23 June 2009

Karakol, Kyrgyzstan

Just a quickie from the gateway to Issyk Kul (big, pretty lake. Second highest Alpine lake in the world, you know). In a dodgy net cafe, so no pics to post (and I've only taken ones of rocks anyway since we last spoke.)

Homestay tonight--these are really more like B&Bs than someone's house, and today's is pretty spectacular. Lilac satin bedspread, embroidered with a large white ruched heart in the centre and at the corners. Whole room coordinates. Romance in the Stans!

With the wifi in Bishkek we've managed to put some planning into action as concerns the second and third leg of our Epic Journey. Have booked a camper van for two to drive ourselves around Oz from mid-October to mid-November. Comes with a bed and cooker and icebox, and will seem luxury after the Truck for six months. And if I haven't learned to feed two of us on a single burner by then, I will have wasted all of Cheryl's good influence for the last half-a-year. Hoping to see old friends (hi Ben!) and new (hi Corrie & Louise!) while we putter about in what is called a Wicked Camper.

Parents and other people looking into when to buy us Christmas gifts--we are leaving Sydney on 18 November, stopping in Fiji for four nights (because why not?) and arriving a LAX on 22 November. Thanksgiving in Green Valley, then driving across country to be in NJ for Christmas.

I would like Taco Bell meximelts, Arnieri's pizza, new underwear, and a place to stay for longer than 3 nights.

Bishkek! My Bishkek!

20 June 2009

Bishkek tonight and tomorrow—similar to Tashkent in the wide boulevards crying out for a Red Army parade of tanks and some half-hearted anti-capitalist rhetoric, the Russian-style buildings and rather hideously grand public spaces. It doesn't feel particularly Kyrgyz, and is populated with a lot of ethnic Russians, which makes it different to the rest of the country that we've seen up till now. Still, good to have a city around us again. Too much nature makes me itchy.

Six days of bushcamping with no showers is at last at an end, and my manky hair is pleased about that. Surprisingly easy to deal with, barring the chalky dry skin and filthy feet and general less-than-beautifulness. Have washed my hair twice and deep conditioned and scrubbed bits with my Uzbek pumice stone and am looking almost normal. Before and After:

The Hotel Alpinist is close to a western-style shopping mall, differing only in that everything in it appears to be fake. There's a fake North Face shop, a fake Pierre Cardin, and a fake Adidas store, among others. Also a Russian hunting and fishing shop full of what appear to be t-shirts advertising the merits of drinking vodka, hunting bears, and being an American GI in Vietnam.

Went to a bar called the Metro Bar, full of expats, with the South Africa/Lions rugby match on as well as Angels/Dodgers baseball. The first Americans we've even seen since Khiva seemed to be military—there's still an American air base at Manas airport north of the city, though the Kyrgyz government has ordered them out by mid-August in favour of Russian money. Burgers and fries and even Bud Light. Because this is what we've come to Kyrgyzstan for.

Not a whole lot else to talk about in Bishkek...we're off for a few more nights camping in Kyrgysztan on the way to China in the next week. The mix of camping and cities is, on the whole, actually quite good. Bush camps give us time for reading and chatting and doing not very much, in generally gorgeous surroundings. A city now and then provides culture and laundry facilities. Overlanding is obviously new to all of us, but I can't see how you'd improve on the variety of experiences we've already had. It's like backpacking without the pretentious hippies, and with someone else to sort out visas. Even given the occasional chilly days and odd dodgy tummies, we're having a brilliant time. It's always better than being at work, and that really is my personal litmus test. We'll be home the day we decide the Tube is preferable to the Truck.

Shout out to some of you reading this: FOB and FRN at 9 Elms, really good to hear from you; have come across some extremely random objects that have put me in mind of all of you on occasion. Hope you're all well and still employed.

Dad, Happy Father's Day from Kyrgyzstan! Hopefully we'll be able to call tonight, but no guarantees...am thinking of you, and looking forward to you driving me to Taco Bell at the first opportunity.

Fermented Mare's Milk Is Surprisingly Not Ghastly

19 June 2009

This place is beautiful—crumpled green mountains stepping up to steeper, chocolatey brown ones topped with sugary white snow (I like snow when I don't have to get into it), around a shallow bowl of a valley dotted with herds of horses and yurts. The clouds drift across the valley casting shadows that chase them along. And it's sunny. And warmish.

