a little melon selling operation in the middle of the steppe. The people there were really going for it, producing melons here in the middle of nowhere, so we decided we should support them by purchasing a few.

Our new friend helped us to choose the best ones.

One of the melons had been painted silver. This was, I believe a marketing gimmick, though it might also have had some mystical significance.

About 8 hours in, we stopped at a roadside restaurant called “Café Tranzit.”

Here finally we were able to have some Kazakh food, which was very interesting.

We ordered a few dishes, one of them consisted of large pieces of stewed mutton and a great many raw onions, another was a borsch like soup, featuring a heavy dollop of mayonnaise instead of the traditional sour cream. They also had their own variation on Lakman. I would say Kazakh food is a little like Uzbek food, only less approachable.

It was Ramadan at the time, so our friend was unable to join us in eating. However, most courteously, our bus driver waited until the sun had ducked down behind the outhouses before he left, giving the more observant Muslims on the bus a chance to eat quickly before we left.

We drove on into the night, bouncing over the terrible roads, dodging potholes, and slowing down to drive through sections where the road just dissolved into gravely steppe, until suddenly there was a large noise and the bus pulled over.

Everyone got out and the driver and his team began to go to town working so solve some issue that had cropped up with the suspension of the bus. Fixing it required taking the wheel on and off a few times, and inflating and deflating the cylinder that controlled that wheel’s pneumatic suspension repeatedly as well.

I was unable to tell exactly what they were doing, but in an hour or so’s time, and a bunch of hissing valves, clanging metal, and Kazakh swear words later, all was more or less well again, and we hit the road. Now Scott and I were able to drift off to sleep, and were even able to rest a few hours longer into the morning than expected, with our bus arriving 3 hours late in Astana, getting us in, instead of at 4am, at the much more civilized hour of 7.

I rolled around as the sun worked its way into out room at the Hotel Turkistan in Almaty, Kazakhstan. Scott was still sleeping. I could not remember what time he’d come in from his adventures with our new and rather tiresom fabulous friend last night. I hoped the adventures had gone well. I was more than happy to be able to sleep through them. Scott woke up as I was typing away on my computer on correspoindance for you, dear reader.

“I had a hell of a night last night.” He said, looking groggy, and scratching at his stubble, I’ll tell you over breakfast.

And so we headed downstairs and climbed on the Speed TRs, rolling out in search of breakfast. As was becoming the rule for Kazakhstan, it was not easy to find a restaurant, but eventually we road by a little down home café that looked decent, nearby another branch of the Silkway City.

We sat down and ordered some coffee, a basket of black bread, and a couple bowls of Солянка (Solyanka), my favorite Russian soup. They arrived quickly, and Scott told me the tale of the previous night as we ate. It sounded like a pretty raw experience. I gave him my condolences and poured a little of my coffee out onto the pavement in mourning of our lost warbucks. I hope you buy yourself something really nice, officer.  Like a new gold tooth.

From there, we strolled into the Silkway City, looking to investigate the opportunities for internet to be had inside. We did find a ridiculously priced branch of a St. Petersburg internet café that I’d used once called CafeMax, and an interestingly branded tea shop, but little more that was of interest.

We were not quite ready to hop on the cycles and begin wheeling again, so we headed out on foot, trusting that the phone booth where we’d locked the Speed TRs would keep them safe.

So we began strolling, past some truly amazing looking structures. And some really bold Kazakh jeans advertisements.

We continued on, enjoying the closer look that strolling gave us as compared to wheeling, past a pink and blue wall covered with tattered advertisements, and on through an underpass where an fantastic fellow was playing Ukrainian tunes on the accordion.

He was so good that I decided to throw a few Tenge in his shoebox and listen to him play for a bit.  His artistry and imagination served as a breath of fresh air.

We strolled from there into a large pedestrian mall-type area, where we were able to purchase a few more cups of coffee at very reasonable prices from a street vendor who’s sole advertisement just said “mojitos” in large pink letters.  Large scale advertisements continued to flank the pedmall, giving up pause to dissect each one in critical investigation.

With that coffee in us, we bagan to perk back up, remembering Hosam and the Syrain BBQ we’d had, and that life was good. And so climbed back on the cycles, and completed the long wheel back up to Transavia. We had burned a bridge you might say, with our fabulous friend, and we felt it was important to express to Katya that no one was to be authorized to pick up our registered passports except for us.

When I wandered into the office, I was pleased to find it still there, thinking for a moment before I opened the door of all the movies about long cons in which the conned individual runs back to the office only to find it a vacant rental…

We wandered around for a while outside of Transavia, in that office/residential park, looking at the kids playing. This entry into Kazakhstan had been quite the trial by fire. We were changing, and we could feel it. Or maybe that was just hunger. Regardless it was time to eat again.

So we headed into the nearest grocery store, which turned out to have plenty of ready to eat foods, which we purchased with abandon.

We ate a picnic lunch of the things we’d bought at the store in the shade of a giant green awning. We were joined there by plenty of Kazakh business men and women on their lunch breaks, also mothers who were picnicking with their friends while the kids played in the park. Particularly delicious was this “grandma” brand kefir, which was a very mellow an approachable version of the more tart and mildly carbonated classic Russian drinkable yogurt.

So with that we climbed back on the cycles and attempted to wheel on. But somehow through a mismanaged series of field commands, we ended up siphoned into a Kazakh military training area, where were decided to dismount and walk our bikes through the field where all the concrete barracks were, so as to most politely arrive at the other side where we could see a promising looking highway.

The barracks were stange buildings, covered with ads to joint the army or the Militsiya (as the police here are called). Each window also had a large concrete chuck sticking out next to it, presumably to keep the occupant from sticking his head out the window and Bro-ing out to hard with his neighbors.

Past the barracks, we got in the highway. And we followed that highway on towards a district of giant glass office buildings, which we were only able to access by means of a half build and very creepy pedestrian underpass. Once we finally got close, though, we found the structures to be quite impressive.

From there, we took a right, and continued to head towards the outskirts of town.

It was easy not to get lost, since the whole city is on a slant that always indicates which way is north (down). The street signs were even marginally helpful.

And so we wheeled on, out of the commercial district and into a kind of suburban area. Here the roads got more narrow, and navigation became more difficult. We had spotted a large and very bizarre structure in the distance, and were interested in more closely investigating it, but we found it extremely hard to get to, being again and again siphoned down roads that lead the wrong way.

Eventually, we found our way back onto a more major road, and wheeled along the sandy sidewalk-esque trail that ran along it for a bit, which lead us to a huge hydrologic engineering project, along which a road ran that looked like it just might lead to our strange structure.

And here it is. Speculation as to what this thing is is more than welcome in the comments.

