Kai Islands. Maluku.

Sunday afternoon at Ohoililir Beach on Kai Kecil in the Kai Islands and the pondoks, or parapara, are filled with local people from the town enjoying their Sunday off. Pondoks are wooden platforms raised about two feet up from the sand measuring about 8 feet by 8 feet with a corrugated iron roof holding an entire family with ease and providing adequate shelter from the sun or rain. They stretch the entire length of the two-mile beach side by side and throughout the week are completely deserted. There are refreshment and snack bars dotted here and there and the warm blue/green waters attract everyone, young and old, for a splash or a swim. Interesting to see the happy mix of religions and it is not unusual to see a young hijab clad young woman ambling along the sand holding hands with her female friend in short shorts. Bob, the manager here at Coaster Cottages, is performing routine maintenance, spreading sand on the steep steps up to the rooms and replacing a few blown lamps. This actually is a ruse and what he is actually doing is keeping the, shall we say, less desirable elements from stealing items from his business. A large group of women, of all ages, came to a nearby Pondok and started singing what I can only assume were traditional songs with perfect pitch, harmonies and in tune. It sounded to my ignorant ear distinctly Polynesian, not that I have ever been to Polynesia. The singing only lasted a short while, ending up with the Happy Birthday song, in English! As people move up and down the beach they spot me up here on my balcony, wave and utter the familiar greeting “hello Mister” I wave back. Large black and white butterflies flit between the coconut trees; the waves lap on the intensely white sand and the sound of laughter permeates the air. It is all rather perfect.

The Kai Islands, situated in the Eastern part of Muluku, Indonesia, are actually nearer Australia than the Capital, Jakarta and feel like the end of the world. The main city on the island, Langgur, has a busy port, an airport with connections to Ambon three times a day, a thriving, bustling atmosphere and wide, well paved roads to the outlying parts of the island. It also boasts a speedy Internet connection via undersea cable which unfortunately does not extend here to Ohoililir where there isn’t even cell phone service, thereby enforcing a compulsory ‘digital detox’ on yours sincerely. It’s not too painful, I can always get a ride into town to exchange messages with friends and family, but I do miss perusing the news sites in the mornings. On arrival at the airport I was encouraged to sign the visitor’s book and noticed that I was #145, that is this year, 2018, not many Westerners therefore, in fact there are currently five! A Hungarian, one Spanish, two Germans and me. We got together a day or so ago and hired a small boat to take us around the nearer islands, Ngaf, Er and Ngodan, there was much snorkeling over the reefs, we chased a school of dolphins, got wet, and marveled at the tiny white sand, uninhabited, islands with their jungle interiors. Truly Robinson Crusoe.

(I tried to upload at this point, I failed so will continue)

Did I tell you about the weather or the trash? When it rains it pours. Quite honestly I have lived through strong Pacific storms that wreak havoc on the California Coast, mudslides, widespread flooding, headline news for many days, also Force ten, eleven and twelve storms in Orkney but those pale against the rain here. The thunderclouds line up on the horizon like invading armies, impossibly high and come ashore in a tumult. It is truly a deluge and the noise is deafening as the drops hit the corrugated iron roofs. It can last up to an hour but on occasion will last all day or night.

Then there is the trash, garbage, rubbish, call it what you will but it really is shocking. I went out on another boat ride to Snake Island, so called for the huge sand spit that stretches out from the coast for about a mile, only visible at low tide obviously. In passing let me say that six hours in a small boat, open to the elements, in somewhat stormy seas was a challenge. We almost had what in the UK is called a sense of humour failure! It was as if someone threw a large bucket of warm water over me every five seconds. I have never, ever been so wet. I digress, sorry; we stopped for lunch at everyone’s idea of a deserted tropical island, coconut palms, colorful birds and butterflies, and the whitest, whitest sand you ever did see. A picture postcard type scene. But, after the recent full moon high tides the strandline was high up, almost inland, and was an appalling collection of plastic bottles, old shoes, polystyrene packaging, fishing nets, diapers (nappies) and just general trash. So upsetting and certainly avoidable with just a tiny bit of education but no, doesn’t happen. The ocean is a garbage dump and it is on every beach I visited in the Kai Islands. There were miniature garbage islands forming in the open sea between the islands similar to the extensive and infamous ‘Pacific Garbage Patch’ and the new one recently discovered in the Caribbean. There was talk around the dinner table of Crowdfunding one of those devices that turns plastic waste into pellets for road building or even houses. Some local people try to burn the waste with the resulting toxic fumes that surely is not the answer. I am aware of devices being developed that scoop up plastic waste but it is early days and expensive. There you go younger generation, a legacy of my generation, so sorry. See what you can do…

At some point I would like to explain where I have been since the previous blog from Bukhara in Uzbekistan. Seems a while ago but there are lots of stories to tell.

