16.7.2001 Arrival in Osh

Cass writes...

Our last night in Uzbekistan is spent camping in an apple orchard some sixty kilometres from Kyrgyzstan. Rising early, we work our way through a portion of nan - frisbee shaped bread - heaped upon us by friendly Uzbeks, including one passed through a car window as we cycled along, amid cheers and hands on hearts by the jam-packed family onboard.

The ride to Osh is fringed with villages lively with cross border barter. Tempering the Fergana valley's hot climate and washed-out azure skies, there's a fast trade in 'marojene' - ice cream - on every street corner. In a region famous for it's fruit, we pass yet more vast stockpiles of watermelon; inspected, weighed, prodded and sniffed like fine wines by potential buyers. I stop to take a photo and immediately a crowd descends upon us. Ceremoniously, we're proffered the largest of the produce, the size of a medicine ball and twice as heavy, which we tactfully swap for a more compact honeymelon after it defies all attempts to be bungied aboard.

Climbing slowly, the road opens out onto a plain hemmed by dry and dusty mountains, craggy like giant rhino horn rising from the earth. Abruptly, we reach the border, a hectic knot of travellers, traders, battered buses, makeshift trolleys and carts, loosely overseen by guards in camouflaged army fatigues, machine guns nonchalantly slung over their shoulders. Despite rumours to the contrary, formalities pass smoothly - indeed, in our three weeks of travel through the country, we've never experienced any of its notorious 'shake-downs'. Yet again, we're through without even a cursory glance at our bags and only the gentlest probing into our monetary status, perhaps eased after a friendly chat with a customs official who studied French at university. 'Bon voyage!' he calls out, after extolling the marvels of the Tour Eiffel, waving us onwards into Kyrgyzstan. There, formalities - if such as word is even apt - with Kyrgyz officials reach new levels of swiftness and relaxation. Visas are left unstamped and no one seems even to notice the bike.

Finally, a last few kilometres through the suburbs lead us to the centre of Osh, Kyrgyzstan's second largest city yet all but Uzbek in population - another of Stalin's cartographic shenanigans, cunningly manipulated to water down pockets of Central Asian nationalism. Having visited the northern regions last year, it feels wonderful to be back in this laid-back country. I'm not sure whether it's the hassle-free border crossing, the Bon Jovi soundtrack that rocks from an outdoor speaker or the huddles of Kyrgyz and their 'kalpak' hats that bring a smile to my face. A design classic, these slightly ludicrous felt top hats are beautifully embroidered with simple motifs in black and white, loftyly perching on the tops of heads, my favourite of all of Central Asia's fantastic headgear.

We stop for 'plov' - a tasty bowl of steaming rice, chick peas, raisins, chopped carrots and cloves of roasted garlic - and survey a scene of old men shuffling by, wonderfully noble in their kalpaks, thick glasses, wispy beards, leather boots, long overcoats and Soviet military badges fixed to their lapels. Bumping into Sebastian, a German cyclist we first met in Buchara, we check into a grimy Chinese hotel, haul the tandem up a flight of stairs and collapse in our room, very much delighted to have arrived...