You know something about dead weight? They are that, dead and heavy.
It's important to sort out how much you want to bring in your backpack before you depart for that great dusty road campaign. Sure, you'll make some mistakes when you realise that you should have dumped the water purifier instead of your mini hairdryer (I swear, contrary to what you may think, and of course the destination, the latter proves to be indispensable especially when your fast drying clothes just don't live up to the hype) but you can always restock and redump, right?
How I wish I can say the same for fellow travellers at times. Part of the joy of this gig is meeting a lot of different people. You will assume that most of them are fairly independent, and a lot of them are that way. But at times you'll find that odd wanker, the wandering whinger, and Mother of God, the parasite. The last, usually ends up assigning him / herself to the role of backpacking on you for everything: sorting out the transport, negotiating the rate, finding money exchanger, breakfast coupons, and you get the drift. As patiently as you endure it, the time will come when your inner desire to dish out the "Dear John" letter or "It's not you, it's me" conversation rages in your throat each time you glance at the mirror and saw that face staring back at you. Yes, that face telling you "Viv, this was not part of the plan".
I really didn't mind travelling and helping out others on the road. Heck, I had been on the receiving end of some real kindness. You do appreciate even the simplest of things because someone did think about you. And the great thing is you reciprocate and think about them too. The point gets sticky when they just can't seem to give a rat's ass about things and get into this comfort zone where it's either you have to get up and sort things out, or we'll never get to the next town. Forget about all the empowering each other and give them the opportunity to do something, to contribute. The last straw was a simple job in calling up a cabbie to move out of base. The call was made, the cabbie arrived but demanded U$100 for something that can be done at a fraction of that price. Common sense would propel one to enquire before agreeing to the cabbie swinging by. It's not a free-for-all drop-in tea party. The guilty party was neither a good leader nor an efficient problem solver.
That to me, is dead weight.
Pardon me but I really should have put a warning on the title that this was to be a rant corner. But after enduring this parasite for nearly a month (I have to live with a bout of bad gas and dysentry, lots of bare flabby flesh, farting, snoring) you will forgive me.
So, Uzbekistan? I am finally here! This is my third overland border crossing and I think I have really woken up from my daydream. It isn't Silk Route crossing, there is no swaying in my Ali Baba pants on a Bactrian camel. No desert dunes, no orange sun sinking in the horizon. Instead, we had grinding queues of human flesh, angry shouting (not me), smelly breath, sweaty arm pits (definitely not me!), guards checking your passport but not really doing anything (you know the ones, they just guard the door post but insist on looking at every page of your document... upside down). In all fairness, crossing out of Kazakhstan into Uzbekistan was expedient but hubby encountered a misreading on the computer system. Despite having all the correct papers, they were sincerely helpful but the situation didn't pass by without a hint of perhaps some Uncle Sam papers will speed through things. We dug in our heels since the other side of the border hadn't opened up their gates. We had time.
That's the insane thing. It was noon by this time and people were funnelling into a bottle neck yet the guard on the Uzbek side refused to let us in. Multiple lines began to form with children squashed in between. (Warning: rant ahead) This was the problem I had with Central Asian men. They laughed at the crude jokes the military made at women with children. They will not hesitate to push the children aside to jump queue. They didn't have any balls to confront the corrupt. Oh yes, leave it to the women. They will speak up when it got hot enough and it sure did. One big momma couldn't hold back and gave it good. Men with guns, bah humbug! (Note: self patting ahead) My hubby was the only gentleman as he was the only one going back to the sizzling tarmac a good size of a football field to help women struggling with heavy bags while these Uzbek and Kazakh men milled about, burping and pretending they had something really important to do. What? Staring at your toenail?
Anyway, after two hours of waiting not in line and being pushed around by people at the back (some really gargantuan big momma in polka dot dress - the dots looked distorted to me in that stretch - pushed through, she probably had an Uzbek passport and saw no sense in lining up, talk about taking the law in your own hands!) I began to flash my Malaysian passport. That's the thing. The guards are curious about anything new and so long as you don't pass it around, it usually works. We got through. But not without a quick stop (that had absolutely no sense but so worth it for the experience itself) at the clinic of "The Butcher of Stalin". He would be a class act in an old James Bond movie. With a baby blue paper top hat, a row of gold teeth, practically no shirt underneath his white overcoat with the word "Medical" stamped on his left-breast pocket. This was probably another Borat, awaiting to probe an ice-cold steel bar up to inspect naughty travellers for medical clearance. Luckily we were subjected to just paper work. Bizarre!