In the meantime I am heading for Biak in North Papua. More from there.




Trying for the artistic photo.


My beach, Ohoililir on Kai Kecil, Kai Islands


Coaster Cottages.


That is a dolphin though you might have to look closely!


Colorful fishermen’s houses in Naggur, Kai Islands.


Writing blog on computer in a pondok.


The sand spit on Snake island.


Sand spit and tiny boat.


A typical island.




Grocery store on a scooter.


Leaving Kai.


I think this is self explanatory!



Bukhara and Samarkand, a photo journal.


Miles of trucks waiting to cross the border into Turkmenistan.


The Ark in Bukhara.


So many colors.


Mosque in Bukhara.


I loved the shopping bag stalls.


The young girls always had a bow in their hair.


The ruined walls of Bukhara.


Peacocks and stalls at the Emir’s Summer Palace.


Emir’s Receiving Room.


One thousand year old Mulberry tree with magic powers.


Touching the tree to make a wish.


A view of the Chor-Bakr Necropolis.IMG_1719

Another view of the Necropolis.


A sandstorm, or Devil Wind, blew in from the desert as I left Bukhara.


The Registan, Samarkand.


Sometimes the light was right.


The Mausoleum of Bibi Khanym, Tamarlane’s favorite wife.


So colorful.


A Soviet bus stop. Shame they are disappearing.


A market high in the Pamir Mountains.


I really like markets.


Registan at night.


Quite spectacular.


Trying for the arty photo…


Not too much left of the city walls of Samarkand.


The sextant of Ulugh Beg, Tamerlane’s grandson who was an early astronomer.


The grave of the arm of St Daniel. So big so no one could find it!


A shop in the bazaar at Urgut.


Lastly, this lady gave me permission to take her photo.


Merv the Mighty.

My son commented that Ashgabat was a strange place to select for a vacation and I have to agree. It was with some relief that I climbed into Vladimir’s car the next morning and we hastened out of the city back out into the Karakum Desert. The foothills on our right marked the Iranian Border and of course they have built a wall between them. We stopped, somewhere, about 10 miles from the City and Vladimir managed to communicate to me that this was a cemetery and that at weekends it was a popular picnic spot, he showed me the ranks of BBQ pits and tables. People come to commune with their relatives who are buried there, or to prepare the recently deceased for burial. In fact there were some of the recently deceased in an area of ancient monuments and the like, covered with mats. I don’t know how long they were left there before burial. Again as with most places in Turkmenistan I never did find out the name and my timeline on Google maps remains ignorant.

On then across the desert and we stopped at what appeared to be a ruined city with quite large tumbled down defensive walls. From the glossy “Welcome to Turkmenistan” pamphlet Vlad’ gave me I determined that I was at Abywerd but that was all until I spotted people digging so ambled over. They were archeologists and spoke some English inviting me to take a seat at their table and drink some tea. I determined that they were not only finding artifacts from the Seljuk Empire (9th – 12th Centuries CE) but also from the Parthian Empire (247BCE – 224CE). I found this to be really exciting as I have been reading about the history of these ancient civilizations and now I was actually at a place where they lived. I had a long revel about the Parthians defeating the Romans at the Battle of Carrhae in 53 BCE during which Crassus was killed leading, some say, to the death knell of the Republic.