Four of us left in Kochkur for Bishkek, having taken all they could of the slightly chaotic search for goat polo. Understandable in the wake of the Virus and all the Moving About, but they've missed a wonderful two days. Acel and Mike arranged horses for us to ride around the valleys (I believe that my last time on a horse may have been at Camp Kettle Run, circa 1986), and polo for this morning. Am clearly a natural horsewoman. Louise and her “expert” advise be damned. David slouched around on a horse in flip-flops for a while, with Dennis barefoot on his. Go west, young man! Or east. Whichever way is Bishkek. Spent some time implementing my only useful skill on this trip--french braiding. Dirty hair isn't so intolerable if you can't see it.

Annnnnddddd......Goat Polo!! I know how you've been waiting for this bit. The national sport of Kyrgyzstan involves beheading and be-legging a goat, and two teams of horsemen who fight over the furry carcass, attempting to steal it away and drop it on a goal. It's difficult to convey how fantastically fun it is to watch—the goat was slaughtered prior to the game, from the local family's herd, and appeared at game time as an inoccuous white fluffy ball. The stupendous horsemen who look like they were born in the saddle took off with it onto the “field”...a flat bit of the valley near our camp. The concept of field is a fluid one, as the players rode pretty much directly into us repeatedly, causing much shrieking and giggling. A crowd of locals rocked up to cheer, and my logic was to hang behind the grannies. This is faulty logic. They appear to ride directly for their womenfolk. Some issues here.

Highlight of the game: Emma's tent strolled over by a pack of six rampaging horses bearing six Kyrgyz nomads, two of whom were fighting over a headless goat carcass. Not your every day shift in a Nottingham hospital (I don't think). And they did it twice. Hoofprint highlighted in following image. (David & Ausma: she was not inside!)

Afterwards, Acel took a few of us up to the local yurts just above us to have a look around. The sweet little grandma who looks about 97 turns out to be 73—nomad life doesn't include Oil of Olay. Her numerous grandkids swarmed about, apparently as intrigued by our truck as we were by their yurts. The family comes up here six months a year to graze their herds, and make the fermented mare's milk that they sell in the market. Which, rather surprisingly, is nowhere near as ghastly as one might expect. A bit like soupy yogurt that's gone off. Also gave us mare's milk straight from the, um, mare. Warm and foamy and sweet. Really quite nice, actually. Surreal to see someone milking a horse, though.

Tomorrow back to civilization, Bishkek for two nights. Am told there's a Fake North Face shop, which we're all very excited about, and statues. And not much else. Which will be a nice break—all this seeing and doing and lounging in the sun is draining on a girl.

Bush Camp from Hell...Is Actually Quite Nice

19 June 2009

Alas, Bush Camp from Hell has evolved into a slightly more difficult prospect than originally envisioned. Song Kul, while beautiful and austere and all that, was also colder than a witches tit. Snow on the way up along precariously perched roads—stopped for buckets of snow to cool the drinks. We towed a family's truck containing their un-assembled yurt, and followed them up to the “summer” pastures—draped in icy cold gales and bitter grey clouds. So a tad bit colder than last year...camped one night beneath majestic peaks and promptly turned around to drop altitude and find some sunshine. Lest thou think us complete nancies, the weather has kept most Kyrgyz families away thus far this year too, so no games or horses could be organized.

Now, goat polo being a prime motivation for camping up here, we obviously had to pursue it to any length. A local guide told our Acel that we could go on to another summer pasture (yurts present and accounted for) a few hours away. Attempted that, only to be stopped by roads that are completely washed out, and bushcamped on a mountainside overlooking the thriving metropolis of Kochkul. By which I mean there are roads that don't have boulders in them. The photo below right is the main road. Seriously.

We'd voted in the majority for leaving Song Kul, though not everyone was thrilled to leave—the promise of four days in one place was a mighty temptation, to be fair, as we haven't been anywhere for more than three days in more than two months. Personally, freezing to death in Kyrgyzstan was not a temptation, especially with nothing to do for days and days, so was desperately happy to be anywhere else. Having spent two nights of the Promised Four, we made ready to move on another 80K to a third summer pasture (yurts present and accounted for, but actually this time), with the addition of a new guide who knows the area better than Acel. He is apparently called Michael Jackson. Thriller.

(He is also the guide who told Tim that Inhospitable Summer Pasture Number Two was easy to get to.)

Anyhow, we are finally at a summer pasture which contains Kyrgyzstanis, yurts, horses, and (happy and somewhat relieved sigh) goat polo.