Out onto another tarmac. We walked through nowhere. Even trees didn't grow here except touts. They were there, road bullies with head-thumping stereo systems. This guy tried to create a scene when we arrived in our hostel, the blessed reservoir of Gulnara B&B, a family home with a lovely courtyard and comfortable room. The owners, an old couple took us in like parents welcoming their returning prodigal son and daughter. The cabbie? He wanted a U$50 instead of the original agreed twenty. Made some gesture that he had to turn around the streets. Bullshit. We told him nicely that this was what he was going to get. He made a show of shouting, hands gesticulating like a gorilla which had his bananas stolen from him and stuffed back the crisp U$20 note onto hubby's pocket. If it was me, I would be "you think you got testosterone going? I'll show you oestrogen power!" and walk back into the hostel. Hubby was much more cool headed (you got to love this guy) and gave the money to the cabbie's friend (why he was there, I had no idea). The cabbie stormed off as if his pride was insulted because we rendered his service deserving of the agreed price. His friend gave us the thumbs-up and we parted there. Another break-up.
Oh what happened to the dead weight you ask? The guilty insisted on taking a detour (despite our last effort to help him by inviting him to join our waiting car) because he took personal above business. In simple terms, he felt "bad" about the cabbie (that he promised to go with - is this guy for real? They don't give a shit about you man! - because he had ordered another cabbie after his first failure, and he managed to screw up twice in a row by not negotiating properly) and allowed to be taken to the bus station, only later to discover there was no bus heading towards the border crossing and had to negotiate another private cab to take him there. In the madness of the border crossing, we lost him. Probably got held up in the paperwork. We went back to look for him but had to head off to town since it's all men for himself in the heat out there. And he had to make his own way. Our travel wasn't his to have.
Back inside the cool courtyard of promegranate and grape vines, we apologised to the owner for the small showdown and trouble. He gestured in perfect English "No problem! This is everyday in Uzbekistan" with a grin.
Welcome to paradise...
Some noteworthy mentions
(a) Our cabbie that took us (he still couldn't challenge our Himachal Pradesh driver - read my getting out of Dharamsala adventure past entry) to the border today, he drove like a madman, got flagged down by the cops, excused himself with a handshake / shoulders up / hands pointing at us "tourists", and he got a bullet hole through his windscreen;
(b) A shadow figure in the form of a big momma will approach you as you stop in front of the gates into the border and asked if you want to change Uzbek Som - say yes but insist on black market rate (at time of writing and probably for a while: U$1 gives 2,000 Som), try to not announce your insistence too loudly and be prepared to get wads of cash shoved into your palm... and pay wads of it for two loaves of bread; and
(c) Asking the gate guards if this was the way to Uzbekistan border - got a golden toothed smile and a "Nyet, this is Kazakhstan" reply. You have to see this to believe it!
It's important to sort out how much you want to bring in your backpack before you depart for that great dusty road campaign. Sure, you'll make some mistakes when you realise that you should have dumped the water purifier instead of your mini hairdryer (I swear, contrary to what you may think, and of course the destination, the latter proves to be indispensable especially when your fast drying clothes just don't live up to the hype) but you can always restock and redump, right?
How I wish I can say the same for fellow travellers at times. Part of the joy of this gig is meeting a lot of different people. You will assume that most of them are fairly independent, and a lot of them are that way. But at times you'll find that odd wanker, the wandering whinger, and Mother of God, the parasite. The last, usually ends up assigning him / herself to the role of backpacking on you for everything: sorting out the transport, negotiating the rate, finding money exchanger, breakfast coupons, and you get the drift. As patiently as you endure it, the time will come when your inner desire to dish out the "Dear John" letter or "It's not you, it's me" conversation rages in your throat each time you glance at the mirror and saw that face staring back at you. Yes, that face telling you "Viv, this was not part of the plan".
I really didn't mind travelling and helping out others on the road. Heck, I had been on the receiving end of some real kindness. You do appreciate even the simplest of things because someone did think about you. And the great thing is you reciprocate and think about them too. The point gets sticky when they just can't seem to give a rat's ass about things and get into this comfort zone where it's either you have to get up and sort things out, or we'll never get to the next town. Forget about all the empowering each other and give them the opportunity to do something, to contribute. The last straw was a simple job in calling up a cabbie to move out of base. The call was made, the cabbie arrived but demanded U$100 for something that can be done at a fraction of that price. Common sense would propel one to enquire before agreeing to the cabbie swinging by. It's not a free-for-all drop-in tea party. The guilty party was neither a good leader nor an efficient problem solver.
That to me, is dead weight.
Pardon me but I really should have put a warning on the title that this was to be a rant corner. But after enduring this parasite for nearly a month (I have to live with a bout of bad gas and dysentry, lots of bare flabby flesh, farting, snoring) you will forgive me.