On our way back, we managed to myander our way onto this much more manicured path, which lead us through a bizarre manicured forest of miniature trees, right back to the giant glass office building district. From there, we began wheeling north (downhill) past a huge university, with this devastatingly attractive observatory complex

and on down into the large park that separated our hotel from the southern more affluent and businessy part of the city.  We wheeled into through park and not long into our explorations stumbled upon this startlingly brightly colored church, which also might have been a palace.

I am sure the truth lies in-between.

We were riding through what for all intents and purposes seemed a sunny and pigeon filled park

When it all of a sudden starting to downpour, in broad daylight, forcing us to seek shelter.

The rain disappeared as quickly as it had manifested, and soon we were off wheeling again, now through puddles on wet pavement. The rain was quickly evaporating, though, leaving a most dramatic mist hovering above the ground. The next thing we stumbled across was the famous Almaty WWII memorial. It really is a very impressive structure, with a certain angular brutal feel to it that one usually only gets in two-dimensional art. Bravo communism for making this one.

It’s true Kazakhstan is no longer a communist country, but man oh man am I glad they kept some of this soviet stuff around. Take the crest on this building for instance.

Like something from a video game, or an action figure set, or even star wars. It’s just too good.

That evening, we met up David Berghoff, head of Stantours. Stantours had played an invaluable role in our planning of central asia, and is a fantastic resource for readers out there interested in visiting the region.

We met with David at a beer hall called Stad, where he to our great surprise and excitement, ordered us all glases of Shymkent brand beer.  Following that was a “stinky fish” from a river that flowed into the black sea, transported quite far to this restaurant in Almaty.  We began telling him the story of our registration and the fabulous fellow, which he found neither surprising nor profound, until we mentioned where we’d dropped our passports off.

“Transavia!” he exclaimed. “They’re the Russian visa mafia, you know that?”

Fair Enough, Mr. Berghoff. Fair Enough.

And then we arrived in Almaty. It was the morning and the sun was blazing outside the window of our train car. Scott and I hustled to collect our things and grab the Speed TRs to get of the train before it headed to its next station.

We were not sure exactly where the station that we had arrived in was relative to the rest of the city, and knowing that there were very few cheap hotels that were authorized to admit foreigners, we figured it would be good to consult a map. The easiest to get to and most useful map we could think of was the one in the Lonely Planet PDFs on Scott’s computer. Unfortunately, his computer had been drained down to the last drop the night before, so we needed some electricity. Thus began our journey around the station looking for an outlet. We found one, upstairs, behind the lip of what looked like an out-of-service wine bar concept.

We plugged in and were just booting up when we were apprehended by the railway police. They explained to me in Russian that what we had just done was in violation of the code of the railways, and therefore against Kazakh law. The police officer looked very sternly at the both of us, made a clicking sound in the back of his throat, and demanded to see our papers. We produced them.

“Not registered yet, I see,” he muttered in Russian. “You have only two days left to do your registration…” He reluctantly handed back our documents and gruffly directed us to follow him to the elevator. As we headed over, he also pointed out that we had used the escalator to move our bikes, which it turns out is also against the code. I apologized to him a few more times. He brought us to the center of the railway station’s lobby and told us to wait there for him, which we did.

Then some more time went by, and he was nowhere to be seen. We scanned all around the station… where was he? Finally, we decided to just make a run for it, and walked our bikes out to the exterior of the station, asked another security guard for directions into town, quickly thanked him and raced off into the traffic.

We stopped for lunch at a pizza place we spotted on the way, not because we necessarily wanted pizza, but because we couldn’t find a Kazakh restaurant. They’d been easier to find in Tashkent! While at the restaurant, Scott plugged in his computer to charge and got on the phone with potential hotels. The pizza was okay, and the coffee, I think, was a little better than okay, but never trust an addict getting his first dose in a while.

As we munched pizza and mayonnaisey Russian salads, we commented on how much less of a food culture there was her than in the Uz. In Uzbekistan, there were amazing restaurants everywhere with very unique food. Here, on the other hand, it seemed as though the locals were looking to other cultures to tell them what to eat. Perhaps this was because the culture was nomadic. The Uzbeks had built great cities and had farmed, forged a civilization, and thrived in a sedentary way for the past 5,000 years. The Kazakhs on the other hand had been nomadic until the Russians came a few hundred years ago and began to trap them in cities, forcing them to consider things like restaurants.

All this discussion of the differences between Central Asian cultures was interesting, but we had some work to do. We wheeled hard into the city, and began stopping into hotels and checking the prices. One of the first that we found was actually a Chinese business hotel. The place looked amazing, and Scott was able to speak Chinese with them, but even with brotherhood pricing, it was a far cry from the normal Chinese business value. So we wheeled on.

Soon we were in a dense market, and though all our investigations of maps and questioning of the locals had brought us here, there seemed no way, try as we might, to actually locate the place. At our wits end, and beginning to worry that we would not be able to find a hotel in time to register ourselves, we were suddenly accosted by two young women. “We are studying English,” they said. “We heard you talking and wanted to know if you needed any help.”

Thank goodness. Not only did they know of the hotel we were looking for, but they led us right to the door, commenting as we walked there that is was “the cheapest place to stay in all of Almaty that would not steal from your room.”

Great. We thanked them profusely and checked in. We explained our predicament registration-wise to the front desk as follows: We had entered the Kazakh Republic on a Friday, too late in the day to register in Shymkent. Saturday and Sunday they had been closed, and now we were arriving on a Monday here, with tomorrow being the last day that we were eligible to register. The woman at the front desk commented that usually the registration takes a day or two, so if we were to have any hope of avoiding the $100 fine, we had better head out tout de suite.

And so we did, armed with a few signed and stamped documents that the hotel had prepared for us and a little map leading to the OVIR. Unfortunately, the OVIR proved much harder to find than one might hope. As we continued to strike out on finding the place, we began to walk into more and more random businesses asking for help. A certain travel agency wrote a name, a phone number and some Russian words I did not understand on a yellow scrap of paper. I literally put this in my back pocket, hoping that we could find them without having to negotiate a miscommunication ridden phone conversation with someone whose relationship to the OVIR was in no way clear due to my poor understanding of Russian.

So we kept wheeling around the gently sloping streets of Almaty for hours, feeling the OVIR was always just around the corner, but becoming increasingly worried.

I say gently sloping because the entire city of Almaty is on a hillside and gently slopes down to the north and up to the south — very confusing I know.

We were at our wit’s end when we asked a particularly fabulous looking gentleman in the street for directions.

He was quite cordial with us, and immediately snapped to action. He did not know where the OVIR was, but he was willing to wander into a nearby hair salon, whipping the door open like a western gunslinger, and to get on the phone with the woman, Katya, whose number had been given to us by the travel agent whose office we’d stopped into earlier.

