Tashkent Shakedown
(Marie-Mail entry #31)
CHIMKENT
MAY 15
I stood, uncertain, on the Chimkent train station platform. I was six hours early and my ride was not there to meet me. Had they found out the right arrival time? Were they on their way? Should I give up on them and find my own way to Tashkent? I saw a sign for a telephone. I'd call the Tashkent travel agency and set things straight.
Or not. Even though Tashkent was just over the border, only an hour away, it was still an international call. I didn't have enough Kazak currency and was running short on US dollars as well. I would have to change traveler's checks in Tashkent. Meanwhile, I didn't have enough tenge to make a simple phone call.
I saw down on the stairs and thought. Three taxi drivers came over to consider my case.
"Taxi?" asked one.
"No," I said. "I have." I motioned holding up a sign, and then looked around and shrugged. Someone with a sign was supposed meet me, but they were not here.
"Ah." The group chewed this over. Clearly there was no one here to meet me. They waited with me for a while.
"Taxi?" said one after five minutes had passed.
"No tenge," I said.
"Dollars?"
I shook my head sadly. There was no universal sign language for "I've got some but I'm running short."
The taxi drivers discussed my plight, and came up with a plan. For 200 tenge, one would take me to the bus station. I could catch a share-taxi from there.
It was a great plan, more in my own interest than theirs. Instead of making twenty dollars off of me, one of them would make $1.30.
Everyone I'd met in Kazakstan had been similarly concerned with my welfare. What a friendly place!
I got into a taxi, and we headed towards the bus station. I reached into my pocket to count my remaining funds, and found fifteen dollars. I pulled them out and showed them to the driver.
"Tashkent?" I asked, excited.
"Tashkent!" he replied, and changed directions.
We sped along at 100 kph to the border. The surrounding hills were grassy and void of signs of humanity. The only time we slowed down was when the driver spotted a speed trap.
An hour later, I was causing a ruckus at the Kazak border post.
"Follow me," said a soldier. Everyone stared as he marched me away. I was getting used to this.
We went to a room where my passport was examined by no less than four uniformed gentlemen. They had a long look at me, and sent me back to the taxi.
A money changer gave me Uzbek currency at the black market rate in exchange for my last ten dollars. The taxi driver nodded approval at the rate. We drove on to the Uzbek border, where a creepy young man x-rayed my pack and then asked for my comic books. I always carry a few along to explain what I do -- DID -- for a living. I explained that the comics were much too far down in my pack and I couldn't get to them. He didn't press the issue. I was lucky. I hate border bribes and would rather outwait a customs official than pay them. I was stamped in.
Uzbekistan! Land of gold teeth, the Silk Route, and the monobrow! The taxi driver hailed a local taxi and paid him to take me to me hotel. He then turned to me and gave me a long explanation in Kazak, one that I took to mean, "this man knows his way around Tashkent and I do not. Please go with him."
I had pre-booked my accommodation in Uzbekistan through a Bukhara agent named "Bukhara Visit." But when I hadn't heard back promptly, I had gone ahead and confirmed with Tashkent's "Hotel Orzu" via their website. I had also scrawled out a map, which I now used to navigate my taxi to Ileva Street.
Orzu's "Sumbah Agency" had heard from me too late to put me in their main hotel, but they owned two more hotels, a restaurant, and an internet cafe on the same road. From the looks of it, they had plans to turn Ileva Street into a mini-Khao San Road. Assorted cafes, grocers, and pool tables had sprung up around the hotels, and no doubt this was just the beginning.
Amir Timur Square
I was given a room in Hotel Sezan, a seven-room bed and breakfast around a quiet courtyard. The young woman at the front desk was decked out in a slinky sleeveless dress -- not really what I'd expected from Muslim Uzbekistan -- and she was blond. She was also incredibly helpful, and besides calling me a taxi, she informed that time had changed between Chimkent and Tashkent. I had been graced with the addition of two spare hours to my busy day.
Oleg, the young agent at Asia Travel, was surprised to see me, because of course he had been planning to pick me up in Chimkent at 1505, or 3:05 p.m.
He looked at my train ticket, apologized for all the confusion and pointed out that 1505 was the date, not the arrival time.
Duh.
Now we were equals. He had screwed up my train ticket and I had screwed up the transfer. We got down to business.
"You do not need a new Russian visa," he said. "In Moscow, it is very easy to extend your visa. Save your time and your fifty dollars."
Great.
"And you don't need a Kazak transit visa. You only need to show your Russian visa and your train ticket to Moscow. Same for Turkmenistan."
Eh? What was that? Turkmenistan?