Cyrillic Knickers and Yurt Mortgages

                                

15 June 2009

                 

Left Osh yesterday morning for what is being touted as Bush Camp from Hell in some circles—okay, not really, but potentially could be dreadful, and equally conceivably, fantastic. The Gin Twins have bailed and opted to fly straight to Bishkek for the week; not fans of being cold and bored, and didn't want to take the chance—fair enough. Disconcertingly quiet without them, though the two extra seats make a world of difference. I can see that from Odyssey's POV it makes sense to fill the truck and have that much more income/kitty, but lord, how much more comfortable it is to not be crammed into table seats with three other adults.

   

The Twins off on their ongoing mission to patronize McDonald's outposts the world over, we're driving up to Song Kul. Last night we camped on the banks of a reservoir lake of a peculiar jade-green, so beautiful it looked like we'd been dropped into a painting of steep green mountains tumbling down to still, clear water. Hot afternoon ended refreshingly with a dip in the cold cold lake—and we collectively smell all the better for it today. Though Emma fears the flesh-eating virus will now taint us all.

                                 

The virus that leveled David a few days ago has reared it's head again and taken down both Emma and Louise. Being ill on a driving day is less than pleasant, poor things, but everyone else who's had it has been better in about 24 hours, and both of them seem on the mend.

                            

The market is Osh was more full of dodgy Chinese bits and bobs than the others we've been through so far, reminding me that we're not far off now. The amount of Engrish and shameless knock-offs is fabulously entertaining; also makes the point that copyright is pretty much pointless. Britney and Scarlet and Paris have their faces plastered on everything from soap powder to chocolate bars, to perfume, there's a copy of Dove soap called (rather hilariously) “Dave”, Calvin Klein has morphed into Ciavin Kalin, and Dolce & Gabbana have become Dolce & Gannaba. Have acquired knickers printed in a Chinese version of Russian, and sleep shorts which barely squeeze over my arse and yet are marked XXXXLL. Textiles are of the retina-burning variety; tinsmiths use recycled metal to make decorative trim that looks more like gingerbread than rubbish.

                                              

Another bush camp tonight and then we'll be at Song Kul for four nights. Nature time. Yay.  

Osh, Gosh, But Not So Posh

13 June 2009

I have a lovely and desperately witty blog post saved up on the memory stick, which of course won't open. Reader, you will have to use your imagination!

After the beauties of the Silk Road cities, we spent One Night in Tashkent (that sounds like a movie--maybe I'll write it someday, possibly starring a Corey or Susanna Hoffs or Molly Ringwald). Tashkent is rather Russian, with wide boulevards and what were clearly Soviet memorials. These remain, but are stripped of hammer-and-sickles and any reference to the motherland or proletariat or what have you. Otherwise, it's just a pleasantly clean city, much like any other. None of the mystique of Samarkand, Bukhara, or Khiva, and none of the architetcure. Enjoyably, none of the chaikhanas either--we had Syrian food! So unbelievably excited to not be eating kebab or noodles. Gorgeous baba ghanoush, indifferent pita, but lord, was it a relief.

David missed Tashkent with the remains of a spectacularly unattractive stomach bug that made the rounds of the truck, but is all better now, mostly. Manflu symptoms remain.

From Tashkent, we were herded into a fleet of taxis for a convoy (yay!) up through the mountain pass to the Fergana Valley. Nothing more than passenger cars is allowed through the pass--politics--so Tim drove himself and the big blue truck around through Tajikistan and back into Uzbekistan to meet us in Fergana late that night. The insane Uzbek taxi drivers positively flew through some gorgeous scenery, highlighted with some kuruk bought by our driver; kuruk is what happens when yougurt is hardened into little balls which then sit in the sun for a few weeks on some old lady's ratty table in an Uzbek truckstop. Yum.

Not much to say about Fergana itself, it's a regional city in the Valley. The Valley though is lvely, green and fertile, the heart of the Uzbek cotton monoculture. Duh. We broke the convoy (yay!) with a stop at the last traditional silk manufactory in Uzbekistan, in Margilan. Being something of a Textile nerd, it was hugely enjoyable to see the entire process from cocoons being steamed to the dyeing and weaving of the iconic silks this country is so well known for. In the west it's called ikat, and terribly collectible at auction, but here it's khan atlas. Beautiful whatever you want to call it.