On then, pounding through the Karakum towards Mary and the adjoining ruined city of Merv. Apart from the Door to Hell this was my main reason for coming to Turkmenistan as it is possibly the only major Silk Road city I haven’t visited, apart from those in Iran where I am a persona non gratis. At the height of its power it was the biggest city in the world (1200CE) due to its position at the meeting point of two of the major Silk Road routes. The city walls extended for five miles, in fact there were two walls, the inner and outer between which the caravans would leave their animals to graze. There are many descriptions of life in the city which featured more than ten libraries, bath houses, gardens, orchards and even an ice house where they stored snow from the winter. It was with some anticipation therefore that I produced my ticket at the entrance and drove into Merv the Great. Massive walls remain from the time that it was the capital of the Seljuk Empire and in places there are the remains of the Sassanid Empire (3rd – 7th Centuries CE). I could wax on about the history but instead will leave a link to a quite succinct article if you want to read more. The actual reality is somewhat underwhelming because there really is nothing left apart from the walls. Genghis Khan sacked the city (1221) in his usual style, slaughtering all the inhabitants and burning the city to the ground. That said it was an incredible feeling to just stand on the walls and just let my imagination run riot.

Read more here:


Sorry again, photos will not upload. Will try again next week from Tashkent.


Archeologists at Abywerd.


Iranian border and patrol in background, railway line in foreground.


Great Kyz Kala at Merv.


The walls of Merv.


On the walls of Merv.


Mausoleum of Sultan Sanjar who ruled Merv at the height of its power.


Last wall photo. Promise!


Colorful roadside stall. With melons.




Dawn came at the Door to Hell in the Karakum Desert and I could hear the guides moving about making the cooking fire so I climbed out of my tent to watch the sunrise and to sit beside the fire, it was really, really cold. Tea was made, toast too, though not much conversation was attempted, sore heads all round after the previous night’s vodka. Eventually camp was struck and I set off with the Argentinean’s guide, Vladimir, in the Argentinean’s car, bigger than Mr Ishan’s, a Land Rover in fact. I didn’t see them leave but assumed they went back to the border with the brothers Ishan. Incongruously Vlad’ started playing music from what is described as the New Romanticism period so we bounced out of the desert to the tunes of Duran Duran, Spandau Ballet, Flock of Seagulls, that sort of thing, it was quite a nostalgic trip back to the 80s. The Kiwi couple was in another car in the convoy and we sped, once again flying over the ruts and potholes, on through the desert in the direction of Ashgabat, the capital of Turkmenistan. There was a small village on the edge of the desert where we stopped for water and amazingly a replacement brake light bulb for the Land Rover. The drivers also took the opportunity to wipe the dust off the cars and clean the windows in preparation for the capital where I can only assume dirty cars are not approved of.

I had done some research on Turkmenistan before the trip and determined from various guides and blogs that Ashgabat resembled a cross between 1930s Germany and 2017 North Korea and I wasn’t too far off the mark. On leaving the desert we were stopped at a police roadblock about every ten miles where we were photographed and on occasion had to produce passports and papers. On arriving in the capital I was advised to only take photos when the Vladimir said I might, on one occasion he quickly lowered my arm as I was about too click. Photographing policemen can land you in jail and there were frequently four police at each intersection. Ashgabat has been described as the white marble city of the world. This is an understatement; there were enormous white marble faced buildings everywhere I looked. The airport roof was a vast white marble silhouette of a bird; actually there were three vast birds, one for each terminal, but no planes. Vladimir pointed out the library, ten stories high, filled he said, with books in Turkmen. I couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow and wonder how many of the people riding donkey carts out in the countryside appreciated a ten story, white marble faced library.

I was abandoned at my hotel that proudly proclaimed ‘Hotel of Ministry of Internal Affairs of Turkmenistan’ on a plaque outside. Vladimir said he would return at 9.00am the following day, told me not to take photos and pointing to the plaque said jokingly that I would be well protected. After the usual mime pantomime with the rather surly receptionist I determined that there was no wifi but if I strolled about a mile down the street to the Grand Turkmen Hotel I may be allowed to use theirs. I walked down the street in Ashgabat gazing about in typical newcomer fashion but nobody would look me in the eye, no hello mister, no smiles, it was all a bit unnerving. But I did find the five star hotel, helped myself to the wifi password from the reception desk because nobody wanted to talk to me and logged on briefly. Texts to family back home to assure them I was safe and well, I tried the usual Social Media sites but they were all blocked.