"Yes, the train goes from Tashkent, first through Turkmenistan, then Kazakstan, then on to Russia."
downtown Tashkent
This was the first I'd heard me going to Turkmenistan. I was a bit startled.
"Is Turkmenistan safe?" I inquired, desperately trying to appear nonplussed.
"No," he said firmly. "The police bother everyone, and take their money. For a woman alone, I think it will be very bad."
We sat silent for a minute.
"But," continued Oleg, "possibly for you it will be okay because your passport says United States. It might scare them."
It usually just made people think I was rich. It seemed unwise to count on some paper and cardboard to protect me. The US Embassy was a long way from the Turkmenistan train.
Then Oleg offered me an interesting proposal.
"The airplane to Moscow is only $70 more than the train. I owe your the cost of the transfer from Chimkent, and the train ticket from Almaty. How about I give you the airplane ticket and we'll call it even?"
Ordinarily, I would have jumped at this. Four days of uncomfortable train hell through dire circumstances, questionable visas, corrupt soldiers, and three extra itinerary days to play with versus a few hours on a plane. Easy.
But I was going around the world by surface transport, and I'd miss all those charming interactions with the Tubbys and Stinkys of the world if I went by plane. I'd miss the possibilities of bribery, shakedowns, and sexual assault.
"Is there any way I can make sure I am in a compartment with other women?" I asked.
"No. The conductor can move you, like he did on the train to Almaty."
"What if I buy a two-person compartment?"
"That costs much, MUCH more than the plane."
The "I-am-female" factor was a big issue. If I were Michael Palin, I'd be able to go without fear of harassment. I'd have cameramen with me, and my advance team would've worked out a way around the corrupt Turkmenistan officials.
I promised Oleg I'd get back to him. I'd put the matter to a website vote and consider using one of my lifelines.
He walked me outside and hailed an unofficial taxi. As he shut the door, he issued one last warning.
"If you take the Metro, and the police stop you, do not show them your money. They have a right to see your passport, but not your money."
Tashkent police are renowned for shaking down travelers and stealing their cash. I promised Oleg I'D be careful.
The taxi took me to "Tashkent's Broadway," the pedestrianized street off Amir Timur Square. It was filled with sidewalk cafes, art sellers, shops, and other enterprising endeavors. My favorites were sidewalk karaoke machines, where locals unabashedly screeched along with their favorite songs, and the video game parlors -- a few televisions hooked up to Sony PlayStations, covered by a tent.
streetside video game parlor
I walked along Broadway, enjoying the occasional street musician and the overhanging greenery. No one hassled me -- it just wasn't done here. I bought a t-shirt -- while everyone went bare-shouldered in Tashkent, things could be very different in the countryside. I patronized one of the many excruciatingly slow internet cafes, and then I went to the opera.
Some industrial spying on an online "Intrepid" dossier, since changed, had given me the idea. One ticket to "La-Pharoni" costs me $1.15.
The grand Soviet-era opera house was filled with fifty or sixty people, many dressed in street clothes. Normal people go to the opera in Tashkent, in the same way that young Russian learn poetry and idolize great novelists. It's just something people do, rich or poor.
The opera was sung in Uzbek, so I was forced to make up my own story. Visually, it was a cross between "Lawrence of Arabia" and "The Tempest."
Opera House
As near as I could figure, the story was about a pharaoh who was involved in various matters of state and conquest, which he would talk about with his multi-national chorus of advisors. Unfortunately, his wife, the beautiful Armenian princess, was mad at him because he liked to hang out alone in the fields at night, where he watched the stars. Every time a shooting star went by (and in those days, they weren't all satellites), dozens of nubile fairies would descend in vibrantly-colored wispy costumes (the bad one was dressed in red). They'd dance around on their tiptoes, doing ballet until the princess showed up, pissed.
And who wouldn't be? Besides contending with nubile fairies, she had to put up with the Pharaoh watching belly dancers non-stop in his official capacity as head of state. And then Charlton Heston showed up in a white beard and some talking monkeys shot the human chorus.
I left at half-time. As fantastic as all the dancing fairies were, I obviously couldn't make head-or-tails of the plot, and my own additions to the story made it no clearer. Also, I wasn't sure what time the Tashkent Metro quit running.
Tashkent had been devastated by an earthquake in 1966. Helpful Soviet civil servants had descended on the city to rebuild it, and one of their legacies was an efficient subway. The stations were grand, with intricate tiling and chandeliers.
The signs were in Cyrillic and I had to resort to my tried-and-true navigation method of counting stops. I had gotten good at sounding out Cyrillic, but couldn't do it fast enough to get off the subway before the doors shut.
I found my way to Oybek metro, and walked the back streets to Hotel Sezan.