Next day, on to another border. Central Asian queuing is something to be seen. Well, not really. Because they don't queue so much as riot. Anyway, out of Uzbekistan was painfully slow. Into Kyrgyzstan was calm and peaceful and ended with a new guide, called Assul (sp?), who is lovely and got us sorted. Last night and tonight in the second city of Kyrgyzstan, called Osh. In a homestay, the ground floor of a ghastly Soviet apartment block which is in fact new and clean and really quite good inside. Not posh, but preferable to what's to come...

...which is that tomorrow and we're on our way for six nights of bush camping--longest run on the trip--at Lake Song Kul. It's meant to be incredible, icy blue and nestled into the Tian Shan and Pamir mountain ranges, and comes complete with visits to yurts, fermented mare's milk, and some horse riding. There may be polo played with a headless goat, if we're lucky.

Colonial Williamsburg: Uzbek Branch

           

9 June 2009

From the Aral Sea we had a truck day, through what in the UK would be a desert and here is apparently a fertile plain. Orchards and fields of cotton, the occasional mysterious rectangular pond evaporating precipitously. Destination Khiva, the prettiest little slave market you ever did see. Famous from the 17^th century for the quality of their slaves (Russians, Kazakhs, etc.), it thrived despite being slightly off the main silk route. The Soviets in a rare moment of benevolence restored the walls and buildings and basically kicked all life out of the Old Town to create what is now a sort of Uzbek Colonial Williamsburg. Because it's fairly empty of other than some gorgeous medressahs and palaces, it's a brilliant way to get an idea of the architecture of a Silk Road City.

                         

Stayed at the Hotel Arqanchi, with a huge and lovely courtyard and good rooms circling it. Laundry done for the bargain price of 10,000 sum a bag. This is $7. Excellent. Ate in a few chaikhanas, tea houses, all with the wide divans around low tables that we're so fond of....makes it much easier to imagine oneself as a pasha when lounging as locals bring one supper. Food remains somewhat monotonous—laghman (noodles) comes in soup or fried, manti (dumplings), and shashlyk (call it what you like, it's still kebab). The quality varies hugely, as does the price, but the standards here really are the standards. We did venture with a small group to the local posh hotel on the promise of a menu of more choices than can be counted on one hand, but as they in fact had only borscht and beef stroganoff, back to the chaikhana it was. The chosen one had only four options (see above, plus plov), but at least they had all four, and beautifully done.

                  

From Khiva, spent a day getting down to Bukhara. Personally, I've been looking forward to Bukhara for ages, having read a trashy romance ages ago partly set here in the bizarre and arbitrary court of Nasrullah Khan, who famously executed the British officers Stoddardt and Connolly in the Great Game. Apparently the khan sent a note to Queen Vic, who ignored him, and in return he left them in a pit of scorpions and then killed them.

Bukhara is arranged around a pool called the Lyabi Hauz—hauz meaning open pool. The city was infamous for the series of open pools in which the locals enjoyed contracting incurable illnesses, such as the plague. Russians filled them in barring this one, which is surrounded by cafes and camel statues. Jen turned 60 while we were here, so Mansur arranged a rooftop party for the entire group from sunset. This involved matching blouses for Rich and David, and much much vodka. Although to be fair, the matching blouses were acquired pre-vodka.

                  

Stayed at the Lyabi-Hauz Hotel, which is gorgeous and modern and decorated with some amazing suzanis and ikats. The central courtyard features an open summer terrace with carved wooden columns soaring up about twenty feet; it must have been an impressive house prior to life as a hotel. One of the nicest places we've been; certainly preferable to the nameless Kazakh brothel in Aktau.

               

Having seen what could be seen of Bukhara, we've now come across east to Samarkand, the massive capital of Amir Timur, better known in the west as the Tamerlane of poetry, who ruled this part of the world in the 14^th century. It's similar to Khiva and Bukhara, but on a far grander scale. The name itself evokes samites and scimitars. One of the most impressive sights in all of Central Asia is the Registan Square, composed on three sides of absolutely massive medressahs (Islamic schools—Samarkand being famous for them). The entrance portals are huge and heavily decorated, one with lions and faces in direct contravention of Islamic principles. Although the lions do look like tigers, so maybe god forgives as long as you hire a crap artist?

                          

Also popped up to the necropolis of mausoleums, including that of the Prophet's own cousin Qasim. Stunning, striking, blah blah blah. Off to dinner at the only Italian restaurant in Samarkand, which also offers wifi. If you're reading this, it's worked.