And so we began the process of hailing a cab. Like in Uzbekistan and Russia, all one needs to do is stick out one’s hand, except that here in this city all the cars were actually quite nice, many of them were luxury brands, and it would not be uncommon to actually get a ride in a BMW or Lexus SUV as one was flagging down a cab.

The downside of this fact, we soon learned, is that many of them are unwilling to put folding bicycles into the back seats of their cabs, and that it’s much more expensive. So it took us quite some time to find a cab, and even when we did find one, it was only willing to take us back to the hotel to drop off our bikes and not all the way out to the OVIR… or at least we thought we were going to the OVIR… until I asked our new friend.

“Where are we going?” I asked in Russian. You see, he spoke no English.

“Transavia,” he replied.

I had no idea where Transavia was, but we began piling our cycles into the cab. As we were doing so, a very animated fellow showed up on something that looked not unlike a folding bicycle. “It’s my new invention!” he called out to us, and began stammering in bits of English and Russian. I was interested, mostly because the man was obviously mad, but was forced to apologize, saying that we were in a bit of a hurry. We piled into the cab and sped off.  Today seemed to get only stranger and stranger.

With bikes safely back at the hotel, the cab dropped us off in a giant towering development of mixed residential and corporate office space. All of our cell phones were out of batteries, so I ran over to a convenience store to buy us all some more credit for our SIM cards.

And after a quick call we found the place.

Inside the building it was stark and white and very clean. Desks were lined up against each wall with strikingly similar looking blond women behind them, all typing away on computers. The entire room looked up at us as we came in.

Our friend asked for Katya, which I remembered was the name on the card, and a beautiful woman came out from behind a door. I did my best to explain our situation to her, and our new friend chimed in where need be. Eventually she understood and told us not to worry, that she could help. And so we gave her our passports and left.

It felt great. Another problem vanquished due to AsiaWheeling’s carefully honed radar telling us when to and when not to trust strangers!

Feeling great, we asked our new friend if he might want to go out for a coffee or something on us. He seemed interested. He began to hail a cab, but we explained that we like to walk, and if he was okay with it we’d prefer to move a little.

He seemed mildly pouty, but agreed. And we began to walk on, chatting. He explained to us how he worked as a hair dresser, how he had just saved up enough money to take out a lease on a new Lexus, telling us about his apartment, pointing out the handsome building in the distance. It really sounded like this guy was coming up in the world of men’s hair in Almaty… who knew? He explained to us as we walked that Scott’s shirt was too dirty. It’s fine, we assured him, but he pressed on. “It’s too dirty for my taste,” he said. “I’d like you to get a new one.”

Considering he’d just saved our asses and all, we decided to humor him and we followed the guy into the Silkway City, a posh Almaty mall chain, where we purchased for Scott a tee-shirt with a giant “I love Kazakhstan” on the front.

With that done, we headed out in search of coffee, but ended up instead at what our friend claimed was his favorite place, a joint called the Café Bar Excellent.

It was perhaps 6:30 pm and the place was almost completely empty. Our new friend decided to take bishop ordering for the table some pitchers of beer and a few plates of meat and French fries. It was, we were to learn, a Turkish restaurant, which is the most popular type of restaurant in Kazakh cities. I am not sure where the Turks get all this brand equity, but trust me, at least in Kazakhstan, they have it in spades.

This was fine with us, we were hungry anyway, and so we dug in, and enjoyed the beer. It was Heineken, the expensive stuff, not nearly as tasty as Shymkenskoye but as it is always, consistently not bad.

Communicating with this guy was tough. He spoke no English whatsoever and had very little patience for my poor Russian. But struggle on we did, into the evening, continuing to eat and chat as the sun ducked below the horizon.  When the bill came, our friend made no pretense of paying a cent, but we figured he had helped us today, and so we paid and got ready to leave, explaining to him that we had a lot of work to do.

He then began to get very disgruntled. “Don’t leave!” he pleaded with us. “Why won’t you stay longer with me?” We attempted to explain that we were tired, that we had lots of correspondence to write for you, dear reader, but he was not having it. He was becoming quite upset, and putting his foot down. “No! Stay!”

He then began to explain to us about his friends who he wanted us to meet. He told us about all the beautiful women who would be joining us, along with a photographer from (presumably Russian) Vogue.

Finally, in an exhausted last ditch effort, we were able to leave, but only promising that we would meet back up with him when we were done working. As we parted ways he demanded cab money from us (and quite a lot of money at that… twice as much as our cab fare) to get back to his place. This we gave him as well. As we piled into the cab, I turned back to Scott, letting him know that I was too exhausted by this character to do any more hanging out tonight. “My recommendation is that we just screen his calls,” I said.

Scott felt obliged to spend more time with the guy, and figured it may not be all that bad. “I’d like to meet this photographer from Vogue,” he said. And so it was that I went off to sleep, and Scott headed out to reencounter our fabulous friend…

………………………..

As Woody settled into bed, my phone rang at 10:00 pm on the dot when our purple-shirted and elaborately coiffed friend said he would be calling.  He was outside, and so I descended the stairs and spilled onto the filthy, poorly lit street surrounded by deserted market stalls.

There was no Lexus in sight, so I moved further into the street to peer in both directions.  Just then, a station wagon pulled up and dispensed Mr. Fabulous.  Now began the first extended Russian language practice session I had on my own.

After greetings, I asked him, “Where are you friends?”  He replied with something like “Oh..friends.  Astana.  They’re all in Astana, darling.  Yes, Astana.”

Oh, okay.  Well, do you have none here?  Who are we meeting?

I was told to hush, and decided to be patient and give him the benefit of the doubt.  We walked to find a place to chill.  Oddly enough, despite passing numerous attractive and lively options, we found ourselves back at the overpriced and not-so-great Cafe Bar Excellent.

I decided to bide my time and converse with this fellow as much as possible.  After rudimentary English and Russian lessons, I asked again, “Are you friends coming?  Are we going to meet them?”  He seemed to be assuring me that there would be some further socializing while periodically whipping out his mobile phone and firing off text messages.

Time passed, and we ordered another drink.  I was starting to grow impatient and suspicious, as I could barely think of enough things to mime or express in completely mutilated Russian.  He certainly wasn’t talking about much but seemed to be enjoying himself.

After hours passed, I motioned that we should be leaving, and if we were going to meet someone else we could find another spot.  We asked for the bill, and a waitress, who probably wondered who this odd couple was, brought it to the table.  And there it sat.  I waited for Mr. Fabulous to make a movement.  Maybe toward his wallet or maybe toward the bill.  He did not stir.

I brought it up in pantomime, motioning toward the check, suggesting we go Dutch, or do it the German way as the Turkish say.  He had no money, it seemed.  Exasperated, I paid and got up.