So, Uzbekistan? I am finally here! This is my third overland border crossing and I think I have really woken up from my daydream. It isn't Silk Route crossing, there is no swaying in my Ali Baba pants on a Bactrian camel. No desert dunes, no orange sun sinking in the horizon. Instead, we had grinding queues of human flesh, angry shouting (not me), smelly breath, sweaty arm pits (definitely not me!), guards checking your passport but not really doing anything (you know the ones, they just guard the door post but insist on looking at every page of your document... upside down). In all fairness, crossing out of Kazakhstan into Uzbekistan was expedient but hubby encountered a misreading on the computer system. Despite having all the correct papers, they were sincerely helpful but the situation didn't pass by without a hint of perhaps some Uncle Sam papers will speed through things. We dug in our heels since the other side of the border hadn't opened up their gates. We had time.
That's the insane thing. It was noon by this time and people were funnelling into a bottle neck yet the guard on the Uzbek side refused to let us in. Multiple lines began to form with children squashed in between. (Warning: rant ahead) This was the problem I had with Central Asian men. They laughed at the crude jokes the military made at women with children. They will not hesitate to push the children aside to jump queue. They didn't have any balls to confront the corrupt. Oh yes, leave it to the women. They will speak up when it got hot enough and it sure did. One big momma couldn't hold back and gave it good. Men with guns, bah humbug! (Note: self patting ahead) My hubby was the only gentleman as he was the only one going back to the sizzling tarmac a good size of a football field to help women struggling with heavy bags while these Uzbek and Kazakh men milled about, burping and pretending they had something really important to do. What? Staring at your toenail?
Anyway, after two hours of waiting not in line and being pushed around by people at the back (some really gargantuan big momma in polka dot dress - the dots looked distorted to me in that stretch - pushed through, she probably had an Uzbek passport and saw no sense in lining up, talk about taking the law in your own hands!) I began to flash my Malaysian passport. That's the thing. The guards are curious about anything new and so long as you don't pass it around, it usually works. We got through. But not without a quick stop (that had absolutely no sense but so worth it for the experience itself) at the clinic of "The Butcher of Stalin". He would be a class act in an old James Bond movie. With a baby blue paper top hat, a row of gold teeth, practically no shirt underneath his white overcoat with the word "Medical" stamped on his left-breast pocket. This was probably another Borat, awaiting to probe an ice-cold steel bar up to inspect naughty travellers for medical clearance. Luckily we were subjected to just paper work. Bizarre!
Out onto another tarmac. We walked through nowhere. Even trees didn't grow here except touts. They were there, road bullies with head-thumping stereo systems. This guy tried to create a scene when we arrived in our hostel, the blessed reservoir of Gulnara B&B, a family home with a lovely courtyard and comfortable room. The owners, an old couple took us in like parents welcoming their returning prodigal son and daughter. The cabbie? He wanted a U$50 instead of the original agreed twenty. Made some gesture that he had to turn around the streets. Bullshit. We told him nicely that this was what he was going to get. He made a show of shouting, hands gesticulating like a gorilla which had his bananas stolen from him and stuffed back the crisp U$20 note onto hubby's pocket. If it was me, I would be "you think you got testosterone going? I'll show you oestrogen power!" and walk back into the hostel. Hubby was much more cool headed (you got to love this guy) and gave the money to the cabbie's friend (why he was there, I had no idea). The cabbie stormed off as if his pride was insulted because we rendered his service deserving of the agreed price. His friend gave us the thumbs-up and we parted there. Another break-up.
Oh what happened to the dead weight you ask? The guilty insisted on taking a detour (despite our last effort to help him by inviting him to join our waiting car) because he took personal above business. In simple terms, he felt "bad" about the cabbie (that he promised to go with - is this guy for real? They don't give a shit about you man! - because he had ordered another cabbie after his first failure, and he managed to screw up twice in a row by not negotiating properly) and allowed to be taken to the bus station, only later to discover there was no bus heading towards the border crossing and had to negotiate another private cab to take him there. In the madness of the border crossing, we lost him. Probably got held up in the paperwork. We went back to look for him but had to head off to town since it's all men for himself in the heat out there. And he had to make his own way. Our travel wasn't his to have.
Back inside the cool courtyard of promegranate and grape vines, we apologised to the owner for the small showdown and trouble. He gestured in perfect English "No problem! This is everyday in Uzbekistan" with a grin.
Welcome to paradise...
Some noteworthy mentions
(a) Our cabbie that took us (he still couldn't challenge our Himachal Pradesh driver - read my getting out of Dharamsala adventure past entry) to the border today, he drove like a madman, got flagged down by the cops, excused himself with a handshake / shoulders up / hands pointing at us "tourists", and he got a bullet hole through his windscreen;
(b) A shadow figure in the form of a big momma will approach you as you stop in front of the gates into the border and asked if you want to change Uzbek Som - say yes but insist on black market rate (at time of writing and probably for a while: U$1 gives 2,000 Som), try to not announce your insistence too loudly and be prepared to get wads of cash shoved into your palm... and pay wads of it for two loaves of bread; and
(c) Asking the gate guards if this was the way to Uzbekistan border - got a golden toothed smile and a "Nyet, this is Kazakhstan" reply. You have to see this to believe it!