Also, just a note to the various people reading this who have commented—you make my day! Blogger won't let me reply directly, but every time I hear from you it's lovely, and I do appreciate it. Uncle Bill, Mary Ern, Emma's parents, Louise's family, Julie and everyone else, thank you. Those of you who have posted without signing your names, we thank you too, though we don't always know who you are!

To See the Sea That Isn't So Much a Sea as a Desert

2 June 2009

Moynaq, Uzbekistan

Limped into Beynau, home to much mud. And actual traffic lights, very exciting. The truck was fixed after all that ado, dirt and water in the fuel all gone, and we stayed in an unexpected hotel. Six adults in a room, and of course I didn't hesitate to immediately seize the only real bed, consigning Alan and Rachel to a sofa bed and Emma and Amy to the floor. Am not a team player.


Steve and Alan ventured out to sort a meal, while the rest of us bathed for the first time in three days. My hair was at the stage where it could be styled and stay in place without aid of any sort of implements. And smelt divine. The dining options in Beynau are limited, and our boys were further limited to what they could order in Kazakh and/or point to in Steve's little book of useful pictures for travelers. Shashlyk (kebab) and fried eggs it is, with a bowl of tea. Possibly the nicest eggs ever, the boys and their grunting and pointing came through for us.

             

Drove the last 90K of Kazakhstan (thank god) to the border of Uzbekistan. Have been looking forward to Uzbekistan very much, this being the heart of the Silk Road, and home to Bukhara, Khiva, and Samarkand, places that evoke images of caravans and heavy silks and sandstorms. Which in fact are not as fun as one might think. The first one was a novelty, the next eight not.

Uzbekistan is 110% better than Kazakhstan. Kazakhstan is flat and empty—there's a reason we're the first overlanders to have done it.

               

Stopped last night to collect a new guide, called Mansur, and stayed in a series of tea houses, with rooms off the gardens. They all had little cafes, with low tables and wide divans surrounding them. The accommodation was limited but clean; the bathing facilities were phenomenal. Two rooms, both hot as a sauna, the outer a dressing area and the inner with a huge tin vat full of steaming hot water, surrounded with hot stones. A tin basin on a table next to another vat of lukewarm water, you use a scoop to fill the basin with very very hot water tempered by some lukewarm, and wash away the dust and sand of the desert. Absolutely gorgeous. I think the Uzbeks who showed it to us may have thought us slightly slow, as we all needed instructions in bathing ourselves; to be fair, it didn't look as appealing as a nice German hot shower, but ultimately proved far superior.

Today we've driven down to Kungrad, a market town. Lunch on the side of the road in the first grove of tree-like objects we've had in days. Nicest pee in ages, as had some privacy. In the desert, we're lowered to the girls lining up on one side of the truck and squatting. Nice.

Post lunch, we've come to Moynaq, which until the 1970s was a big port on the Aral Sea. As you are no doubt aware, the Aral is a disaster on a colossal scale. From the 1950s, the Russians drained the fourth largest lake in the world to irrigate cotton fields in the deserts of Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan (textiles really are evil.) The end result is that the port of Moynaq is now 150K from the sea, which is mostly gone. The environment is destroyed, dust and erosion everywhere, industry vanished, and the impact on health is a nightmare for these people. One in ten infants dies here, tuberculosis is rampant, and pesticides from the cotton cause birth defects. Stupid Russians.


We stopped for a wander among the rusting ships that are all that remain of the port; a little old Uzbek granny told us through her granddaughter that she remembers the sea, where now it's just dunes and scrub. Bush camping tonight next to one of the last remaining channels dug to access the Sea as it withdrew, so a bit of water. And loads of strange pre-adolescent boys swarming around us. We are a novelty.

Adventures in Kazakhstan for Make Benefit Glorious Middle Class Westerners

                        

29 May 2009

And so into Kazakhstan, where we did not plan to venture, and well may die. The hotel in Aktau was hysterically awful (see below re: world's worst shower), but we were so tired that no one minded. And there's an Irish bar called Shamrock, which was really rather acceptable. Aktau was built in 1958 by the Soviets to access the local uranium
and doubly to serve as an elite beach resort. Uh-huh. There's a MiG fighter jet memorial (Maverick! Ice Man!), a WWII memorial, and a ship memorial. Also very good shaslyk—chicken kabab.

