I
recently got back from my trip to the ‘Stans, and what a trip it was.
First,
a few preliminaries. In the early days of Living
Cheap News, I was criticized by one of my nuttier readers for traveling.
“You can’t be frugal when you’re paying for two places to live,” she huffed.
“One here and one wherever you are.” I ignored her and traveled anyway. And, as
for having to turn in my frugal card, I remind everyone I have always said
frugality is deciding what’s important to you and doing without what is not important.
Amy Dacyczyn decided having a house and a family was what is important for her;
Jeff Yaeger decided not having a nine-to-five job was important to him. I
decided seeing the world for myself rather than believing everything others
told me the world was like is important to me. Unfortunately, as I’ll discuss
later, between the airlines and the TSA, I may well decide the hassles of travel
these days outweigh the benefits.
The
group I have been traveling with is Overseas Adventure Travel (OAT), part of
Grand Circle Travel. My first trip with OAT, to Tunisia in 2010, was a real
eye-opener. It was my first exposure to older travelers. On that trip we had a
couple—he was 85; his wife was 80—who were the first up the hills and probably
the most energetic people on the trip. These kinds of people—older and
physically active—were outside my experience. It was the first time it occurred
to me that, yes, we do have to age, but we don’t have to become decrepit. That
alone was worth the trip. The next trip I took with them was to eastern Turkey,
and I met more of the same older yet energetic people. So, when OAT offered
this new trip to the ‘Stans, I signed up. Ours was the second trip they’ve done
of all five ‘Stans, and, while the trip needs a few adjustments, which I’ll
mention later, I’m glad I did.
A trip
like this requires a sense of adventure and, perhaps more importantly, a sense
of humor. Recommended also are hepatitis A and B and diphtheria vaccines,
Imodium, and antibiotics. The overriding question—especially once you’re
outside cities--regards toilets. Eastern or western? If you’re older, a woman,
or a man needing to do a number two, eastern toilets are a challenge. Sometimes
they are literally a hole in the ground. Oh, and never be without your own
toilet paper. Never.
I left
Kansas City Sunday, April 9; the flights took me from here to Detroit, then to
Amsterdam, and then to Istanbul where I had to pick up my bag and check it with
Turkish Air for the flight to Bishkek. This is not as easy as you’d think. I
had to go through Turkey’s long entry visa line to get access to the baggage,
pick up the bag, take it to the Turkish Air counter, check it, and then go
through Turkey’s long exit visa line to get to the Bishkek flight. By the time
we got to Bishkek, at 3:15 AM local time, I’d been in airports and on planes
more than 24 hours. The Detroit-Amsterdam flight featured a little monster in the
row just ahead of me that did not allow anyone any sleep. It seemed to me his
parents were trying to keep him awake—perhaps so the brat would sleep once they
got to their destination. The Istanbul-Bishkek flight was one of the new Airbus
planes that are so narrow that evidently there isn’t enough room for both my
shoulders and the asses of people using the aisles, so there wasn’t much sleep
on that flight, either.
After a
few hours in the hotel, we took off to see Bishkek, the capital of Kyrgyzstan.
One highlight was the American University of Central Asia where a variety of
students from all corners of the world are taught in the liberal arts tradition
and in English. This university is in a modern building and would do many of
our universities proud. Most of the students we spoke with were interested in
international studies.
The next
day we took off for the bazaar, which, as it turned out, would be like many
other bazaars in Central Asia. But this one was the first. We met our local
guide who so closely resembled—both physically and especially in accent--Natasha
from Rocky and Bullwinkle that at
times it was difficult to keep a straight face (and even though it was not her
real name, we referred to her as Natasha). Natasha was not my favorite local
guide. Someone once said Pinocchio is the patron saint of guides, and I suspect
that was the case with Natasha, who could not have been very old when the
Soviet Union imploded in 1991 but who still missed the “good old days.” As we
toured Bishkek she commented on the new apartment blocks that were going up,
saying the old Soviet-era apartment buildings were built better even if they
were smaller and more spartan.
I would
like to have seen more of Bishkek. It is a city that is growing by leaps and
bounds (hence the new apartment construction Natasha bemoaned). And it is
overrun by cars. We were told the cars “come from” western Europe. I suspect
many come without the consent of their former owners. At any rate, even though
people drive on the right side of the road, as we do, there are cars with
right-hand drive and cars with left-hand drive, and traffic laws seem to be considered
advisory. But in the too-brief time I was there, I didn’t see any accidents.
