UZ-BREAKFAST-STAN

I was up at 6:30, left the tent for the passenger seat of the car, and was tapping away on my laptop with the door open. Excuse me. Excuse me. I turned around to see a man and woman peering at me from the roadside. Excuse me, said the woman in perfect English, Please come for breakfast.

We'd left the desert the previous day, and had entered a greener landscape, rich with vegetation and agriculture. We’d arrived in Bukhara after dark, and drove in circles trying to find the cultural and historical town center. With no luck, we drove back into the countryside to find a place to camp. JP cruised at snail’s pace while I scoured the roadside with my flashlight, looking for a break in the thicket. We found spot to pitch our tent, blind to the surroundings outside of our headlights, and not long after, a car pulled over and a man got out. We thought he was going to chase us off his land, but after I spoke up to say I was an American and only spoke English, he hopped back in his car and drove away.

At the woman’s unexpected invitation, I got out of the car smiling and shook the tent to wake up JP and Derick. She was an economics professor at a local college, and it was her husband who had spotted us the night before as we were setting up the tent. He thought we had run off the road, and had stopped to see if we needed any help. She told us that she’d had a hard time sleeping that night because she was so excited to meet us, and had eagerly awaited sunrise so that she could invite us to breakfast. She wished that we’d stayed with her family.

We walked down a long driveway towards the family compound, through a gate, and into a hard-packed sandy courtyard. The pastel-blue buildings were simple and well-kept, and a lush garden sealed the enclosure. After cleaning up, we joined the family for breakfast, eleven altogether. We sat on an elevated platform in the courtyard, under a trellis of plump green grapes, in the warmth of a magical morning glow. There was a basket of bread and an assortment of melons, with the main dish being a large bowl of buttery, warm milk. I followed suit and filled my bowl with chunks of bread. Delicious! At least I thought so. Derick and JP couldn’t seem to stomach it. It was a wonderful way to start the day, and after thanking our hosts, we hit the road.

Unconditional hospitality seems to happen in foreign lands - being invited in by strangers out of curiosity and kindness. I can’t say I’ve ever done this in the states. But whenever something like this happens, I tell myself that I'll try it some day. 

NUKUS

One US Dollar converts to around 2,250 Uzbekistani Som. With an exchange rate like that, you’d expect to see a lot of zeros on their bills. But the largest note in Uzbekistan is a mere 5,000 Som - worth a little more than two bucks - and they only started issuing it about a year ago. The next largest is 1,000 Som - worth less than a dollar! After we exchanged our money, enough for three guys to spend a few days in Uzbekistan, we bought a black briefcase so we could carry around our stacks of cash. Not really. 

We crossed from Turkmenistan into Uzbekistan on the last day of Ramadan. Traveling through a largely Muslim part of the world during the Islamic holy month of fasting was no problem, but entering a new country on the holiday that breaks the fast posed a few challenges. Nothing was open. The town of Nukus was peaceful and quiet. The banks were all closed and we needed to exchange money. Standing by our car and looking confused helped, and soon a nice man stopped to lend a hand. We followed him to a hotel and then parted ways.

Alisher sat behind the front the desk. The hotel was closed. He was the only employee working the holiday shift, and it was his birthday. He couldn't help us exchange money or take credit cards, but he offered to cook us dinner in the hotel kitchen. We obliged and decided to help him celebrate. He was friendly, curious, excited to practice English, and happy to make some new friends. Even though we had no way of paying, Alisher invited us to stay at the hotel that night. I hit the hay after dinner, and JP and Derick stayed up late drinking and hanging out. 

The city was back in business the next day. We exchanged money at an outdoor market with a bunch of dudes standing around holding fat wads of cash. Black Market. Apparently it was a better exchange rate than the banks. Whatever. After returning to the hotel to pay Alisher, we left Nukus. I drove us back out into the desert, JP rode shotgun, and Derick stretched out in the back to sleep off his hangover. The roads were smooth, and we made good time as we cruised through a dry and dusty landscape. 

I'd heard rumors of a gas shortage in Uzbekistan, and it was true. The gas stations were all pumping a mixture of compressed propane and methane into cars with converted engines, but there was not a single drop of gasoline to be found. We had an empty canister in the trunk, and kicked ourselves for not having filled it up in Turkmenistan. By late day we were running on fumes, and entered a ghostly desert town knowing we'd be stuck unless we found some gas. Unlike Nukus, the few people we encountered were less than thrilled to help us. Eventually we found some fuel at an old tire shop run by a grumpy father and son. After some haggling, they pulled an old container out of the back and funneled half a tank into our car. We paid more than we should have, but were in no place to bargain.

What a relief! We hit the road with a regained confidence and cruised into the dusk. But within a half a mile the engine started to rattle and tick. Our trusty little car, which had been healthy up to that point, had just been poisoned with some bad gas. There was little we could do at the time, and we knew we’d have to get it fixed, but at least we weren’t stranded. On to Bukhara...