There was an element of the Handmaid’s Tale that I noticed, a large percentage of the women were all clad in a sort of red uniform tunic type of garment. Vladimir said they were students but they were everywhere, going in and out of the buildings and now I come to think of it he never showed me a university. I couldn’t get that dreadful song out of my mind, a Lady in Red earworm, ghastly. Ashgabat has been created to show the world and presumably the populous how great Turkmenistan is and how well developed it is. There seemed to be only one TV station that was showing a large conference center with rows and rows of gentlemen with long beards and the president as it were, presiding. Everyone was watching it. The event was called the  Maslahat and is held as a demonstration of the democratic process in action. It is not.  It turned out that what I thought was a conference center was in fact a massive yurt, set in the desert outside the city and holding up to two thousand people. Quite a yurt! The basis for the system of government seems to be based on the cult personality of the president who displays portraits of himself all over the city and names schools and streets with the names of his relatives. There is only one political party, dissent is not tolerated and freedom of speech is non-existent.

Ashgabat is a very strange place.

More reading here: http://bit.ly/2kQF1Dn


Kettle’s on for tea at dawn.


The bakery in a desert village.


The airport.


White marble with President.


White marble.


A bit of color and white marble.


A lady in red.


Ladies in red.


Wedding chapel.


The big yurt in the desert. Putin had just visited apparently. Those mountains are in Iran.


Just some of the papers I had to carry.


Turkmenistan Road Trip

A whirlwind visit to Turkmenistan because that is all that my visa permitted. My Letter of Invitation arrived in my email inbox and as instructed I was at the border at 9.00am almost convinced that something would go wrong and I would have to return to Khiva. As I arrived a large bus unloaded a group of tourists and I joined the line behind all of them feeling that already things were going awry. Sure enough the process took an inordinately long time, as most of the tourists had not filled in their forms correctly. Eventually my turn came and I ate humble pie, my forms were wrong too. Endless passport stamping and photos taken and I went out only to find that the group ahead of me was stopped for “rest room breaks.” I got ahead arriving at the Turkmenistan side watched with some incredulity as the Turkmen bureaucracy lumbered into life. No less than four hand written forms were generated on the spot and I was instructed to carry them to the payment station across the room were more forms were generated and eventually I had a visa in my passport. Walking nervously toward the customs officials, all eight of them, a young man asked me if I knew anything about computers! Say what? There I was at the Turkmenistan border fixing Customs and Immigration computers, funny old world. The reward for my efforts was a very cursory glance at my bags and I was out and away to find Mr Ishan waiting for me and off we went.

The first stop, in Turkmenistan, was outside a city called Koneurgench and consisted of three interesting looking sites but I had no idea what I was looking at. Mr Ishan, though friendly enough, couldn’t tell me, I had no cell phone reception, and there was no sign of a shop selling guidebooks or even trinkets and postcards. He indicated that we would be there for three hours at which point I protested slightly in best mime. He handed me his phone and there was a heavily accented English accent asking me what was the matter. The situation got cleared up and I negotiated just a half hour at the Tyurabek Hanum, Solton Tekesh and the Gutlug Timur Minaret historical site. Walking around trying to work out what I was seeing I stopped under a tree and noticed a group of women doing ‘something,’ which consisted of putting their hands near the roots of the tree and then walking around it touching all the branches within reach. Odd I thought, are they Animists here. Then again in the middle of a very large adjacent field there was a woman obviously praying. Praying is fine but I have never seen it performed in the middle of a field. Have I led a sheltered life? I now know that the Gutlug Timur Minaret was, in 1330, the tallest building in the world and is all that is left of the ancient city of Gurganj. It was sacked by both Genghis Khan and Tamerlane after which the inhabitants, any that remained alive, moved away and it was abandoned.

Such was my introduction to Turkmenistan.