TASHKENT
MAY 16
Sezan's breakfast featured eggs, yogurt, and bread served on a traditional Uzbek cushioned platform. The courtyard was serene, the only sound coming from a few caged birds, still covered but starting to move about.
I stored my pack at the hotel, carrying only my zip-off day pack and my sewn-up bike messenger bag. My "North Face" coat and hybrid technical trekking shoes were of little use in the desert. I caught the metro towards the long-distance bus station.
My mind was on buses and connections and I wasn't paying attention to my surroundings. So I was surprised when a thuggish-looking man stepped into my path and showed me his badge.
"Passport," he demanded.
My heart jumped into my mouth but I played it cool and stalled for time. Staring at his police badge, I tried to memorize the digits. If he was up to no good, maybe it would give him pause to know that I'd memorized his I.D. number. In retrospect, I should have written it down and taken his photo. But then he'd have confiscated my Bic and my Canon.
He waved me into a room. I followed, even as it dawned on me that leaving the public view was a mistake. I was at his mercy behind closed doors.
His friends, Thugs #2, 3, and 4 materialized out of nowhere. I demanded to see each man's badge, which just confused my memory of Thug #1's I.D. number.
"Passport," repeated Thug #1.
I calmly, slowly, dug around in my bag. Maybe they'd get bored. I produced it, removing it from the Zip-Loc bag that protects it from the rain. They showed their first, and only, sign of weakness.
"Ah, America." They paused and looked at each other.
I noted their hesitation and added arrogance to my calm demeanor. If they believed that America could help me in this back room in Tashkent, so be it.
"Yeah, I can get you fired," I thought, silently sending "I'm tough" vibes. I suppressed "as if," which threatened to come bubbling up from my subconscious.
After a minute, Thug #2 said, "city?"
Slowly and clearly, with great bravado and implied toughness, I articulated "NEW YORK CITY."
"Ah. Criminal?"
"No. NO criminal."
They all giggled, amused at my cleverness. Could I make them my pals, thereby removing any threat? Doubtful.
Thug #1 motioned for me to open my bag. I smiled politely, pretending to have no idea what he was trying to communicate. He pointed to my bag, and made an opening motion.
"No." I smiled. Thug #2 reached for it.
I grabbed it back and opened it myself. I knew they didn't have the right to look in my bag, but thugs-in-numbers have the default right to do whatever they please.
I pulled out items of my choosing, one at a time. I spoke to the men as if they were small children, with exaggerated simplicity.
"See-- CAMERA." I said, pretending to take a photo. I replaced it in the bag.
"Russian phrasebook." It came out and went back into the bag.
"Uzbek phrasebook."
"Chapstick." I mimed putting it on my lips.
"Hairbrush." I brushed my hair.
They tired of my game.
"Document," said Thug #1.
I pointed at my passport. I knew what document he wanted. He was after the customs form I had filled out at the border. It listed the amount of dollars I had been carrying, or pretending to carry as I had virtually no money on me when I came into Uzbekistan. (I had lied because countries do not let you in when your're destitute.)
"CUSTOMS document."
"Hotel," I said. Now I allowed myself a smile. I wouldn't need the form until I left the country, and had left it back at Sezan.
"Money," he said.
"No," I replied.
They were getting annoyed. Thug #2 went away and pulled in an innocent local man to harass.
"Dollars," said Thug #1.
"Hotel," I said. This was a lie. I had several hundred dollars in the bag I had just pretended to search. I held up a wad of cym, the local currency. The thugs looked disgusted.
Thug #1 put down my passport. My hand snaked out and grabbed it at lightning-speed before I could remind it to be nonchalant.
Thug #2, having sent away his local victim, produced a fake $100 bill and waved it at me.
"Photocopy," I said, looking disgusted. I made as if to throw it on the floor.
"No good, copy."
They all howled with laughter. Thug #1 wandered off. The others talked amongst themselves. I decided I was free to go, and walked off evenly but rapidly.
To make matters worse, there was no bus to Urgench. I had to go four hours to Bukhara, and transfer there. During both rides, I slept. No one tried to speak, but some did stare. I caught a taxi at night, to the old section of Khiva.
Sitting on a hard bed in a dreary room at the Hotel Arkonchi, I realized that the fake hundred-dollar bill was part of the scam. No doubt if I had produced my own hundred, they would've swapped it with the fake, expecting me to not notice until later. Swell place, this Uzbekistan. "Tomorrow is another day," I thought, knowing that in the morning I'd wake up and realize that the entire country couldn't be blamed for the corruption of the Tashkent police force.
NEXT: cool old stuff! Party bus to Bukhara!