We strolled down the street for a bit and I signaled that I’d be heading home to catch some shuteye.  He brought up his friends once more, and not understanding what he was trying to communicate, I followed him into a park and sat on a bench as he made a call on his phone.  After the phone call, he began to make moves.  Big moves.  And I was not about to make out with a Kazakh guy in a park in the middle of the night.

“Hey man,” I said in Russian, “I like girls.”  Literally translated, I told him, “I have once reveled in a woman.”  It was all I could say.

There were no friends.  He spoke no English.  No photographer from Vogue.  No effort to pay bill.  Where the hell was I?

Had my people sensor somehow gotten warped?  His fragility and helpful nature seemed to suggest that he was not one to be a predator, though he’d been weaving complex webs.  “I’ve got to get out of here,” I resolved.

“Wait!” he exclaimed, and communicated that he had no money for a cab home.  How did he get here in the first place, I wondered?  “Look,” I told him in English, hoping my tone would permeate any language barriers, “I’m not paying your cab fare.  You relied on us for dinner, for cabs, for an entire evening, and you lied to us.  Find your own way home.”

Was this the right thing to do? Or was I being shallow?  Tough love isn’t easy. It’s tough (as the name implies).  I had never said this kind of thing to anyone.  But something compelled me to simultaneously cut my losses and teach this guy a lesson.

So I began walking.  Not wanting to take cab myself for the couple of blocks home, I strolled north down Almaty’s slope back toward the hotel.

As I turned the corner onto the street of our hotel, a police car pulled around me from behind and three officers  alighted from the vehicle.  I was certainly the only thing they were interested in.

“Documenti,” they signaled, “papers.”  I gulped.

My passport was at Transavia for registration, so I produced a photocopy and records of my flight and visa to the country.  This seemed not to interest them.  I was told to empty my pockets on their patrol car.  Keys, wallet, cell phone, some random receipts now laid on their trunk.

“Have you been drinking?” the cop signaled, placing two fingers on his neck, as is the Russian custom.  “A little”, I replied.

“Narcotics?  Drugs?”

“No, none, not at all.”

“Your shoes.  Take off your shoes.  We need to check them.  Unlace them.”

I bent down to untie the shoes, and midway through I was instructed to stop.  “Get out of here,” they motioned.  I put my possessions back in my pockets.  And I was free.

Walking away, I checked my wallet.  It was lighter.  Not the kind of lighter when Kazakh Tenge is missing.  The kind of lighter when the proud greenbacks of Barack Obama have been embezzled and siphoned into the hands of Almaty’s finest.

And right then, at the entrance to our hotel, two men with beers in hand seemed thrilled to see me.  They cheered “I love Kazakhstan,” and insisted we take a photo.  So here I am, in Almaty, at the end of one of the weirdest days of my life, loving Kazakhstan.

We woke up that next morning at the Ordabasy Hotel, feeling great about being in Kazakhstan. The sun was shining, our air conditioning unit was purring along, and we were just about to head down for a little complimentary breakfast.

Despite the fact that we had slept in until almost noon, the hotel restaurant was more than happy to serve us, nervously placing a modest breakfast of deep fried dough, covered in sour cream, in front of us. I can’t go as far as to say it was delicious, but it got the job done, sticking in our stomachs for hours and hours after we ate it. Thankfully, there was plenty of coffee.

We left the restaurant and grabbed the Speed TRs from where we’d locked them near the stairs. From there we poured out onto the streets of Shymkent, taking in the majesty of the Ordabassy Hotel in the sunlight. We were positioned perfectly, right in the center of town where there was a giant roundabout and a huge pyramid tower piercing the sky.

We spent a little while investigating the tower and the associated fountains.

And from there, just practiced the usual algorithm of choosing a direction and wheeling hard.

We crossed over the Shymkent rail station and proceeded on into the unknown. They say that Shymkent is really more of an Uzbek town, misplaced into Kazakhstan when the original lines had been drawn by Stalin’s ethnographers. That hypothesis was supported by the presence of the giant, Uzbek style melon and vegetables market that we stumbled upon.

The smell of Dynia was so strong as we rode past, that we had to stop. We lingered, inhaling the sweet mellow Dynia smell and chatting with some of the sellers, like this young man.

From there we wheeled way out to the edge of the farmland that surrounds Shymkent, and then back to the city. After we arrived in the city, we headed to the train station, where we went to purchase tickets. The lines were insane, and at the rate I was getting cut by hurried old women, I would have been better off traveling backward in time trying to get service.

So we headed outside and paid an extra $2.00 per ticket to have them booked through a private agency. With tickets in hand, we headed back into town and began bouncing between malls and coffee shops looking for working wifi. It was not easy thing to find by any means. Many businesses advertised it, but few of them had networks that actually worked. It was always the same excuses too. Come back tomorrow, it will be working. Our network admin is away this week. Internet is out in the whole city, it’s not our fault.

Eventually, we found a Turkish restaurant that had a network with the actual Internet behind it, and connected. It felt good to feast on the Internet at reasonable speeds. It was still nothing fast, maybe 10 kbps, but to anyone who’s ever gone from 2 kbps to 10kbps, feel free to chime in with what a pleasure it is.  The place also had probably the most ornate ice of the entire trip, formed into rosebuds.

We headed from there back to the Ordabassy, put on our pointy Uzbek shoes, and left just in time to meet the Ladies of Shymkent. Unfortunately, half way to the restaurant, we realized we’d forgotten our dictionaries and had to run back. Thus, we were 15 minutes late.  When we got there, the ladies were playing cards, already a few beers deep, and scolded us for being late. I guess this was not a culture where being “fashionably late” was encouraged.

Soon the whole crew arrived, though, and all was forgotten. We ordered a feast of Shashlik, vinegared onions, and bread. Then these ladies proceeded to take us on a fascinating journey through the grizzly underbelly of a Saturday night in Shymkent. Most interesting, apart from a plethora of very insightful questions about America and the west that they asked, was the ever-present danger of being killed by a Kazakh man. A drunk Kazakh, we have been told by many people (Americans, Uzbeks, and these women as well) is nothing to run afoul of… a drunk and jealous Kazakh was doubly bad. And ways to run afoul include: dancing alone, not talking to them, talking to them, cutting in line for the bathroom, not cutting in line for the bathroom, being incognito, being clandestine, and being obtrusive.  Accidentally bumping into someone was akin to signing one’s own own death warrant.

For instance, we would be dancing to insane Russian techno-rap-opera music, and when the ladies of Shymkent would need to visit the toilet, we would be told to sit at the table and wait for them, since dancing alone would surely bring violence.  In our visits to the men’s room, Scott and I would suddenly be surprised by a shouting match breaking out in front of us.  Our strategy was to press our backs up against the wall and look toward the moldy ceiling, lest one of the aggressors grab us by the shirt and scream at his opponent, “Is this guy with you?”