Mr Ishan and I sped off down the rather rough road and after a while he seemed to be getting tired and making mistakes which caused some anxiety. He failed to obey the speed limit at least twice and was pulled aside by the police immediately. The police, ha, the police in Turkmenistan, they are everywhere, there is a joke there “see a tree see a policeman, see two trees see two policemen.” If you are caught taking a photo of one you are liable to end up in jail. Mr Ishan avoided any serious trouble by simply bribing the officers to let us go on our way, $10 in local money seemed to do the trick. He was on his phone continuously, which I found mystifying until we came to the large city of Dashoguz, the second largest in the country, where things became clearer. We stopped at a supermarket for supplies and met up with his brother who had brought two tourists from the border outside Khiva, two New Zealanders, we chatted and bought supplies as instructed. Chocolate, biscuits, wine, vodka, you know, all the major food groups and roared away in convoy.


A couple more hours through cotton fields and what I took to be rice but Mr Ishan wasn’t too forthcoming until another stop for melons. The brother announced that this was the last stop before the desert so the lady Kiwi went to the loo, and returning looked grossed out demanding antiseptic wipes! Sure enough we were immediately in the desert, the Karakum, there were dunes, there were these odd looking square things beside the road to prevent the sand inundating the pavement, and there were goats, sheep and camels, lots of camels. Lots of photo opportunities except that the road was terrible, not just the occasional pothole, the whole road was a pothole which made taking photos impossible. To avoid the usual pothole experience of slowly sinking a wheel into the hole and then coming up the other side, we went faster, much faster, about 80-85 MPH and virtually flew over the pot holes swerving to avoid the deeper ruts and speeding along on the wrong side of the road. The noise was incredible as Mr Ishan battled with the wheel and I tried to be nonchalant and read a book. That didn’t last long! There is suitable metaphor somewhere that I can’t come up with, is it about peas or a can? He did slow down occasionally so I could take a photo of camels but that meant we fell behind the brother so we had to go even faster to catch up. It was all a rather cacophonous, roaring blur which went on and on for over a hundred miles. But we had a goal and needed to get there, so fast we went; I did see some Europeans driving along and enjoying the usual pothole experience at about 25 MPH. Oh, and did I mention the dust cloud we kicked up?

Finally our little convoy slowed and we turned off the road onto a desert track, engaged 4-wheel drive and ground out into the desert proper. After a few miles there was our destination, The Darvasa Gas Crater more popularly known as ‘The Door to Hell.’ Back in 1971 The Russians were drilling for natural gas in the Karakum and found a vast reserve of methane gas, which started leaking, and killing the local wildlife. It was decided that the remedy was to be a process called ‘flaring,’ basically just set fire to it until the leak stopped. It never has. The result is this enormous crater in the wastes of the desert that is on fire, flames, heat and a curious popping and crackling sound. It is really quite eerie. The brothers Ishan went off to pitch our camp leaving the three of us to gape and exclaim, take photos, pose as if warming our hands, etc etc. As darkness fell we were picked up, taken to camp, introduced to our tents, fed and watered and taken back to the crater. The nighttime crater experience was even more dramatic as the flames light up the desert night and the noises seemed louder. Taking photos was difficult because of the size and of course the darkness, I wasn’t very successful. Then the same group of tourists I had met at the border crossing surrounded us and it just wasn’t the same anymore. Our isolation was broken. There is only so much looking you can do at a gas flaming crater in the middle of the desert so we went back to our camp where the vodka was broken out. It had got quite cold; I was wearing my coat and gloves so the vodka was quite warming. However, these guys, the brothers Ishan and another guide who showed up with a group of Argentineans, were built like linebackers (rugby second row forwards) who seemed determined to make a night of it. No way was I going to keep up with three Russian-speaking giants so I went to bed and fell asleep to the sounds of the Door to Hell.


The ladies and the magic tree which apparently has healing properties.


Prayers in a field.


Gutlug Timur Minaret. The tallest building in the world in 1330. Spared by Genghis Khan and Tamerlane who both were impressed with its size.

desert stall

A very small stall in the desert.


This is a blurry photo of the strange square things that were beside the road throughout the desert to stop sand encroachment. They seem to made of upright twigs. Anyone know?


Camel and camel fodder truck for the winter.


More camels.


The Door to Hell, with New Zealanders.


Another view.


The crater at night.

The Road to Moynaq.