We took
a brief hike in a national park, where Natasha frequently talked about
squirrels much to our amusement. Too soon we left Bishkek for Lake Issyk-Kul,
which has very little to recommend it. The hotel was right out of the old
Intourist days even though it was built in 2007. Old habits die hard, I
suppose. The staff was trained to say “no” in several languages. The only “yes”
I ever got out of anyone was when I asked if this is where I turn in my keys as
we were leaving. In this part of Kyrgyzstan there’s just not much to see. There
is a field of petroglyphs, but once you’ve seen one, … . The one highlight was
a golden eagle. We got to pet the eagle and have it sit on our arms. It was
darling—a one year old female that was very much like a puppy. It was supposed
to kill a rabbit, but all it did was land on it, much to our relief and
Natasha’s chagrin. One of the most memorable experiences—for all the wrong
reasons—was our visit to the museum and memorial dedicated to the memory of
Nikolai Mikhailovich Przhevalskiy, a noted Russian explorer who happened to die
and be buried in Karakol. Natasha droned on and on and on and repetitively
about this guy. I felt sorry for him, since she mentioned his 1888 death from
typhus so often that it seemed like that was his major accomplishment. Several
of us wandered off on our own to explore the grounds.
In Karakol we had lunch with a
local restaurant entrepreneur who had been a kidnapped bride, so we got to hear
first-hand about this practice which, though technically illegal, still goes on
in the ‘Stans.
The
practice of kidnapping brides does not usually involve rape. Women—especially
in the villages—are so incredibly restricted that simply spending the night
away from home ruins their reputation. Strangely, the parents of the kidnappers
will sit the kidnapped woman down and explain to them that their families will
not take them back now that their reputation is ruined, and that their son is
not really such a bad dude, after all. It comes down to a choice of marrying
the kidnapper or well, who knows what? In the case of the entrepreneur who
served us lunch, she married her kidnapper whom, she said, she learned to
respect but never loved. Interestingly, her husband had come around to where he
favored education for his daughters—quite a modern approach.
Natasha
claimed she was once in danger of being kidnapped, but I think the group found
it unlikely that even in Kyrgyzstan someone would be that desperate.
Natasha
impressed me as an extremely negative control freak with a tenuous hold on the
truth. For example, when we were approaching the Soviet-style hotel, she gave
us a cock-and-bull story about how expensive wi-fi would be and that there
would be one password for each device. (I had suggested that if one person paid
for wi-fi we could all have access to the password.) It turned out wi-fi was
free although not very good. Given how lazy the staff was, it was ludicrous to
think they’d go to so much effort to assign so many passwords. Why Natasha felt
it necessary to invent such industriousness for a staff so lazy remains a
mystery.
While
we were driving one day there was a big clunk noise on the bus, after which the
air conditioning no longer worked. Natasha found it necessary to invent a story
about how the buses were used and built for different climates and when the temperature
got to a certain level the air conditioning would come on again. We’d all heard
the clunk. Many of us actually knew something about mechanics. But Natasha
persisted. I’ve known a few compulsive
liars in my time, and, sad to say, Natasha fit the profile. Hopefully OAT can
find a better local guide.
In my
opinion, the Lake Issyk-Kul part of trip needs to be reevaluated. Admittedly
the eagle experience was memorable, but I think more time in Bishkek and Almaty
would be more meaningful. As it turned out, we only spent a day in Almaty, our
only stop in Kazakhstan. I’d have much preferred at least another day there.
We
spent the better part of the day getting to the crossing for the Kyrgyzstan-Kazakhstan
border. There are some very good roads in Central Asia, but many are really
bad. OAT recommended women wear sports bras. It seems the border closes for two
hours at lunchtime, and while we were there well before lunch it looked like we
might not be processed in time to avoid the two-hour wait. Fortunately, one of
our group was persuaded to have an episode. The border guards decided they
didn’t want to be bothered with the paperwork in case one of the American
tourists died on their watch, and we were soon on our way for our limited visit
to Almaty.
And
then we went through the looking glass.
We left
late in the evening for the flight to Ashgabat, Turkmenistan. We arrived in the
early morning hours to a huge but empty airport. As it would turn out, huge but
empty would pretty much describe Ashgabat, but more on that later.