Wild Stuff.

The next morning, we had agreed to all meet once again so that they could send us off on our train to Almaty. And when we got back to our hotel to set our alarms, it hit us. We had strolled into a new time zone. Though it had been almost all northward travel, Kazakh time was an hour different than Uzbek time! We had been an hour and 15 minutes late, not just 15.

We were lucky they had put up with that kind of behavior.

Regardless, the next morning we met up with the Ladies of Shymkent, and bid them farewell.

A few even hung around to walk us to the train station.

We looked at our watches and it seemed we had just enough time to make it on foot, so we strolled back to the station with them, and folded up our bikes on the platform.

As we were trying to get onto the train, there was some issue with our ticket and our status as foreigners, but our two beautiful friends managed to talk the conductor down and we climbed on the train.

We waved goodbye one last time and relaxed into our bunks. I soon struck up a conversation with the young men traveling in the section next to us. They were all sergeants in the Kazakh army’s new sergeants program, and they were very interested in our trip and in telling me about how important the new sergeants program is. They were patient with my terrible Russian, but I am pained to report that despite much lecturing, all I can honestly say about the Kazakh new sergeants program is that it is very important, possibly the only thing that can save the broken Kazakh military system.

Anyone with more knowledge is heartily encouraged to share in the comments.

While Scott headed over to investigate the on-train samovar, I was called by the conductor into his private office.

In there, he pointed out to me the problem what had caused the mild uproar outside on the platform. It seems that through some fat fingering on the part of the bookers of our tickets, we had actually purchased tickets leaving from the station after Shymkent to Almaty instead of tickets originating in Shymkent proper.

He explained that while there was no ticketing conflict, this was a big problem, and that I could solve it by paying him about $5.00 right there and then. Sensing foul play and not wanting to pay an unnecessary bribe, I began my first triumphant weaseling out of a bribe in Russian, hopefully the first of many. I agreed to pay him the difference in ticket price, but demanded that he produce some evidence as to the price of the two tickets. We continued to go back and forth, he saying that there was no up-to-date price list on the train, and me suggesting that we compare the difference between our ticket price and that of one of the sergeants. Eventually, in desperation, he just asked “are you going to pay me money or not.”

I said, “Maybe not.” And he told me to get out of his office.

Feeling excellent, I returned to find Scott to have also bonded with the sergeants. They had given him a gift of some bread, and later took him out on a mission to buy chickens  and horse meat sausages from people selling them on the station platforms of the various cities we rolled through.

The chicken was great. The bed was comfortable. The people of Kazakhstan were proving to be monumentally welcoming. This country was on the fast track to an AsiaWheeling seal of approval.

We woke up our last morning in Uzbekistan and walked sadly over to our last meal of wonderful home cooked Uzbek food. Shoney’s mother had gotten a large ice cold bottle of Kvas and some Somsas from down the street. I found myself tempted to eat some of the leftover Plov from the night before.

That breakfast turned out, however, to only be a minor precursor to the main meal, which was Laghman, the noodle dish we had so fallen in love with while in Kashgar and Urumqi, the Central Asian part of China. Along with the Laghman were some more of those amazing Manty. It was all just too delicious and in too vast of quantities for us to resist eating beyond the normal limits. AsiaWheeling was being spoiled rotten here in Uzbekistan, so before we got soft, we figured we’d better split.

It was time to go.  But, before we hit the road, we paused to take a few Uzbek style (no smiles allowed) group shots, and even a few portraits of the Yabukjanov team.

In honor of his great contributions to the AsiaWheeling team, and our unending love for all that is Uzbek, we would like to, upon our departure from this great land, announce yet another tee-shirt, titled “The Uzual Suspect.”

Feeling like we could not say thank you enough times, we finally climbed on the bikes and headed toward the Kazakh border. It was less than a 10 km wheel and we made short work of it, stopping once to ask for directions from a fantastic trio of gentleman, who were in true Uzbek style, delighted to give us directions and eager to engage for as long a conversation afterward as we could spare time.

When we finally apologized, explaining we had a Kazakhstan to get to, they asked us to autograph one of their 1000 cym bills, which, being what I believe is the first autograph request of the entire trip (outside of legal documents), we were more than happy to do.

And off we went, pounding through the Uzbek countryside, growing ever closer to our next post-Soviet country.

When we reached the border, cab drivers clustered around us, warning us that foreigners would not be able to cross here, explaining that we would need to drive to another border crossing 50 km away. We thanked them for their advice, and explained that we would like first to hear it from the border officials, and then we would come back and talk cabs.

Sure enough, it was corroborated by the officials, who were, while delivering negative news, generally very upbeat and positive guys, already laughing out loud at our bizarre bicycles, and doubly so at my Russian. I began to realize that I must sound like the American version of Borat to these people. And they loved it.

So after some thorough bargaining and some calling of Shoney on the Beeline, we climbed into a cab and headed for the next border crossing.  As we drove, I made good friends with the fellow who drove us. When we arrived, he hustled to make sure all was in order and to shoo away any con artists and beggars who appeared out of the woodwork.

We had changed the rest of our сум back to USD with Shoney, so we had to pay the fellow in a few thousand sun and a couple US dollars. He seemed happy enough.

Here too the officials were delighted to see us, and confirmed that indeed “Inestranetz” could pass through. And so we wheeled the bikes on, towards the Uzbek customs station, which was no small walk from the road.

When we arrived, we found the entire thing to be a maddening cluster bomb of people and screaming. By trial and error, we were able to figure out the system, which for any of you who would like to, in the future, cross between Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan in the area of Khodzha-Khan, here is how it goes:

Proceed past the long line of people and enter the central area, underneath the rusty gas station-style overhang, where all the broken and upside-down tables are, and proceed to the edge of the metal barrier. Make like the locals and scream at the top of your lungs at the official who paces just three meters away from you and eyes the queue. He will pretend not to notice. That’s fine. He actually is registering your screams. Continue the screaming narrative, emulating the people around you, and state your name and the country that issued your passport. If you are an American, this will interest him and he will make a vague hand gesture at you. This gesture will mean “is your friend over there an American too?” You may tell the truth or not here, I believe.

He will then flag down a short heavyset woman, who will be rushing by carrying a giant stack of papers in one hand and a billy club in the other. She will give you six copies of a form.  Luckily, they are bilingual: in Russian and Uzbek. Divvy them up with your friend. Fill out all three using the upside-down tables with the pens that you forgot to bring. Good luck — the forms will not be easy.