Sometimes things don’t work out quite as planned but then again occasionally the gods are on my side and serendipity takes over. I was having breakfast chatting with the BnB owner in Khiva about border crossings into Turkmenistan. He mentioned that the crossing from Nukus, about four hours North, was the easiest and said he would go and investigate how much it would cost for me to get there. Meanwhile a German man joined the table and as usual the questions began with ‘Where are you from’ and ‘Where are you going.” He replied Nukus but was a little sad because his wife, Julia, was sick and didn’t want to go on to Muynak. Within minutes I had booked a hotel for one night pre border crossing, arranged a car for the three of us to Nukus to drop off Julia at the hotel before Engin and I set off for Muynak. What is this Muynak I hear you ask, actually you may know, but I will come to that.

Another two days in Khiva and early on Saturday morning the taxi came to pick us up and we drove out through the city wall’s big South Gate and headed through the oasis to Urgench before turning North. We crossed over the big river that provides the irrigation for this fertile spot, the Amu Darya, through cotton fields, maize and other cash crops (melons) until the green gave way to the browns of the Karakum Desert. Not the greatest roads but here and there were long, smooth and straight sections being built by, yes; you guessed it, the Chinese. An uneventful journey except for the peculiar ritual of being required to get out of the car outside the gas stations and wait with all the other car passengers before being picked up when the refill was completed. Arriving in Nukus we determined that there were two hotels in town with exactly the same name and of course we went to the wrong one first. Then on arriving at the correct one we found that Engin and Julia were booked into a yurt that poorly, sick Julia was not wild about. We sorted out a room for her from the compassionate reception desk person and leaving Julia to her restful day Engin and I got back in the car.

Another uneventful drive of about three hours that added to the three hour journey from Khiva to Nukus made for something of endurance, but it’s the price you have to pay. The landscape was flat, scrub covered and not green at all for the last fifty miles before Muynak but we finally arrived and there they were just as predicted. Peering over what used to be the cliffs of the Aral Sea we could see the marooned fishing fleet of Muynak below left high and dry years ago as the Sea waters receded. It was one of the saddest things I have ever seen. Back in the 1960s when Uzbekistan was a part of the Soviet Union some genius in the Politburo decided that it would help the country’s economy if the rivers, the Amu Darya and Syr Darya, flowing into the Aral Sea were diverted to enable cotton, rice and melon growing in the Karakum Desert. Once one of the world’s four largest lakes it is now only 10% of its former size. The remaining body of water is highly saline and the fish can no longer live in it. Moynaq was a thriving fishing town but when the water receded the fishing industry died and the population mostly left for other parts of Uzbekistan. The Sea shore is now one hundred miles away from Moynaq. Today it almost resembles a ghost town and the residents suffer from diseases caused by the frequent toxic dust storms. The Aral Sea disaster has become known as one of the major man made ecological disasters of all time. Of course the Soviet scientists and academics warned their Government of the likely outcome of their decision but were publicly ridiculed and ignored. Hmm, that sounds rather familiar.

Further reading here if you are interested: http://www.columbia.edu/~tmt2120/introduction.htm


A valuable load. Firewood.


Migrating birds heading south. Can anyone identify them?


The saddest thing…




Just think, this was someone’s livelihood.




The cliffs of the Aral sea where the waves will crash no more due to Government stupidity.


Engin walking about.


The Aral Sea that was.


The Aral Sea that is.


Behind me is the extent of the disaster stretching to the horizon and beyond.


Main street Moynaq.IMG_1216

The memorial to a lost Sea.

Return to Khiva

I mentioned David from Stantours in my last post and he suggested that he could provide the necessary LOIs (Letters of Introduction) allowing me to visit Turkmenistan, albeit briefly. The difficulties of visiting Turkmenistan are well known so I leapt at the chance knowing full well that I could be disappointed at the conclusion of the application process. He told me where to be and when and the border crossing just happened to be quite close to one of my favorite little cities in the world, Khiva, in Uzbekistan. After somewhat reluctantly leaving Bishkek I was excited to abandon the cold for the oasis of Khorzem set between the vast deserts of Karukem and Kyzylkum and return to Khiva. What an unexpected treat.