I was
already prejudiced against Turkmenistan because to get a visa requires a “letter
of invitation” (and a sizeable visa fee). I sent the required information and
copies in January. In March, just a few weeks before departure, OAT called and
said I’d copied my passport too close to the edge and could I send another
copy? Ummmmm. Well, since OAT’s visa service people had my passport, I
couldn’t, but fortunately I’d kept a copy of my passport photo page. That
worked, as it turned out. But it was just a hint of things to come. When you
come through the cavernous airport, there’s an unmarked booth. As it turns out,
that’s where you pay an additional $14 (in U.S. currency) and drop off a
varying number of photos. (I had three—they took them all.) Then you go to
another unmarked booth and get your passport stamped. And then you run into
Turkmen, who refuse to que. It seems they all have a reason they should go
ahead of you, and it seems the country tolerates this one area of rebellion. I wondered
what the Turkmen word for “asshole” is. If anyone can help me out with that
one, I’d appreciate it. I’ve tried Google, and while I find “asshole” used
frequently to describe various and sundry border guards and officials, I’ve not
found the actual Turkmen word for it. Anyway, if you ever visit Turkmenistan,
that would be a good thing to know.
As I
said, we got there early in the morning. My first impression of Ashgabat was
the fountain in front of the Grand Turkmen Hotel being scrubbed. As it would
turn out, Ashgabat is probably the most scrubbed city in the world.
To get
an idea of what Ashgabat looks like, I’d suggest you Google “Ashgabat
Turkmenistan monuments.” Ashgabat is a city of white marble. From 1991, the end
of the Soviet Union, to 2006 it was ruled by a dictator who took the name
Turkmenbashi and proceeded to fill the city with monuments. I can’t decide
which is the most pathetic, but certainly in the running is the Earthquake
Monument, inspired by a massive 1948 earthquake that killed Turkmenbashi’s
mother and two siblings. The monument includes a bull on which a cracking earth
is mounted. The cracking earth is capped with a woman who is holding a golden
baby—Turkmenbashi. Also in the running is a monument to—no shit!—a book
Turkmenbashi wrote. He also built an over-the-top mosque and gravesite for
himself. He’s buried there, but he also had four mock tombs for his mother, two
siblings, and his father, who was killed in the Second World War.
Ashgabat
is filled with six lane streets that are almost devoid of cars. We had a great
local guide who began by telling us that everybody in Turkmenistan is “heppy.”
Even the women sweeping the streets are “heppy.” Everyone, she said, has at
least two cars—especially the rural people, who have four-wheel drive vehicles
for their farms and a sedan for fun. At first I thought she was serious, but I
think it was a case of laying it on a tad thick. One day, and we were there
four days, a schedule glitch enabled her to introduce us to a friend of hers at
the friend’s house. The house was quite nice, but it was a far cry from the
white marble and a good distance from the six-lane streets. And it was a nice
break. It may what the the areas of white marble apartments were like before
Turkmenbashi’s building spree.
Turkmenistan
is said to be the closest one can get to being in North Korea without actually
being in North Korea. I believe it. Our tour bus was stopped because a guard
thought someone had taken a photo of something forbidden. (And not to put too
fine a point on the Turkmen, the area around the U.S. embassy in Ashgabat is
another zone where photos are forbidden.)
One
thing I found interesting is women are not allowed to buy clothes off-the-rack.
They must choose their material and have their clothes made. The clothes are
colorful but cover the wearer from neck to ankle, and are worn by every woman—even
the “heppy” street sweepers. Men, on the other hand, are not bound by these
rules.
In
order to maintain control, I suppose, rules in Turkmenistan are arbitrary and
inconsistent. For example, some of our group visited a museum. The museum would
only take dollars, and the museum gift shop would only take manat, the local
currency.
I also
noted there were almost no dogs or cats in sight. I was told people had pets,
but they walked them after dark. I figured the pets were probably kept near all
the imaginary cars we didn’t see on the streets. When I got home I discovered
via Google that Tutkmenistan’s leader requires that stray animals be destroyed.
(See one article at http://www.eurasianet.org/node/64582)
At any
rate, our time in Ashgabat ended, and we flew (again at night) to Tashauz, a
Turkmenistan city near the Uzbekistan border. The flight was on Turkmenistan
Airlines. A meal of sorts was served, and passengers were not allowed to refuse
the meal. We didn’t have to eat what was served, fortunately, but we could not
refuse to accept it.
OAT
advised the weight limit for bags was 33 pounds for this internal Turkmenistan
flight. As a result of that advice I took a much smaller bag than I had
originally planned to use. It turns out the limit was not enforced (for us,
anyway), and even when it is enforced the overweight charge is not all that
much.
Tashauz
was much more like a typical town with a market and friendly people. We drove
to the border, where we changed buses and drivers.
I guess
the border crossing was smooth enough if you’re used to that sort of thing, but
it involved going through Turkmenistan’s exit process, carrying our bags about
a mile over unpaved paths to a waiting van that took us to the Uzbekistan entry
point. As many of you know, I take supplements, so I got interrogated about my
supplements both leaving Turkmenistan and and again when entering Uzbekistan.