Now get in line with all the other people, and watch as newcomers to the line blatantly cut you, climbing over your folding bicycles and getting in front of you, sometimes actually pushing you backward a bit to make room for themselves. The recommended strategy here is to position the folding bicycles as a kind of crowd barrier, and to fend off people with nasty looks and seemingly inadvertent knocks with your pack.

Listen for the screaming at the front of the line, because this means another group is being let into the main inspection  room. Keep your wits about you. Right after the screaming is when you’ll be cut the most, usually by old women carrying hundreds of shopping bags, who gain temporary superhero agility and spring like tree frogs over you and your bicycle.

Finally you’ll get into the room. It will be hot inside. Everyone will need to get their luggage scanned, except for you. This is normal for Americans. Everyone else will need to wait in line, but not you. Those who cut you previous in line will look upon you with equal parts distaste and confidence that they will complete the process before you.  Smile.  You will get a special officer dedicated to your case, and he will very diligently not check any of your paperwork or luggage and flag you through with all politeness. Meanwhile others will be pushing each other in line and the same woman who gave you the paperwork will be beating a fellow mercilessly for pushing an old lady ’til she fell down.

It will be raw, but soon you’ll be in Kazakhstan.  As many an ex-Soviet spin class instructor has shouted over thumping music:  “You’re not yet halfway there.”

Kazakh customs will be much cleaner, whiter, fancier, and with more hawks all over everything. The hats on the heads of the boarder guards will grow threefold.

The line will be very short, the forms will be small and in English, and the Kazakh border official will stamp your passport, underlining that you must register with the Kazakh OVIR office within five days to avoid a $100 fine.

As official literature has indicated, he should be able to register you upon entry.  However, he will not do so.  If you ask him whether or not the registration office will be open on Friday, he will look at you as if you are suffering from some terrible abnormality and dismiss you with “of course.”  This is, in fact, false.  None of this concerns him.  It only concerns you.  He will then sneeze magnificently all over your passport and send you on.

Nursultan Nazarbayev - Нұрсұлтан Назарба

Now that was easy; this next part will be hard. Pass through the green channel, marked “nothing to declare” then proceed over to the scanning station. Put your things on the conveyor and begin chatting about Kazakhstan in Russian with the guards. The men working the customs desk will teach you the name of the Kazakh president. Remember it. They will test your memory at the end of the conversation.

They will also request you to take a picture of them.

Do not do so.  The picture is part of an entrapment scheme. For when you leave, another armed guard will refuse to let you out of the immigration complex until he’s scrutinized your camera to see if you took any pictures of the interior of the customs hall.

Luckily, we did not fall for the trick.

They will also ask you if you’ve seen the movie.  The answer is: “What movie?”

Everyone had described Kazakhstan to us as the Europe of Central Asia, as the richer, fancier, more cosmopolitan place. We were about to see how much water that theory held. All we really hoped was that the Internet would be a little faster.

Outside the customs hall, it looked basically like Uzbekistan, women were hounding us to change money and cab drivers were asking astronomical prices to drive us into Shymkent. We finally managed to bargain a decent price to share a black VW station wagon with a bunch of Kazakh women into the city.

However, after driving for some time, the driver of our cab attempted to pull the old Jordanian switch on us (which we might from now on just as rightly call the Kazakh switch). He was suddenly doubling the price! And as I attempted to bargain with him, he simply began muttering and shaking his head, blinking long and hard in a way that seemed unsafe while driving. Yap as I would, I couldn’t get him to respond. Then suddenly I realized that the muttering was some kind of prayer that he was saying in Arabic. So I shut up and let him finish. Later, after silence had reigned for a while, when I started to re-enter the negotiation, he just started again muttering over my talking.

It was, of course, ridiculous childish behavior, but we were in his car now, and so I looked back at the women we were sharing the ride with and asked them in Russian if he was overcharging us. They grinned very large grins and said no. Fair Enough.  I grumpily agreed to pay the new inflated price.

Once we arrived in Shymkent, we were happy to be rid of the driver, who had after we agreed to pay him double. attempted to repair the relationship through uncomfortable conversation about sexist and racist topics. We had him drop us off at one of the budget hotels listed in the Lonely Planet, but in classic Lonely Planet style, the hotel turned out to be none too cheap, and also lacking in rooms with windows. So we wheeled on.

We stopped to ask a group of young men about hotels, and while they were unable to help us find a cheap place, they did speak a little English, which gave Scott a chance to talk, and when we parted, they gave him a white Kazakh Muslim skullcap as a gift. Shymkent was racking up points.

The wheel turned out to be a long and hungry one. We continued to go from hotel to hotel, but each one was more expensive than the last. We stopped to ask some men crouching under a street light about where we might stay, and they offered to let us stay in their home for about $20 per night. Something about them felt untrustworthy, though, so we just took a group picture and left.

Finally, we found a place. It was a hotel known as the Ordabassy Hotel. We were able to get a room there for a very reasonable rate, and the lady at the front desk was most friendly and wearing very tight leather. As we were about to haul our things upstairs and find some food, a couple of fellows walked by us on their way into their office, which was in the same building as the Ordabassy. They called out to us and insisted that we come back to their office with them.

They turned out to be members of the Kazakh film industry and invited us to sit down and drink orange soda with them and to learn more about their work and to take some glam shots with us in the Maui Jims.

It was quite late by then, and we were tired and hungry, so we excused ourselves after a few cups of orange soda and headed out to find the nearest place that was open. It ended up being a large beer hall and restaurant down the street. We ordered a couple of glasses of the local Shymkentskoye beer, and before we knew it a blond woman had walked over to us and invited us to join her and her friends at their table.

We looked at each other for a moment and agreed. We stood up and wandered over to their table to find five Russian Kazakh women laughing and drinking beer.  We introduced ourselves, and told them a little about AsiaWheeling. They introduced themselves and told us about their lives. One of them was a gas station attendant, a little ways out of town, another was a an office manager at an office (with computers, she underlined), another was a student in St. Petersburg who had some experience in Finland.

The ladies spoke essentially no English, and I very little Russian, but we more or less struck it off, and we parted that evening with plans for them to meet up again the next evening, for we were the first Americans they’d ever met and they wanted to show us around town.

Kazakhstan was shaping up to be an interesting chapter.

We had only gotten two hours of sleep the day before, albeit on some very comfortable beds, on the floor of a generous Uzbek denim merchant’s dining room floor. But it was still quite difficult getting up early the next morning. But get up we did, collecting our things and heading out to the street to catch a cab for the outskirts of Tashkent, where we were to meet Shoney.

We would be heading up into the mountains outside Tashkent with him and a few of his friends. The friends were all members of a certain Uzbek heavy metal group, knows as Tortoise Minja. We were the first to arrive at the meeting spot, five minutes late, and soon the rest of the team rolled in. Much like at band rehearsal, there was one guy who just didn’t show up. So we called his house and spoke with his mother, who assured us he was already on his way, meanwhile screaming at him to get up in the background.