From Aktau we are driving the main road to Beynau, a non-entity so exciting it doesn't appear in the Lonely Planet, and about which we know very little. Adventure and exploration, bring it on.

The main road is dirt/mud (see above re: world's worst road), traversed mainly by propane tankers. It is supposed to take about 9 hours, but we're two and-a-half days in and nowhere near it yet. Some diesel issues, water in the fuel, have held us up. The first night's bush camp on the Kazakh plain was notable mainly for the powerful thunderstorms that raged all night; at least one tent collapsed, and lots of us lost tent pegs in the wind. Our little blue tent stayed down and mostly waterproof, just a few drops seeping at the edges. Poor Debbie and Amy, of the above collapsed unit, got soaked and ended up sleeping in the truck. Remarkably cheeful about it though. They may be on drugs.

                    

Yesterday we drove on and stopped at about 3, to deal with said truck problems. No go, this morning we've been stopping a lot, about every 7 minutes the last few hours. Good morale, and Tim and Cheryl have been brilliant about all of this. It's just that, to be blunt, Kazakhstan is boring. There is absolutely nothing to look at. It's akin to Nebraska, without the excitement of the corn. Occasional camels, but the novelty has gone...sigh. Life is hard for the unemployed and homeless in Kazakhstan.

Jobs on the truck have swapped over after the first journey segment. David is off the roof and onto setting up when we get to a camp site. I'm off luggage, and now in charge of the bar. This means I get to buy the drinks for it and collect the cash. Not great, as I'm not so good with money or responsibility or buying things for other people. Am inclined to buy Diet Coke and forget the rest, but suspect will not make me popular. Sigh.

Three Meals on Deck, Two Days on the Caspian, and One Night in Aktau Port Customs Control

                                        

With great good luck and smiles from the god of pretentious hippies, our Baku-Aktau ferry left on the day after we got to Baku, saving the massive hotel bill that could have resulted from a delay (hotel is paid with the kitty, so we try to keep it cheap). Caspian ferries are notorious for leaving when they're full and not before, with almost no notice, and for leaving travellers waiting around for weeks at a time. The Baku-Aktau route is less busy than the one to Turkmenistan, with sailings “a few times a month”. The P&O to Calais this is not.  Fire safety consists of the boat burning as far as I can tell.  (Hi, Dad!)

 

                           

We'd been forewarned to expect ghastly conditions; two years ago the boys slept on deck and the girls in crew rooms, whereupon the crew tried to break in to the girls' rooms in the middle of the night...last year, the cabins were filthy and they were on the ship for 2+ days, with only what food and water they'd brought with them. Another overland group of 16 was reduced to a single cheese triangle by the end of the journey. Tim and Cheryl brought enough to feed us all for 3-4 days just in case.

                               

Rather pleasantly, we found shabby-but-clean cabins with bunk beds, a cafe on board, and even a functioning toilet. Sort of—one loo for all 30 passengers, with no seat and questionable hygiene. There were in fact many other toilets, but the World's Laziest Housekeepers never unlocked them. With a motley crew of Azeri truckdrivers and five other travelers, we spent about 4 hours waiting to board, 20 hours enroute, another 10 sitting on a parked boat off the Kazakh coast (having been barred from the cabins by the World's Worst Housekeepers from midnight), disembarked at 2am, and then spent the next 8 hours being grilled by Customs officials about why we remain childless, whether we are in fact Russian, and if David's beard makes him Muslim. To be fair, that part lasted about 2 hours, the rest was spent sleeping on the floor of the customs building on roll mats, waiting for the truck part of the port to open at 9am. Apparently we were on the Kazakh news—Tim waited another hour on the cameras' arrival. Meanwhilwe Alan play customs official in the deserted port building.

                         

Fellow travelers included some motorcyclists riding across Europe and Asia, a lovely Dutch guy hitchhiking from the Netherlands through 20 capitals to study hospitals, an American who got deported from the boat before we even left Baku, and Taylor. Taylor is Canadian, and has been traveling for the last year or two years or three years, depending on who he was talking to. He tried to negotiate a lower fare because he has ripped trousers, but the Azeris failed him on that point. He spent much of the trip helpfully letting us know that Canadians don't do truck trips (like ours), as they prefer to travel authentically. He spent some time and effort informing us of the merits of vegetarianism, dumpster diving, crap beards, and the negative attributes of alcohol, the art market, and lots of other things. Vastly entertaining. Taylor is on the left below...