This next part is a doozy. After arriving in Beineu and exploring for a couple days, I miss my train — not because I was late; in fact, I was waiting for several hours at the station. No, I purely didn’t realize that the train had arrived, and by the time I located it after asking around for several minutes, it was departing right in front of my eyes. Turns out the next train left the following day, but was sold out, just like the train leaving the day after. After begging the train clerk for help, they said I could try to come the next day and bargain with the conductor for a spot on the sold out train.
This is where my big problem began: I had no money. In this small village, none of the ATMs accepted my American debit card so I couldn’t get cash, and neither the hotels nor the train station would accept my card. Plus, I couldn’t buy a ticket online because the train I needed was hosted by Russian Railways and thus required a special form you could only get in Russia. Essentially, I was stranded in this village abound in billowing dust and small shacks; the vague smell of fried food permeating the stale air. I genuinely thought I might have to stay and work at the hotel washing dishes until I gathered enough money to leave. However, I scrounged up my remaining cash and, despite being a bit short, convinced the hotel to let me stay an extra night.
The next day, I trekked in the fresh snow to every bank in a 5km radius to no avail, until I finally found a small hotel that accepted debit cards and made a deal to swap a charge for cash. However, they could only give me 10,000 tenge, which is about $25 — not enough to get on this 24 hour train by any means. So, I hired a taxi to take me to the border of Uzbekistan for about half of my remaining money, and decided I would wing it on the other side, either by hitchhiking or finding a cheap taxi that could take me to Nukus. A couple of incredibly sweet and helpful Uzbek boys coached me through messenger on what to do once I got to Nukus, and together we found a train to Bukhara and (free) housing once there, and a train from Bukhara to Samarkand. This meant one less day in Samarkand (which sucks as this was the part of my trip I was most excited for), but at least I wasn’t stranded in Beineu, which was the main worry. Plus, this way I got to explore Uzbekistan a little more, negotiating the socio-political and historical aesthetics of Nukus and Bukhara more thoroughly.
I crossed the border into Uzbekistan on foot in less than 20 minutes, the passport control being incredibly easy despite the ominous “good luck” sign that loomed over customs. And, compared to the first one I ever attempted, a harrowing border fiasco between the West Bank and Jerusalem, this was remarkably painless.
On the rationale for this trip, it’s necessary to know I’ve been obsessed with Uzbekistan for over two years now. In my early days of working as a political-military analyst for the Hudson Institute, all my assignments were about Uzbekistan, which led to me choosing it as a topic for several Sciences Po assignments as well. I had deeper knowledge about this one country than nearly anywhere I had previously visited, especially regarding the reforms made under the new president Mirziyoyev, and wanted to see it for myself more than anything. However, at that time, visas for most countries in Central Asia were very difficult to obtain, requiring an invitation letter or an official tour. But much to my delight, Uzbekistan and others opened up to tourism just this past year, providing me with the perfect opportunity to finally embark on my dream trip.
On the other side of the border, finally in Uzbekistan, I swapped my tenge for somoni, the local currency, and luckily found a shared taxi that was willing to take me the seven hours to Nukus. However, I didn’t have enough cash for the ride, there were no ATMs and all the banks would be closed by the time we arrived — so in a (successful) act of desperation, I bartered my somewhat broken bright pink noise-cancelling headphones to make up for the remaining 80,000 som (roughly $8). I was just happy it didn’t come to anything less easily replaceable, especially after all the recent harassment. Plus, I think my father would kill me if I traded his prized portable charger, which was a lifesaver during this trip, for a taxi ride.
This trip has not been one for particularly gorgeous photos (though that might change once in Samarkand), but it has definitely been the most exciting and difficult journey of my life. Crammed into the back of a cab with three other passengers, my huge backpack lay on my lap, compacted by an elegant older woman in a cozy fur coat sitting too close for comfort. For hundreds of miles, I gazed at the flat orange terrain scattered with nondescript towns marked by short clay huts and torn up billboards. Barren and oppressive, apocalyptic smoke rose from every building. For seven hours, we shook along dirt roads that rivaled those of rural Malawi (in regard to bumpiness). I was hoping to make use of my headphones one last time before we were tragically parted, but alas, they transferred me to a different car, which smelled like dog, with a different driver an hour away from Nukus, and I reluctantly handed them over.
Finally, Nukus appeared, a glowing city with ATMs and hotels with shampoo AND conditioner, and that accept debit cards!! I felt like I had entered paradise.
After a lovely sleep and indulging in a huge hotel breakfast of potato pastries, eggs, and chocolate, I went exploring through the city. Swerving through bicycles on the streets, I came across the central market. Stalls, wagons, boxes, brimming with everything from fruit to lingerie to electronics — providing me with a very cheap replacement set of headphones. The wafting aroma of freshly baked pastries and fish mingled in the air, and that with the feverish tumult of hagglers all vied for my attention. I wove my way through the lanes of vendors, taking photos of those willing, my shoes getting increasingly muddy following the previous night’s downpour. I found my way to the Nukus Museum, where Russian avant garde art hung alongside that of Socialist Realism; I was especially taken with the art of P. Benkov, Z. Kovalevskaya, and V. Lysenko. Otherwise, the city was an interesting mix of half-built abandoned homes, ancient fortresses and mausoleums, offering much to see and eat and experience.
I rambled along the channel dividing the city, making my way across the glistening water to the Muhammad Imam Iyshan Meshiti mosque. This was what I was most looking forward to: the regal, colorful, classic mosques of Uzbekistan, with intricate patterns ornamented with turquoise tiles. I was too timid to step inside; as I didn’t want to disturb the ongoing prayers, but I lingered outside for nearly an hour, mesmerized by the bright domes and minaret, magnificently arresting in the midday sun.
After several hours of exploring, I finally returned to the hotel, slightly homesick as I passed very New York-looking yellow taxi cabs. I packed up my things, got cash so as not to get stranded again in the future, said goodbye to my exquisite lodgings, and walked an hour through dusty, rural Nukus to the train station, determined not to miss another train.