In all fairness, I suppose there is a serious issue with drug smuggling, but
really. Swansons? Puritan’s Pride?
We
entered Uzbekistan, which was by far my favorite of the countries we visited,
and not the least because Batir, our trip leader, who lives in Uzbekistan, was
also our local guide.
We
started in Khiva, one of the old Silk Road cities. I learned that, while the
Silk Road itself is ancient, the name “Silk Road” only dates to the Nineteenth
Century.
Khiva
is a charming and relatively compact city. It was here I ran into Uzbekistan’s
confusing currency situation. It seems there is an official rate of exchange:
3700 som to the dollar. Most vendors will take dollars, and that’s the way to
go when possible. I exchanged $25 at the official rate in Khiva. I stopped in a
“mini market” and bought a small piece of cheese for the equivalent of $5 in
som. I thought, “My God! These prices are outrageous.” As it turned out, the
prices were not outrageous, they were based on black market exchange rates,
which I’d learn more about in Bukhara, our next stop, and you’ll learn what I
learned when my travelogue gets to Bukhara.
On one
of our Khiva days, we traveled all day to Nukus, which is in the autonomous
Karakalpakstan Republic. It’s part of Uzbekistan (for now), but if it wished it
could become its own country. The primary reason for the lengthy trip was to
visit the Savitsky Museum, which contains art that was controversial in the
Soviet times. If you’d like to explore the subject further, there is a
documentary about the museum narrated by Ben Kingsley titled The Desert of Forbidden Art. There was
some discussion as to whether the museum visit was worth the lengthy trip. From
Nukus we returned to Khiva and then were off to Bukhara. Bukhara is where I got
my education on Uzbekistan’s currency.
We
arrived on a Sunday, and as we were doing an orientation tour a young man
approached me with postcards. I told him I might buy some the next day. He said
he’d be in school, so I looked at what he had and bought a packet and some
stamps. Then he said he’d like to change money. He offered 6,000 som to the
dollar. It may not be the OAT way, but selling dollars for 6,000 som was a lot
better than getting 3,700 for them, so I took him up on his offer. As it would
turn out I was offered 7,600 by a man who would soon be travelling to the U.S.
and needed dollars. I began to understand why the $5 piece of cheese was
happening. Uzbekistan—at least urban Uzbekistan—is on a dollar (or euro)
economy. Vendors who deal with tourists deal in dollars, and not too many
people exchange at the official rates, which must make life hell for people who
have no access to hard currency.
For
example, Chevrolet has a factory in Uzbekistan, and many people drive Chevys
because Uzbekistan charges an import fee on foreign cars. Chevy makes, for
example, a Cobalt that will run on either gasoline or methane (and has two
tanks so drivers can switch between the two). The cars sell for $8,600, which
is a lot of money for most Uzbeks. And it’s difficult to get dealers to accept
som. And that’s just one example of why locals need access to hard currency.
At any
rate one mild criticism I have of this trip is I would like to have had a
better understanding of how the currency situation worked before I exchanged
any money at the official rate. Fortunately, I hadn’t changed too much.
I think
Bukhara was the most friendly of the cities I visited in Uzbekistan. People
would stop and try out their English on me—which was always better than my
Uzbek. This old city has many remnants of its days on the Silk Road including
beautifully tiled madrassahs which have been converted into hostels, the
Ark—the old city fortress, and, of course, bazaars and the usual souvenir
vendors. In Bukhara I ate something that disagreed with me violently. Immodium
would work for a while, and then it would hit again. Finally I gave up and used
the antibiotics my doctor had prescribed “just in case.” Eventually that
worked.
Our
next stop, Samarkand, was one of my main reasons for the trip, and it didn’t
disappoint. I’d seen photos of Registan Square, but, oh my, they don’t do the
place justice. Three blue-tiled madrassahs face the square. One, with its
portrayal of lions (which look like tigers), would seem to violate Islam’s
dictate against portraying live animals, but Islam in this part of the world
had to compete with Zoroastrianism, so it’s a bit different and much less rigid
than what we usually think of when we think of Islam.
I was
still fighting my whatever-it-was, so I learned to be on the lookout for
restrooms and, to the best of my ability, not be too messy when the restrooms
inevitably turned out to be eastern. We saw many of Samarkand’s sights
including the beautiful necropolis and the observatory of Ulug-Bek, which was
built in the 1420s.
We were
scheduled to visit Shakhrisabze, the birthplace of Tamerlane, but thankfully,
we didn’t, since it would have resulted in yet another day of driving many
hours. From Samarkand we next visited Tashkent, the capital of Uzbekistan. I
didn’t know much about Tashkent before I went there, but it is a charming town.
