2024-08-31 41 60

Location

Between two fields, a few kilometres outside Khiva, in Uzbekistan's west.

Participants

Stevage

Expedition

Background

My Constant Geohasher streak is at risk: 14 consecutive months of at least one success per month. But August 2024 has been dry. All month I have been checking the geohashes. Mostly they land in mountains, across international borders, or sometimes in the middle of large fields I don’t want to trample. Or they would require sacrificing some touristy plans, or perhaps taking a taxi a very long way into the middle of nowhere and back.

Today I am in Khiva, a very historical town within a fertila delta in the deserty west of Uzbekistan, just a few kilometres north of the Turkmenistan border. Yesterday’s point was tempting, perfectly placed on a street in a little village. I passed within 7 kilometres of it on the train, but from Khiva it was at least an hour in a taxi, which is too much.

I pray to the geohashing gods that August 31st will deliver.

It does.

9 kilometres away, and on the border between two fields. A couple of hundred metres from a decent road. We can do this.

Foreground

After a morning visiting the beautifully restored Nurullaboi Palace just outside the walled old city, I summon a taxi using the Yandex Go app. I give it the geohash coordinates (mercifully it accepts the coordinates straight out of Hashdroid), and add an extra point, to take me back to the old city afterwards. Hopefully I’ll get a nice English speaking driver who I can explain a bit about what’s going on, and he’ll enjoy the outing.

But it immediately all goes wrong. My driver doesn’t speak any English, and my attempts to use a translation app to communicate in Uzbek don’t get anywhere. Possibly he speaks Farsi, or only reads Cyrillic, or, something else.

(For the purpose of this report, I’m assigning my own interpretation to everything he says, but probably half of it is wildly off the mark.)

Driver: “What, you just want to go a few hundred metres? Why?” Me: “That’s right, let’s go!” Driver, turning into the old city: “Well, almost there” Me: “No. What? No, we have to go to this other place first.” Driver: “What, you need a hotel?”

On it goes. He’s frustrated. I’m frustrated. He tries asking random people on the street if they speak English, so they can talk to the idiot in the back.

It seems somehow he has completely disregarded the main point of the taxi ride, the way point 9 kilometres away.

I pull up the directions to the point in another mapping app, and show it to him. By this point in my travels I’m completely used to the idea that you hand your phone to your taxi driver, while he’s driving. Distracted Driving? What’s that?

One of the things that makes this sort of journey so hard is the lack of waypoints. For most sensible taxi trips, there’s something you can name that you are trying to get to: a landmark, a village, a train station. Here there is absolutely nothing on the Yandex map to even point to. It’s just a random point along the road.

But he’s starting to get the idea. I’m pointing out the lefts and the rights, half of which he ignores. That makes things a bit easier, taking us on a simpler route.

There is a surreal moment where we are approaching a right hand turn. I hand the phone to him to show him we need to turn. He stares fixedly at the phone as we approach the turn, and proceeds straight past it. A hundred metres later, he U-turns, and from this point he gets it. We’re on track.

This would be a good road for Kyrgyzstan, but a bit below average for Uzbekistan. It’s asphalt in the middle, with a lot of potholes, and wide gravel shoulders. He likes to suddenly swerve off the asphalt onto the gravel to avoid potholes or figments of his imagination.

Each time we pass a village he slows right down and looks around, as if hoping there might be some kind of logical reason for this caper. He is clearly the sort of man who likes things simple and predictable. Not weirdos who want to go nowhere in particular then come back.

We get to the point and I get him to stop. With much sign language, we have understanding: I am going to go for a walk. He will wait ten minutes. Then we will go back together. He’s all but rolling his eyes, a totally understandable attitude of “Whatever, dickhead” coming through. But he switches off the engine, which is a very good sign. I get out.

On the ground

For no great reason, I have launched this expedition in the middle of the day. It is hot, the air is very dry, and the cloudless sky is absolutely blinding. I have prepared with a wet towel around my neck and dunked my hat in water. I have a bottle of water.

I’m feeling very stressed. I don’t feel good about inflicting this complicated expedition on this driver. I have no idea if it’s ok for me to walk amongst these fields. I’m worried about getting heat stroke. And I have a vague worry that I might be upsetting locals somehow. Fortunately I can’t see any.

So I really just want to get in and out quickly.

My main focus had been making sure I was on the correct side of what looks like an irrigation canal. I didn’t consider there would be a big ditch between the road and the fields. The bottom is muddy water, at least a metre wide.

Normally I’d try to find a way around, but I’m in a hurry. Without hesitation, I stomp straight in. Sploosh! Wet feet. Thank god I don’t get stuck in the mud.

I scramble up the other side, grasping at reeds and stumbling about. I try not to think about what the taxi driver is saying about me on his phone.

Things suddenly get easier. Arising out of a mass of weedy undergrowth, there is a bare dirt embankment leading directly to the hash. I scamper easily along it. There's almost no vegetation to contend with. 200 metres, 100, 50, suddenly I’m there.

The point is just slightly down from the top of the embankment, easy to find. I’m so relieved. A few quick photos and I scurry back.

Sploosh, back through the ditch, and I’m out. I give the driver a quick thumbs up and we’re off.

No complications –- he’s on board with this plan.

One last little mishap: he drives over a loose plastic sack, the type you buy large quantities of grain in. With a “whoomph” it wraps itself around a front half-axle. He stops to pull it free, but before he can drive off, someone yells at him for littering. He tries to explain, but they’re not impressed. With more angry muttering, he pops open the boot, and stores his new possession.

He eventually drops me off where he picked me, instead of the place I asked for, but I don’t complain. I’ve put him out enough.

A stressful adventure, and my shoes are filthy, but the streak is alive! Now to find some ice cream.