So we bided our time, munching some Korean steamed buns that were being sold by some members of the large  Korean community in Tashkent. Finally everyone arrive, which gave me an opportunity to introduce the cast of characters.

Shoney : Your fearless Uzbek Bureau Chief and general Uzbek rainmaker/Boston Bro mashup.

Jesus/Noise : Call him what you like, this rail thin fellow played the base in Tortoise Minja, spoke in the most hilarious rudimentary English, had the beginnings of a thick beard. He was obsessed with Texas, and told us repeatedly of his love for the place, and wish to travel there, but dressed more like a fellow I once knew from Arkansas.

Timur : Lead singer, and generally pretty boy of the group, his flowing locks and operatic voice made me very curious to hear how he fit into the heavy metal sound.

Vladimir: The drummer, a cool and calculating character, interested in cooking and maximizing the speed with which he could deliver (double) bass drum hits.

Igor: Lead guitarist – rumored to be a savage kickboxer, a wirey and unwashed but otherwise peaceful character.

Scott: Your basic adventure capitalist, torn bicycle grease-stained Carhearts, William Cheng and Son’s tailored buttondown, large mustache, camera, chest hair, and a pair of Dawn Patrols to keep it klassnaya.

Combine those characters with your humble, ukulele-bearing, correspondent, and you have just enough people to fill a Marshriutka, Mienbaoche, or however you’d like to refer to those small vans that are the glue that holds transportation together all over this planet. The Marshriutka we climbed into made short work of the drive up into the mountains, playing bizarre Russian club music the whole way. We climbed out and paid the guy, setting a time at which he would come back to pick us up, and headed out onto the trail, laden down with Soviet military style canned meats, potatoes, onions, water, and a few bottles of “Pulsar” brand beer.

Soon the trail disappeared and we were just walking up into the Uzbek Himalayan mountains. It had been cloudy that morning, but just about the time the trail petered out, the sun burst forth, and all the clouds burned out of the sky. Sunscreen would have been a good thing to have remembered.

Jesus in particular, son of an auto mechanic, and somewhat the black swan in this group of otherwise very academic Uzbek rockers, swore like a sailor. I found myself learning all kinds of new and terribly offensive things to say in Russian, just hiking uphill with the guy.

The sun was viciously bright, and the scenery magnificent as we climbed up into the hills. We stopped for a moment to rest and scream down at the stragglers. Despite the fact that most of these guys chain smoked cheap Uzbek cigarettes, they could hike very quickly, and I found myself positively drenched in sweat just trying to keep up.

On top of that, they were singing! I wanted to join in, but I was so out of breath that I could barely get out the words to Black Sabath’s “War Pigs.”

To make matters worse, the soil was sandy and the rocks that made up the hillside were barely secured in place by the roots of the scrubby foliage and grasses that clung there. This made it no easy task climbing up the mountain, and I didn’t even want to think how it would be trying to come down, heaven forbid in the dark.

We spent a while trying to find the perfect location to set up shop. It seemed that as soon as we had found one that was decent, Timur would scream down from above us at the top of his lungs, proclaiming he’d found the true best spot, just another 100 meters ahead. This pattern of setting up and moving, setting up and moving, went on for some time, until we finally just put our feet down and stopped moving.

Scott immediately took his shirt off and began looking fabulous.

The guitar player and I grabbed our instruments and began singing and playing together. He was a much better instrumentalist than I, even on the uke, which was something I am sure he’d never even played before. The only thing I could do to hold my own was continually rely on that old favorite, “House of the Rising Sun,” which never fails to be a cross cultural crowd pleaser.

Soon we had settled into the place, and we began peeling potatoes, undressing, eating some of the home-make pickles that Timur’s mother had made, and generally getting sunburned.  Jesus began to wail.

One party was sent out to search for firewood, which was none too easy to find on the scraggly hillside;  another party was sent to find out whether one might be able to purchase a bit of oil from some shepherds across the valley from us. Both missions would be long and time intensive. I ended up on the firewood side of the table.

The oil searching team came back about an hour later, with harrowing stories of the mission downhill, including tales of Timur falling head over tail (evidenced by a constellation of scratches on his arms and legs), and Shoney surfing down a minor avalanche standing on top of a large boulder. They had gotten the oil, though. It was cottonseed oil, the cheapest kind available in this cotton producing country. They had also brought with them a most well thought out and serious argument for moving our operations to a new place that they’d found.

We’d been up on that particular cliffside, collecting firewood and peeling potatoes for some time, and, knowing we’d need to go down the hill sooner or later, illogic and laziness prevailed, and the group voted to stay on the top of the hill.

And so general chilling continued, escalated even. Soon a bottle of vodka was produced from someone’s backpack. Now we were in the bright sun, becoming burned to a crisp and dehydrated, and loving every minute of it, up on a cliffside in the Uzbek Himalayas, eating pickles, drinking vodka, playing music, screaming at the sky, and the like.

It was sometime around when Timur started singing Russian anthems out into the mountains…

…that we realized there was another good reason to go down and cook our lunch at the lower area that Shoney and Timur had found on their mission to the local shepherds for cottonseed oil. Some of the people in our little squadron were becoming drunk, and the mission down that loosely graveled hill would be none too easy if we were to allow the inebriation to continue unabated.

And so down we went, scrambling and taking our time. Jesus, being the drunkest of the crew, chose to simply slide down the sandy mountainside on his rear end.

This was successful in that it transported him down the mountain with relatively little harm to his body, and in being a very rapid means of traversing that bit of land, but unsuccessful in that it totally destroyed his shorts. So down we went, toting musical instruments and bags of peeled potatoes, picking our way across the uneven ground and doing our best not to lose our footing. Meanwhile, Jesus was down at the bottom of the hill screaming obscenities up at us.

From time to time, though the going was rough and I was forced to keep my head down to plan my next step, I found myself tempted to look up into the mountains. They were like none other, impossibly dramatic and beautiful. Ah, Uzbekistan, Ya Habbibi.

We set up shop again at the new site. This one had the added benefit that not only was it near some more plentiful sources of firewood, but it was in the shade of a large tree as well. We were all glad to get out of the sun, which had been beating on us and sapping our energy for hours now.

Vladimir went to work, pouring a long slog of cottonseed oil into the bottom of a cast iron pot that he’d brought, and beginning to fry the potatoes. Meanwhile, Shoney opened up his computer and plugged in a pair of speakers, so that we could listen to some of Tortoise Minja’s favorite music, a group called “Children of Bodom” It was some pretty raw stuff. Listen to this.

