Across the Hungry Steppe to Khiva

Our flight to Khvia was early. Not leaving anything to chance, and with a healthy cynicism of Uzbek Air’s pre flight information we headed off at dawn reasoning that we might be early, but there was likely to be some quality people watching to be had. Dropped off at the gate with our rucksacks we were fleeced for $20 (the extortionate going rate) and trudged blinking through the dawn light into the departure hall. Inside we were met with a wall of noise and a scene as chaotic as we’d imagined. Each travelling family was studiously ignoring any western style rules over the amount of luggage permissible and herding enormous packages wrapped, as many developing countries do, in yards of vacuum packed plastic. Whilst the men were striding through Departures with male tunnel vision focusing on the trip ahead; the women, enveloped in yards of modest cloth were simultaneously trying to marshal their luggage, feed recalcitrant toddlers, guide toothless, ageing relatives and apprehend louche teenagers who were doing their best to ignore the proceedings. It looked tiring. For some reason every other person seemed to be toting one of those tartan printed, square, plastic carry-alls that are sold at the dodgy pound shops along Shepherd’s Bush Green. I have seen these tatty bags almost everywhere I’ve been in the world and thoroughly believe that there is a man somewhere growing fat on the empire he’s built on his monopoly on dodgy tartan bags.

Despite the early morning we were not to be put off by our 1st challenge – finding out where we had to go. This was made more challenging as all the signs (and departures boards) were in Cyrillic. They weren’t going to trick us that easily. We decided to use our first weapon: female logic – perhaps it would be some match for Uzbek common sense. We narrowed down the destinations on the departure boards to the shortest Russian words (after all, Khiva is only 5 letters long), discounted those we recognised as being instructions (such as ‘Exit’ and ‘Flight’) and began a laborious process of translating letter for letter. Finally, we tried to pronounce the results with a heavy Russian accent. We did get looked at strangely, but this worked, and we identified our queue for Khiva.

At that point we noticed to our consternation that we weren’t the only westerners in the establishment! Being the gateway to the Silk Road, and a UNESCO world heritage site as the last resting place of ancient caravans before their crossing of the Iranian desert, Khiva has historically attracted tourists. Although the majority have been frightened away by more recent events, a few sparse and diverse groups remain.

Wherever you visit, you will observe clusters of tourists. In South America groups of Israelis fresh out of National Service are prevalent; in Turkey you cannot move for Antipodeans en route to Gallipoli, and throughout Eastern Europe you stumble across unfeasibly tall Dutch couples kitted out in iridescent cagoules. Amongst the travellers in Central Asia there appeared to be 4 core groups:
1. The slightly misguided backpacker (us);
2. The provincial Russian hooker (they might not actually be professional prostitutes, but you wouldn’t guess it from their outfits and peroxide hair);
3. The ubiquitous Japanese tourist, with the very small, highly complicated cameras (assisted by confusing frequent direct flights between Tashkent and Tokyo);
4. And most surprising – the elderly French tour – accessorised by irate tour guide and waistcoats with an inordinate amount of pockets.
I had a wonderful mental image of a new natural history programme tracking the progress of these tourist species along their international migratory routes – obviously with a voice over from David Attenborough.

Surprisingly, check in went smoothly and at the appointed time we found ourselves ensconced in a kitsch 70s plane - complete with leather fold down seats in 1st class and stewardesses called the "Guardian Angels of the Skies". There was even an in flight magazine. This was an eccentric publication containing a wonderful article informing passengers that Uzbek Air had recently undertaken their first servicing of half their aircraft - it did leave you wondering which half of the fleet the plane you were on fell into…. A few pages on was an interview with a nationally famous actor entitled: “I’m not a Megalomaniac!” – page turning. But they got us here in one piece and without as many detours as our earlier BA flight.

Upon landing in the middle of an airfield in Urgench the hold doors were opened and a mêlée of taxi drivers appeared scrummaging for our luggage and our business. We waded in and rescued our rucksacks from the throng and then tried to find a taxi to share for the 35km drive to Khiva itself. Brilliantly, we were approached by a bald British chap in his 50s with navy cords, a navy blazer and a battered leather briefcase who introduced himself as "David, David Matthews" as if I was supposed to know him. “David, David Matthews" was a banker who’d just flown in from Moscow to go to the art museum in Nukus for a couple of days. However, hereafter he was known as Dr. Evil (Austin Powers films) due to his remarkable resemblance and the fact that he looked as though he was considering taking over the world. We then had a great journey in a trusty Russian Lada through cotton fields lined with hedges of flowing roses, hearing stories of "The Empire" and "when I lived in Peking". Priceless and the sort of character you couldn't invent.

It was an interesting journey as President Karimov was in town. We saw his private plane at the airport (the UK gave Uzbekistan 2 planes as aid and he appropriated one of them) and ran into a road block just outside Urgench. All roads to Khiva were being closed off using makeshift roadblocks of local tractors and trailers and the guard told our driver that to get to Khiva without getting stuck he'd have to drive like the clappers - which we duly did. Hair raising - but we got here! There were guards all over the city due to the President’s visit, and they looked as though they meant business….except maybe the one we discovered behind a mosque stretched out on a well and fast asleep with his hat over his eyes. I managed to get a photo by posing The Aussie in front of him, but we woke him up and I think he was a tad embarrassed. Not a good idea to annoy a man with an automatic weapon….