Uz-Pakistan

Or at least that is how a family member of mine referred to Uzbekistan, the country we entered through the backdoor....

Once a booming sea town, Moynaq now sits some 180 kilometers from the seashore being continually eaten by the ever growing desert – or depending on how you look at it, the ever disappearing Aral sea. Why you may ask? Those gosh darn toot'n Soviets. Mixing in with the dust brought about by decades of sandstorms was an eerie feeling that covered every inch of the town. Though not a ghost town (yet), remnants of a time past could be found everywhere, from blue and white striped lifer-savers to the marooned boats themselves.

Who doesn't want to go on a desert trek to find rusted boats after 5 days of non-stop travel? Why not grind in a little sand and sweat into an already grimy mop-top with no prospects of running water in the near future? Well, honestly it was worth it – but who knew how hot deserts were... The pictures probably don't do justice, but it was crazy to find ships and sea shells in the middle of a desert without a drop of water to be found for eons.

During cotton pick'n time, the government actually seizes most of the buses in the country, and requires whole towns to take to the fields. We happened to be trying to walk out of one these towns just as the commandeered buses were rolling in. So naturally we thought it was the bus station. We lingered in the mob, back packs on, peering around for the perfect person to ask, when suddenly a soldier/policeman and the mayor (maybe?) asked us, in a very gruff manner, what we were doing there. Me and my fluent Russian answered - “we are from America!” McNabb, suppressing laughter, asked where the bus station was. Apparently, she had understood his question.

13 hours and 4 shared taxis (lots of strangers piling into a small car) later we arrived at our next destination. Most notable was the last cab which, unknowingly, we shared with a prostitute and her latest customer. Poor McNabb actually had to inform me of the awkwardness in the backseat as I sat happy as a clam in the front seat chatting away with the taxi driver, tunnel visioned by his flirtatious disposition and good looks.

Khiva is a self-enclosed city frozen in time. Mausoleums, mosques, caravansaries and towers connected by winding cobblestone roads preserved from centuries ago. We moved on to Bukhara and Samarkand – two cities famous as religious centers and major silk road hotspots. Massive flat faced structures decorated with thousands of intricate mosaics sparkling in the desert sun and shrinking passersby. We stayed at an eccentric old man's house named Mubijan who only refered to himself in the third person and spoke his own language mixing Uzbek, Russian, French and English. Surprisingly, we understood him quite well and one early morning he even took us with him to the locals farmer market in the Jewish quarter. Walking back to the house we loaded down with vegetables as we were such an anomaly that people began eagerly giving them to us as gifts. Mubijan's house was actually recommended to us by some French girls that from a previous city we were in. They warned us that the bathroom was not so good, but that Mubijan made up for it with his personality and the rest of the house was great. Giving us the tour, Mubijan showed us around his turn of the century traditional house, and McNabb and I were a bit confused as the bathroom seemed fine. We were even more confused, however, as the girls failed to mention there were in fact no beds. After a few days the toilet broke, leaving us with no water, no toilet, and no beds....but we still slept snug as a bug with our blankets and mat on the floor.

While taking in the sights one day we paused in front of a seemingly closed Medressa (Islamic School) to take cartwheel pictures when a packed tour bus pulled up and a little man (reminiscent of the guard from the wizard of oz) opened the 15 foot doors, catching McNabb mid routine. The tour group came and went, but the little man took a shine to us and invited us in for a private tour. We explained that we didn't understand Russian and he told us it was ok, he would speak slowly. Because this was not a usual tourist sight, we were the only ones walking around and the man encouragingly pointed the way to the roof. So up we climbed to the top of the beginning to crumble massive structure, offering one of the best views and a highlight to end our stay in the city.

In the capital, Tashkent, we were reunited with our Belgian friend Filip who we had met earlier in our trip and had ourselves a time in the big city where we learned all shots are served up in tea cups. Other highlights include eating horse and seeing the oldest Koran in existence (completed in 651, 19 years after Prophet Mohammed's death). Also, we were able to obtain our Tajikistan visas – a huge constant crowd in front of the embassy, which the guards parted for in true celebrity status, ushering us through the gates. We definitely felt very special. And the best news of all, the Pamir Highway in Tajikistan had reopened allowing us to continue on our journey as planned through (supposedly) one of the world's greatest road trips and the 2^nd highest highway in the world (just behind the Karakorum in Pakistan).