To get oriented our driver dropped us off a few blocks from the hotel. Our walk
took us through a flea market. The next day I visited the flea market and found
my favorite souvenir of this trip—a plexiglass trophy from 1961 commemorating
Yuri Gagarin’s space flight orbiting the earth.
We were
in Tashkent a short two days and then continued to our last ‘Stan, Tajikistan. The
border crossing was another of those where we were also changing buses and
drivers and walking between the two countries. At least this border crossing
was paved. When we made it to the Tajik side we discovered the thirteen of us,
our trip leader, and the two local guides (more on that in a moment) would be
traveling in a 20-passenger bus. Our luggage would follow us in another bus.
Our
local guide, Shabazz, was pretty good. I think he’s new to the guide business
and not quite as, um, inventive as Natasha. He is from one of the villages. At
first he was accompanied by a female guide whose name I never caught. She is
one of these very accomplished (a legend in her own mind) people who are always
so cheerful that people tolerate (because she is so nice) but would like to
escape at their earliest convenience. My first encounter with her was when she
insisted on taking my bag with my laptop and I insisted on keeping it. I won
that one. If anyone thinks Muslim women in Tajikistan are not allowed to speak
their mind, I’d suggest spending some time with her. She interrupted and
contradicted Shabazz at will.
We
drove to Khujand and stayed in the worst hotel I’ve experienced in my life, and
that includes fleabag hotels in Prague and Montreal that until now were in
competition for the worst ever. As one of our group commented, “This reminds me
of a women’s correctional facility.” And I would say that’s putting it kindly.
Khujand is kind of a nowhere, and it’s where some tour groups (notably Road
Scholar) end their ‘Stans tours. If it had been the only city in Tajikistan I
visited, I’d have advised people to forget the whole country.
But
since I spent a couple of days there, I’ll tell you what I remember. We went to
Arbob Palace, which Lonely Planet’s Central Asia guide describes as “strangely
pointless.” I’d have to agree, but it’s modeled (loosely) on the Hermitage in
St. Petersburg and it seems couples about to be married use it as a backdrop
for their wedding photos. Weddings are a really big deal in Tajikistan. There
were people having their wedding photos taken at the palace. And Shabazz’
female helper simply insisted that we be in those photos as a treat to the
wedding party. To me it was clear the last thing the bride and groom wanted in
their wedding photos was a bunch of dirty, badly dressed Americans who’d been
on the road for nearly four weeks. It would have been obvious to someone
suffering from severe Aspergers, but helper girl insisted and both we and the
unfortunate couple found it easier to yield than argue. She asked the couple
nosy questions about how long they’d known each other (four years), how they
met (I forget), etc. At any rate, we finally had to say goodbye to helper girl
because she had another group to guide. Awwwww.
Shabazz
proved to be surprisingly competent without all her help. He told us about how,
when one area got too crowded, the Tajik government would establish another
city and “encourage” people to move there. We noticed Tajiks drove very nice
automobiles, mostly Mercedes and BMWs. Shabazz explained that the cars were
used. It seems, according to Shabazz, that when Western Europeans tired of
their cars after a couple of years, they’d allow them to be stolen, and their
insurance would pay for them. Many such cars wound up in Tajikistan. But no
right-hand drive cars were allowed. I think Shabazz believed this. And then Shabazz told us about marriage
customs in the villages of Tajikistan.
Shabazz
told us of his own marriage. His parents and those of his bride-to-be arranged
their marriage. Shabazz did not meet his wife until the day of the wedding,
although he said he’d spoken with her a few times on the phone. After the
wedding she told him she’d seen him in town a few times. And this is the way
it’s done in the villages. This is so common in rural Tajikistan that Shabazz
seemed surprised we didn’t do the same in America.
We
asked him what would happen if a woman chose not to be married. He said there
had been one unattractive woman who had a job and a car in his village who did
not get married for years. Eventually she married a widower and had to give up
both her car and her job. I don’t know whether to consider that a happy ending.
Once a couple
is married they generally live with the husband’s family. The wife is permitted
to visit her family when her husband and his family allow it. The youngest son
is expected to care for his parents, and, as a result it is the youngest son
who inherits the bulk of the family’s estate.
From
Khujand we hit the road for Dushanbe, and what a road it was. The reason we
downsized to a 20-passenger bus became obvious—the roads through the mountains
were simply neither good enough nor wide enough for the larger bus we’d given
up. On the way we stopped at Istaravshan and visited traditional artists who
made wood combs and knives. We had lunch at the home of an artist who is
(allegedly) the last person in Tajikistan who specializes in the art of block
printing on textiles.