The first thing that greeted me was when my taxi driver talked about Hiva, as that is how it is pronounced, not Khiva at all. It is also known as Ichon-Qala, Itchan Kala and also Xiva, take your pick. I tried to book the BnB online where I stayed previously but all indications were that it was sold out this being high season in Khiva, October and November are high season hereabouts. Undaunted I phoned Jaloladdin, the manager, and tried to persuade him that I was suitable guest but he wouldn’t budge until I said I was disappointed not seeing his children now that they were growing up. That did it, I clinched a room at the best little BnB in Khiva. Now I sit in probably the best room (#6) that has a little balcony, table and chair allowing me to sit in the late afternoon sun as I write this.

I wrote a blog post about Khiva three years ago so not only will I have to come up with a new title but also mention a few things not discussed back then. I’ll start with melons, yes, melons. Amongst the melon cognoscenti Uzbek melons are the holy grail, there is a melon festival every year here in Khiva, there are special melon houses built to keep the melons fresh during the winter months known as qovunxona, there are endless melon stalls beside the road and families have special melon carving rituals. It is all very melon centric. The best Uzbek melons are grown here in the Khorzem oasis, so the melons here are the crème de la crème and I enjoy slices at every breakfast. I did just a little melon research and there is an Uzbek melon farm just outside Modesto, California, who knew?

Within the walls of Khiva, and magnificent walls they are, people live, trade, and seem to really enjoy life. On the main street there is a musical instrument museum outside of which is a seller of ethnic music CDs and they are played throughout the day, quite loudly. It is such a treat to see the local ladies, and gentlemen, making their way through the town to the big market just outside the walls, stop, get their rhythm down and start dancing together. This is not put on for tourists, who stop and gape, but to my mind just an honest manifestation of joie de vivre. Today I approached the dancing crossroads and some ladies were gyrating in the street and invited me to join in. There I was swaying coyly and there were tourists taking my photo. Oh dear. Look out for me on Instagram going viral! It was all in good humor, everybody laughed but, no hugs, mustn’t touch Muslim women. That’s how it is, take it or leave it.

The money has changed; in fact it changed within the last few weeks. Previously there was the official rate and the black market rate. One arrived at the border crossing and was basically forced to change money at the official rate to buy food or find a taxi. On arriving at a hotel the owner invariably suggested that he could get a better rate under that tree over there and that is what everyone did. The currency denominations were slightly ludicrous and for $100 one ended up with an enormous pile of Som, so big that a large bag was required to carry them around, as there were no large denominations. Now though it has all changed, the black market rate that was is now the official rate and larger denomination bills have been introduced. Even so, the wad of Som received in exchange for a hundred dollars is still quite impressive. I don’t think the repercussions of this major financial overhaul have really taken effect yet; I can buy a plate of Plov, the national dish (rice and veg), for 75 cents (50P), same for a pot of tea, a souvenir fridge magnet or a bread stamp.

Bread stamp? I was asked to say more about Central Asian bread after a photo in the Kyrgyzstan post. Firstly the loaves are called non and if you didn’t see the photo look a bit like a bagel without the hole in the middle. The baker starts with a circular piece of dough and then pounds it with a bread stamp or chekich, a sort of carved handle with metal pins set into it, producing various designs in the bread depending on the layout of the pins. Ckekichs are widely available as souvenirs in various qualities, I bought one in the market for $1.00 but you can pay up to $5.00 at the souvenir stands, or buy one on Etsy apparently, Ha. The fashioned bread is then placed into a clay, wood fired tandyr that is similar to a tandoori oven. The dough is stuck to the side of the tandyr, water is thrown on it and ten minutes later there is your finished non. It is served with breakfast, lunch, dinner and even with tea and like the melons, delicious.

Hope this hasn’t been too wordy but I very much doubt I will be able to upload any photos from here as the Internet is very slow. In Bishkek each photo uploaded in about five seconds, as I had a router in my room, ecstasy, but here, not so much. I’ll be back with tales of The Door to Hell, Ashgabat and Merv. Until then, au revoir.

PS. Photos finally uploaded from Bukhara.


Market stall holders.


Sweets, candy and biscuits in the market.


The statue of Al-Khorezmiy who invented algebra, the decimal point and algorithms.


View from BnB rooftop.


Off to the market….


Kalta Minor minaret.


Wedding party procession moving through the town.


Bread oven.


Bread in oven.


The colors were dazzling.


Melons, melons, melons.


Such glamour.