The Desert in the Rain

What do you write when a place cannot be compared to anything -- a completely new and unique experience. Starting with the Ka'aba in Mecca may appear preposerous, but the Ka'aba was my first point of reference for the square mausoleum which appeared out of the dark. Take an image of a solid cuboid structure that awed even Genghis Khan when he spare the oldest Muslim monument in Central Asia.

Compared to the dozens of humbling structures across the vast old town of Bukhara the mausoleum is tiny; and instead of dominating squares or peaceful pools it is tucked away in a barely lit park. Yet it is more sinister than all of the monuments together. This mausoleum sits between life and death like a skull, not completely inanimate -- a skull carved like indian ivory, similarly riddled with groves and twists. The carvings on each side goes deep enough to present a grid serving more as a gill than a window, so that the figure inside could breath. Instead of a figure is a single imposing tombstone, only fully present at one angle with the help of the moon light. Inside is a slight disturbance of flapping, and then silence.

There was only time for a tantalising taste of Bukhara, somewhere that would take months to uncover. It was instantly refreshing to be dropped off by the most peaceful pool in my experiences. Gentle sunlight and ancient mulberry trees, as old as the pool, gave all kinds of people the choice to find their optimal cumfort, perhaps dining, drinking, sleeping or strolling. Madrassas flanked the square with the pool and a statue of a semi-mythical odd ball character. Instead of being highly organised like a shopping mall, as in Samarkand, these had a few rooms inhabited by children making carpets and, presumably, their manager sipping tea. Again unlike Samarkand the occasional door was left unattended, without even a policeman to grease the palm of. These doors gave access to upper levels of the madrassa where the professors would be housed.

Until the mausoleum, my image of Bukhara was watching the sun set over square, dominated by a gigantic free standing minaret. If the square was dominated by the minaret then consider that two madrassas peered across at each other past the minaret. Each of the madrassas was at least as big as the madrassas in the Registan in Samarkand. Until this point I had been mislead to believe that the Samarkand Registan was central Asia's grandest experience. The setting of this focal point in Bukhara, one of many, appeared more real as the town around brought the experience alive. Perhaps a taste of medieval Central Asia was being offered, and that offer was exceptionally peaceful. As the sun was slipping over the horizon, a stream of migrating birds stretched across the sky from the furthest point in the West to the furthest point in the East. Even hundreds of thousands of birds made almost no sound in this holiest of places.

All of ancient Bukhara is encased in the remains of what was once twelve kilometres circumpherence of heavy wall --- walls as heavy as those of the collosal Ark; in front of which, little more than a century ago, British visitor dug their own graves to massage the Sultan's vanity. Elsewhere sublime peace was maintained.

The City Beyond my Dreams

It's six in the morning Uzbek time and the atmosphere in Samarkand is intoxicating. Having woken to attempt to relieve myself of the effects of last nights bottle of local brandy, I was captivated by what reached my ears. A sound of chanting -- perhaps no more than a call to prayer -- presented a sustained base, set against the occasional waking calls of animals. Unable to contain myself, I was lifted down the street taking me past court yards where groups of Uzbeks in felt caps fell together in groups lulling in what appeared to be mourning.

At the end of the road the path bows at the feet of Tamerlane's Registan. The constellations and fragile new moon were humbled by the scale of the arches and minarets they brought to life. Skirting the police barriers, I tenderly reached out to touch the blue fired clay which shimmered in the half light -- a touch which was electrified by the skull stacking history which made this the greatest monument in the world of its time. Not a should was in sight, so I cautiously skirted one wing of the complex to find a back entrance.

The back door took my into the square of the Registan, which is flanked on three sides by structures which I cannot possibly describe with justice. Indeed the sheer scale of the place, like everything in Central Asia, was beyond my imagination, trumping all expectations. Furthermore, I had the whole of the Registan to myself. I walked slow out to the centre of the square to draw the huge arches in, until I heard a shout.

The shout came from the opposite end of the court yard. I could not possibly have regretted being here, but the Uzbek police are amongst the foulest in the world. My documents were in order, so to avoid a situation I politely approached the police man, who had called to me. Instead of the usual run down we had experienced at metro stations in Tashkent, the police man shook my hand and welcomed me. He offered me, for a small fee of course, the opportunity to climb a minaret at sun rise.

That gives me enough time to write this note. So I am now off to climb one of Tamerlane's leaning minarets, to look over the city beyond my dreams. Yet the day has still not even begun.

Corinivm

All I needed was to pack up and walk a mile down the road. Instead I had lain in the field under the Tuscan sun as it completed a full arc brushed by a single cloud whilst nature danced liberated. As the sun died I perched on the impressive amphitheater from where the market place spread, settled by long nosed Florentine merchants, square jawed legionaries and speckled or flaming Celts.

On the incline the source of a mighty waterway seasonally bubbles up through dislodged stone into channels tracing the seams of a quilt. On the decline a slender narrow cut valley soaks in warmth then drips with dew, ripening for the banquets in the villas cast over the vista in their thick hewed stone draped with vines and ornaments.

A man motivated to develop the communications infrastructure in Helmand to suport the promises of the Kandahar dam breaks the isolation.

The brambles in the carpark

Why not break from my chair and cycle through the bustle of Shirley and across the Test? Why not cycle through the forest where Toton give way to free roaming horses grazing on thick wet pasture and the undergrowth bristles with the late pickings of the summer? Read not at my desk but over looking the murky folding canopy pierced by a sporadic spire, morphing softly and dramatically as the sun begins to spill its tears across the land. Wash through the last remaining thoughts of the day with the fresh produce of the Avon in a glowing haven of mortar and wood and ponder with the dew of the Spey. Let the doe dance before my headlight on the winding country path.