This
artist is (allegedly) so famous that the president of Tajikistan (allegedly)
came to his house and (allegedly) was so impressed the president (allegedly)
gave the artist the president’s car. The artist has a very nice house. For some
reason the (alleged) toilet available for visitors is (literally) a triangular
concrete hole that appears not to have been cleaned this century (and maybe not
a good part of last century, either). The smell was enough to trigger my gag
reflex, and I’m not all that finicky. After using that restroom—or actually not
using the restroom because it was just too filthy, we were supposed to eat.
Thank heavens for Purell. If this guy is truly the legendary artist we’re
supposed to believe he is, he really needs to do something about that bathroom.
Anyway,
we were soon back on the road to Dushanbe. We stopped at a couple of scenic
sites, one of which had vendors selling dried fruit. At this site we were able
to witness a man yelling at the vendors that they were unfair competition for
vendors selling the same products elsewhere. Eventually we descended into
Dushanbe, which is a charming city for the most part. For some reason, though,
whoever designed a good portion of the tourist attractions seemed to have a
stair fetish. You go up stairs, then down stairs only to go up stairs again. Go
figure. The Tajik Museum of Antiquities is a definite must-see if you’re ever
here. We had a museum guide that started taking us through the museum, but it
was obvious that if I was going to see the whole thing, I couldn’t rely on the
guide, so I broke off and did a self-guided tour. I was glad I did. One really
nice thing about this trip is our trip leader did not take it personally if we
split off from the group. I really appreciate Batir for allowing us this
flexibility. We visited a museum of musical instruments and the local bazaar,
but I simply must tell you about the Palace of Nowruz. This is a fairly new
building decorated by 4,000 (or so) local artists over the course of five
years. It was completed in 2014 at a reported cost of $60 million. According to
a source I won’t name the actual number is closer to $2 billion. Supposedly
this was all private money.
At any
rate, after entering the palace by climbing the requisite couple of stories of
stairs, we were treated to a giant room which is available for weddings and
other functions. The guide, who was so enthusiastic about the palace, told us
the room would rent for $2,000. If you wanted food with that, it would be
$5,000. Given the average annual wage in Tajikistan is $1,600, this was clearly
beyond the reach of most Tajiks. We were then treated to yet another room on
yet another level of the palace. This room was more ornate than the $2,000
room. In fact, by now we were on the verge of tacky, but more was to come. There was a crystal room, a marble room, etc.
All of these rooms are huge. In one of the rooms I spotted an open door and a
restroom. I pointed that out to one of our group who had expressed a desire
about to become a need to use the restroom. As he headed for the door our guide
flew to the doors and slammed them shut saying, “That is for diplomats only.”
The final room was full of mirrors. In fact, the mirrors had mirrors. By now we
were having trouble not laughing—OK, not laughing too loudly. When the guide
said she hoped the building would make the Guinness
Book of World Records, I wondered what category they were aiming for.
We met
with a French student who lived in Dushanbe and told about how she’d adjusted
to life in Tajikistan. When some of the group mentioned that Facebook was
unavailable in Tajikistan, she responded there were ways to get around that
(which Shabazz confirmed). Facebook was also blocked in Turkmenistan as was
CNN. (Please note I don’t know much about Facebook; I have met too many people
who have let it become a job, and I’m not looking for a job.)
We ran
into helpful girl who was guiding some British campers. Those poor Brits. First
Brexit. Now helpful girl. And not even able to escape to a hotel room.
We had
the afternoon to prepare for our departure from the ‘Stans and our one-day stay
in Istanbul. Our flight (sigh, again) was a late night one. We arrived in
Istanbul in time for breakfast. I was thrilled that our trip leader was one I’d
had on my first trip to Turkey in 2003, but I was truly sad for Istanbul. There
were armed soldiers everywhere, and the two tourist sites we visited—the Grand
Bazaar and the Spice Market—had metal detectors at their entrances. I hope the
world and Istanbul will get back to normal one of these days.
The
next day we left Istanbul. I headed for Sicily (more on that later); most of
the others in our group headed back to the U.S.
I would
say this trip was one of the best I have taken with OAT. The itinerary needs
some work—especially the Kyrgyzstan-Kazakhstan part of the trip, which has that
“If-It’s-Tuesday-This-Must-Be-Belgium” feel, and I’d suggest that, rather than
driving from Tashkent to Dushanbe with the stay in Khujand, it would be better
to fly to Dushanbe and spend more time there.