Vlad continued to fry potatoes while I cut more fries, and Scott DJ’d. We stirred the fries with an old stick, dumping them out as they got brown into a cracked plastic bowl that the shepherds had lent us along with the oil.

Then Shoney got out his hookah and began the arduous process of unpacking, assembling, and operating it. It was the first time that most of his cigarette loving friends had smoked hookah, and they found it to be quite the fascinating new drug.

We then set to chopping onions, which we fried with the last of the oil and some salt, and once the onions were caramelized, we poured in the two cans of Soviet military style canned beef, stirring it all together and mixing it with the French fries into one giant matted pile.

It may not look appetizing, dear reader, but I’ll tell you, after that climb up and down the mountain, it tasted like pure manna from heaven.

It then became time for the band to show us their signature Tortoise Minja move, which was a kind of finger motion paired with a high pitched screeching sound. It might be more illustrative to just show you the video…

With that out of the way, it was time for more singing. And so we did, taking turns between singing a Russian or Uzbek tune, and singing an American tune. In one of the Russian tunes, they kept mentioning something called “pork vein” and once it was over, Scott and I asked what that might be.  “No, no” Minja replied. “It’s port wine.” Ah, of course.

In fact, the tune (by Viktor Tsoi actually if anyone is interested) goes “My mother is Anarchy, and my father is a glass of port wine.” Here it is:

[audio:http://asiawheeling.com/music/MamaAnarhiya.mp3]

We sat around playing and singing songs. While we sang, Jesus took my tuning pitch pipe out of my ukulele case and began playing it like a harmonica. It worked quite well. You can see him here pictured with it.

Then it was time to clean up and head out. So we did, bundling everything up, and doing our best to practice leave no trace style outdoor gonzo journalism.

Then we made our way out of the mountains and back down to the street. We had arranged with that morning’s cab driver to come pick us up, but he had decided he had better things to do, leaving us for the time being stranded there on the roadside in rural Uzbekistan.

It was well after dark by the time we caught a car driving by and flagged it down. The car had four open seats, and there were sixof us, but we decided we had better squeeze in.

During the ride my legs fell further asleep than they ever had before, wedged as they were between Scott and the boney elbow of the lead singer in an up and coming Uzbek heavy metal group.

I watched through the cracked windshield  of the Lada we drove on, jostled back and forth as the driver worked to avoid potholes and wandering dogs, getting us back toward town. As we drove, I thought how amazing Uzbekistan had been, what an unexpected gem this country was. It felt so good to be here, to be speaking Russian again, to be drinking Kvas, to be eating Plov, to be out in the dry heat and the blazing sunshine.

We were heading to Kazakhstan the next day. I could only hope that it would be half as good as this place.

We are so grateful to Shoney and his family, and to the many people who took the time to be interested in us, to show us kindness and warmth. Oh, but now you’ve got me tearing up over Uzbekistan again.

When we got back to Shoney’s house, his mother had unexpectedly cooked up another giant Plov. This one was, as the last had been, just too good to be true. We ate like ancient kings, struggling to drink enough water to begin rehydrating from the day, for space in the stomach is always at a premium when Plov is around.

In addition to that, Luiza was on the mend, and we were invited to stay there that night, saving us a return trip to that nasty hotel.

That night we stayed up for some time discussing the politics of Uzbekistan with Shoney’s father and mother, both of whom scolded us heavily for not having remembered sunscreen. Guilty as charged.

We arrived back in Tashkent at the crack of dawn. I had not really slept the night before, and was feeling particularly cruddy due to a bit of horse-meat sausage that I’d eaten that had spent some time on the floor of the train. All things considered, we decided it might be better to just haggle a ride in a cab over to the hotel that had been registering us.

We would, of course have stayed with Shoney, but his sister Luiza, bless her, had fallen ill and we were asked not to come round the house to give her time to rest and to protect us from whatever virus she might be entertaining at the moment.

So I weakly haggled for a while, and then we piled in a cab and drove across Tashkent to the hotel. We were by this point as well down to our last сум, since there had been no ATM in Bukhara, and we had depleted the last of our secret dollar reserves in Samarqand. So it was literally our last 8,000 сум that we paid the cab driver, and after unloading all our things from the car, and bidding the chap farewell, we headed into the hotel, hoping they would not want us to pay up front. The last thing we wanted to do was head out on our cycles in search of a dollar spitting ATM and an illegal money changer, before we could catch a little shuteye.

But the story turned out to be even worse than we’d feared. Not only did we not have a reservation at the hotel, but the place was full. We were told to come back at 10:00 am, (in four hours), when there might be a chance of a room. Fair enough.

So we sat down on the curb in Tashkent, exhausted, sick, and with nowhere to sleep. We’d been up all night on a God forsaken train; we had all our stuff piled around us; we had about 75 cents to our names; and the sun was growing ever higher in the morning sky. So we decided to nap in a park, with our stuff locked next to us.

We packed everything up, strapped our things down, and headed out in search of a park. The park proved hard to find, but we did spot a quiet looking neighborhood, and headed in thinking we might find a little interior park or bench… When we spotted this ratty old topchan (a Central Asian low lying table on which you sit to eat, we decided it might be the perfect place to nap.

We were just locking our belongings to a nearby tree when a fellow living in one of the apartments came over. He was smiling and asked us who we were, where we were from, and what we were up to. I explained our story, and asked him whether sleeping on the topchan would we okay. He laughed and said sleeping on the topchan would be fine, but that he would not let us do so. And from there, he began a furious campaign of insistence that we park our cycles in his garage and come up to sleep in his apartment.

We did our best to refuse, indicating that the ratty old topchan was plenty good enough for such rambling trash as  AsiaWheeling, but he stuck to his guns, and eventually we found ourselves parking the speed TRs in a rusty Soviet shed, which he made a great show of locking up tight, and walking us upstairs to his place. Somehow, although I never caught him making a call up to his wife, two beds had been made and laid out for us by the time we arrived. He showed us where to put down our bags and then invited us to sit at his dining room table.

The man’s wife then began bringing out a veritable torrent of food. Meanwhile, the man of the house lazed, smoking cigarettes and questioning us as to what we were doing in Uzbekistan and on AsiaWheeling in general.  After exhaustive conversation, and introductions to his children, he left us to snooze for a couple hours on the beds his wife had made for us.

By the time SIM city 2000 rang out to wake us up and call us to duty, he was already off to his shop in the market where he sold jeans, and it was his wife who showed us back down to the shed and unleashed our bikes.

As we rode away from the place, we could not stop talking about how fantastically friendly and warm the people of Uzbekistan were. That experience was unlike any of the whole trip, really amazing.

We got back to the hotel just in time to meet Shoney there. “I’m telling you guys, Uzbeks love foreigners.”

Fair enough, Shoney. Fair enough.