Why cower between the sheets when my shaky legs can carry me? Past the stores as workers return from their shifts, stumble through the tail end of the quarter of the night and join the market before it has begun. Find a place, between container yard, monotone blocks and angry bypass, full of imagination and smiles.

Where is the Golden Chair?

I tumbled through the carriages of the famous Moscow to Amsterdam sleeper. The Yellow carriages filled with worn Russians lead to the plush blue German carriages.

"Is this seat taken?"

"Not so far. We know you. We know you from Eisenach."

I laughed. It was the father and son who's path I had crossed more than two weeks ago, who had in parallel been cycling from Bonn to Krakow via Prague. I no longer minded the fact that I was travelling West - away from the fascinating people and outstanding landscape of Eastern Europe and away from the madness of Odessa, where Northern Europe; the Middle East and Central Asia collide exploding in vibrant colours, where sailors from across the world have for centuries been drawn in by its debauchery and which Russia has cunning shrouded from the rest of Europe by a small strip of land along the Dneister more sinister than Konigsburg-Kaliningrad, the most successful ethnic cleansing program in history.

A hotel lobby filled with seven Mafia meat heads, corrupt policemen turned back by my love for their country, struggling to pay the five cent tram fare, the full on extravagance of Deribasovskaya street next to perpetual decay, unsurpassable clubs with pillars and podiums open to the stars reflecting off the Black water, these expose a place between paradise and dark gritty reality.

It was what I travelled all this way for - to sit looking out towards Abkhazia while the late afternoon sun stroked the white sands accompanied by the Mediterranean chorus of crickets, a cushion place behind me and a cup of green tea before me.

It made it worth every moment to be sat there in the evening sharing a beer with: the owner, the Azeri from Baku with a love for life who danced with every passer by; the Turk from Istanbul with wide eyes, reduced to shreds by the completely consistent fertility of the Ukrainian women, whom he could not even pay for; my brother with whom we could deal with any situation thrown at us; and the politician from Bishkek university with a story like no other.

Osh, Issuk Kul, Epos Manus, Cambridge, Japanese total fighting, vital documents, beauty, lucky pennies, Muslim comrades... do they spell the edge of Europe?

If you are a thief then you will meet thieves

I have borrowed a pen from the teacher. I scribble all this down before we are consumed by the melting pot of Europe.

The thirteen year old woman who had been amongst those who had been sat down by their teacher to learn the previous evening came up to me,

"You are pianist. You like Bach?"

"Ja lublyo Bach", I reply.

I take out my interail map of Europe, worth very little to me, and show her my route from Odessa through Slovakia and Poland to Eisenach, the great man's birth place and back to Leipzig the great man's place of work.

I wake up to admire the swathes of dark rich fertile land that, as Thubron remarked in Eastern Ukraine could not possibly have suffered the grain crisis of the era of collective farms.

The only down side of the previous night was the cigarettes that could have torn an elephants throat to shreds. Beyond that I never laughed more than we did drinking the enormous Victor and his pensioneering comrad beneath the table.

We chew on shaslik by the river which flows from deep gorges untouched and beyond imagination to meet the mouth of the Danube.

Everywhere there is music. 12 year old enact a history with voices more mature than women and that know how to boogy.

The lights are low. The most immaculate jazz band plays by the glistening fountain and figures in the fantasy garden. Behind me a man in dark glasses and full suit before me utterly glamorous women glistening from head to toe. The garnish is a raisin in savoury sauce, juicy cherry tomatoes, grilled pineapple, a roasted wisp of carrot, lemon; the sauce is completely balanced creamy, sweet, sour and savoury; the slab of sturgeon is slowly pulverised taking my senses elsewhere while we receive respect from poised waiters for ordering Ukrainian beer and Ukrainian vodka. We try and look the part with my last sock, affixed trainers, French bum shorts and only a fleece on my upper torso. We order in broken Russian we wish them a good evening, shake our waiters hand and return to help ourselves to the mini bar and listen to Viktor Yanukovych the orator.

We bundel into the bus to another world with a string of thirty sausages. Confussion and two hours eventually lets us through the check point. At the other side we are greated by an enormous angular worker weilding a flag.

Napoleon

We reenter the hostel after being escorted through. The elderly man looks at our keys and insists on taking them back. He coughs walks around the side and appears behind the glass looking at us. He slowly slides back the glass picks up our keys and shuffles some paper followed by showing us the entry which he wrote earlier in the evening. Meticulously tippexed out and writen under the room number - Britanski. He shuffles our passports and eventually returns our room key.

The man in the tourist information responds slowly eventually showing us some towns we can get a bus to in the High Tatras. After ten minutes he returns with the time for Monday, we explain we want to leave now not in three days time so reluctantly he returns to his files. In the mean time a bright young Slovak girl notices what is happening and comes up to us to explain simply what we are looking for. She shows us instantly the biggest castle in Middle Europe and within 30 seconds tells us there is a bus in half an hours time and another an hour after that.

We take the bus. The young man in the immaculate tourist information greats us straight away and enthusiastically fires of information about Celtic tribes leaving coins, Mongol invasions being held back, fascinating monasteries by tall rock formations and where we can buy bread and cheese before climbing to the top of the tower from where we could see the start of the High Tatras reaching along the horizon.

This country is run by my generation and works incredibly - the things that matter such as buses, toilets, food, bars beyond western standards. To the older generation, which is used to shuffling mountains of Soviet Paperwork, all that was needed was to say good evening as we walked to our room.

However there are exceptions such as the man I met three nights ago who taught me to be afraid of ideologies.