All-in-all,
I would take this trip again based on what I learned and the sights I
saw—especially the Silk Road cities in Uzbekistan. Batir was beyond excellent
as a trip leader. And finally, the trip could not possibly have been as
enjoyable had we not had such a fantastic group. We had three couples and seven
single travelers. We spent more time with each other in four weeks than most of
us spend with our families, significant others, partners, etc. And we got along
amazingly well. Oh, we got on each others’ nerves at times—and I probably got
on a lot of people’s nerves—those who’ve read some of my writings know I can be
a bit, ummm, er acerbic at times. You can imagine what I’m like in person.
One
question I’ve been asked a lot is what was the food like. It was very meat
based. And the quantity of food was more than adequate for the most part.
(There was one meal at a stop on a highway that consisted of a small hamburger
patty and clumps of mashed potatoes and rice; that was the only meal I remember
being really bad, and who eats potatoes and rice at the same meal, anyway?)
Well,
as I said, for me it was off to Sicily.
I have
done some really stupid things in my life. Doing what OAT calls a back-to-back
trip may be right up there. OAT offers some really good discounts, and on a
back-to-back trip there’s usually no added airfare. As a result my trip to
Sicily was probably half price. But I hadn’t planned on being exhausted, and I
was still on antibiotics when the Sicily trip began. And there was more I
hadn’t planned on.
The
Central Asia trip is new, and OAT is still ironing the kinks out of it. To me,
that’s OAT at its best—constantly tweaking to get the trip to be the best it
can be. The Sicily trip is OAT on an assembly line. This time of the year
there’s a trip leaving every day or so. I guess I should have known that, but
it didn’t register. Unfortunately, I started on an assembly line that was not
the one I was supposed to be on.
I had a
day between trips, and I thought it would be an opportunity to relax and unpack
for an extra day. That would make me wrong. First, I had the issue of flying to
Rome on Turkish Air and flying to Palermo on Alitalia. This meant I once again
had to pick my luggage up and recheck it at a different terminal. When I landed
in Palermo I found my driver, who was holding cards for both OAT and Explore. I
got to him first, but shortly after I got to him a woman who was on an Explore
trip walked up to him. He was holding the Explore sign, after all. He told her
to call her driver, which was simply moronic, if you think about it. How was
she supposed to call her driver? She didn’t know his number. And he was holding
the sign, after all. I told him I wasn’t in a big hurry and maybe he could
offer the woman more assistance. So he called her driver. He and I took off,
and he delivered me… to the wrong hotel. I showed him I thought it was the
wrong hotel, but he showed me on his phone that this was the hotel OAT had told
him to drop me at. He wouldn’t stick around. And it was, indeed, the wrong
hotel. My hotel was a mile away. OAT has said they’d give me a $100 travel
voucher to apply to my next trip for the inconvenience, but there may well not
be a next trip. I’ll talk about that later.
I need
to back up just a tad. Before the trip, while I was in Central Asia, I received
an email from Plinio, our Sicily group leader, advising how difficult it was to
exchange money in Sicily. Plinio advised using an ATM card. I hadn’t known I’d
need one, so I didn’t bring one. So I changed money in Istanbul with a vendor
at the Spice Market I’d done business with previously, and I didn’t change a
lot of money.
So here
I was in Palermo at the wrong hotel with my luggage (thank heavens I don’t buy
a lot of souvenirs) and on antibiotics. I sucked it up and walked to the right
hotel. It wasn’t really that much different than walking between the border
checkpoints in Central Asia. When I got there I discovered my room for the
first night was really small and I’d get to move into the right room when the
group arrived the next day. So I wouldn’t be unpacking for four days after all.
The
next day the group arrived. There were fifteen of us.
We
explored Palermo, which had some interesting sights including a cathedral that
had been built on the site of a mosque which, in turn, had been built on the
site of a church. Another cathedral was decorated with (and I don’t think I’m
exaggerating) millions of tiles. The workmen included people of all religions
which resulted in a Byzantine look. One of many annoying things about this trip
is it seems every city and site had a “local guide.” Some of them were very
good. Some not so much. The guide in Palermo was one of the good ones. She
pointed out an area of flea markets. The next day I visited them, which was
interesting although I didn’t find anything.
That evening we were told about the Sicilian Mafia by the son of the man
who was in charge of the Mafia for many years. This was probably the highlight
of the trip. The next day we left Palermo for Mazara, where we explored the
city, which included a Tunisian area built in Kasbah style. Our guide knew a
resident of the Kasbah, and he showed us around. We saw the museum where the
“dancing satyr” discovered in the Mediterranean by a fisherman is now housed.
That evening we prepared a dinner in a restaurant. The next day we saw how salt
is produced from the sea. This is about as interesting as it sounds. The next
day we visited the Valley of Temples dating back to the 3rd and 4th
Centuries BC (or BCE if you prefer). That night we stayed at an “agriturismo,”
or an agricultural activity the Sicilian government has allowed to cater to
tourists—sort of a B & B. The next day was one I was looking forward to—a
tour of the Villa Romano del Casale, a Roman villa discovered buried in mud in
the 19th Century. Our local guide knew every detail and wanted to
share them with us. I just wanted to look at the mosaics. That day we continued
to Ragusa. The next day we were treated to rides in Fiat 500s. This was a real
treat for me as it may be the first time I wedged myself into a space smaller
than a modern-day coach seat on a plane. The following day the group took a dairy
farm tour. I took a much-needed break and rested.
We then
headed for Catania, stopping in Syracuse on the way. Syracuse was the
birthplace of Archimedes of “Eureka!” fame. By the time we reached Catania, our
final city, I was thrilled just to have survived. We visited the local World
War II Museum which had a sign recommending we see a film. The group followed
the local guide; I wanted to watch the film, which was an excellent history of
World War II, starting well before the war and continuing until it suddenly
stopped in 1943. It seems the film is supposed to take us to the Allied
invasion of Sicily, and the museum takes it from there.
We were
in Catania as Sicily was preparing for the G7 meeting in Taormina, so I skipped
the trip there and rested. The final day of the trip we took a drive to Mt.
Etna. And the next day I came home.
As you
can tell I did not enjoy the Sicily trip. I take responsibility for being tired
when the trip began, but there are some issues with the trip that OAT really
needs to think about. The trip has too many activities that are questionable,
among them the Fiat 500 drive and preparing dinner in Mazara. And there are a
lot of activities that drag on longer than they should, among them the painted
horse carts. These carts are indeed beautiful, and a brief explanation of their
history would be interesting. The operative word being brief.
Another
issue is I was frequently not aware what we were going to do—for example, a
visit to the chocolate shop turned out to be an opportunity to be told how
chocolate was made, sample some tiny samples, and buy something. This was a
“discovery?” I think it would be a good idea also to advise people in advance
that the day will be strenuous when that is the case. It’s not great to board
the bus, become part of a captive audience, and find you’ve wasted a day when,
at worst, you could be doing something you’d prefer to do—even if that
something is reading a book at the hotel. Every minute of a vacation does not
have to have some activity!
Again,
I acknowledge I started this trip tired and not feeling great, but even now, a
few weeks later even writing about some of these experiences is unpleasant.
Which
brings me to travel in general these days.
I
started flying on a somewhat regular basis in 1971. At that time I was 6’6”
tall. I’ve since shrunk to 6’5”. In the 1970s I fit in airline seating. I do
not recall having my knees embedded in the seat in front of me, inches away
from someone’s kidneys. Nor do I recall having to sit with my legs in a V-shape
with one knee in the aisle and the other keeping my seatmate from lowering
their tray table (and I’m talking to you here, Alitalia—your seating sucks). With
the exception of the flight from Detroit to Amsterdam and the flight from
Minneapolis to Kansas City, every seat on every plane was taken. On the flight
from Paris to Minneapolis I actually had to ask the man in front of me not to
put his seat back. (“Excuse me, sir. My knees are embedded in your seat, and
I’d like to be able to use my legs when we get to Minneapolis.”) And with the
exception of the flight from Minneapolis to Kansas City, not one airline
employee even noted my discomfort. On that last leg of the trip, a flight
attendant told me there were seats in the exit row if I’d like one. I did.
Thank you, Delta.
Even
when I flew to Greece two years ago airline seats were not this uncomfortable,
even for me. I’ve been flying for a long time, and I’ve been tall for a long
time, so I can truly paraphrase Norma Desmond here and say yes, I am tall; it’s
the airline seats that have gotten small. And I guess that’s not going to
change. I have reservations for a trip to the Suez Canal next February. After
this trip, I’m about 85% sure I’m going to cancel. It will cost me to cancel,
but when I think of getting on another long flight, I shudder. I have until
October to decide.
I’d
hoped to be able to use some of the many American Airlines AAdvantage miles
I’ve accrued over the years to fly business or first class on the Suez Canal
trip. Even this far in advance that’s simply not possible. Even coach seats are
not available. Evidently American has decided it’s enough that they let you
accrue miles; using them for something of meaningful value is simply beyond the
pale.
Add to
the discomfort and the inability to use frequent flyer miles the hoops TSA puts
you through these days, and you’ve got a trifecta of reasons not to travel.
In
short, while I enjoy travel, traveling is more trouble than it’s worth. The
cost benefit analysis does not work out when you take into account that the
flying part of the equation is downright painful.
