Thursday, 24 September 2026

 

Start: Kokand (UZ) 10:15

Arrival: Tashkent (UZ) 15:30

 

Total: 242 km

 

 

The next morning, it was raining! Not just a light drizzle, a veritable downpour, making our car sparkling clean and turning the dusty roadsides into muddy patches of khaki. The air was cool and fresh, and so was I. Ready to get behind the wheel.

 

 

We had decided that we'd leave Tajikistan on the backburner for the moment. First, we'd head up to Tashkent and Samarkand, stay in the more touristy areas where, hopefully, the hotel infrastructure was better than in Kyrgyzstan.

 

It was wonderful to be on the road again. The rain had abated and the landscape looked fresh and clean. This could almost have been in Luxembourg! Meadows, trees, well, potholes too, and scary open canals where the shoulder should have been. And overeager drivers, of course. Maybe not Luxembourg after all.

 

 

But I was happy. "The road is much better than at the border. People are driving more normal too," I rejoiced. Sonia laughed. "No, on both accounts. You're just your old self again." "You mean, I'm one of them?" I grinned, swiftly dodging a car that had braked to make a U-turn. I guess she was right. We were crossing a bridge. Sonia pointed to the large river beneath us. "Any idea what this is? Haven't seen such a wide river since the Volga in Russia." I thought about it. "Maybe the Syr Darya? Must be here somewhere, I think." And it was! The Scythians fell by the river Jaxartes!

 

With Iron Maiden's Alexander the Great on our minds, we were soon leaving the fertile fields of the Fergana valley behind and were heading up into the mountains again. "Oh, there are mountains between Kokand and Tashkent?", I asked Sonia, as I manoeuvered into yet another switchback. Only the Western Tian Range, my dear!

 

 

How wonderful to be in the mountains again! Cradled by high summits, nestled at the foot of mighty rocks, carried up to swindling heights, safely grounded by eons of patient uplift. Soon we reached the summit of the Kamchik Pass, more than 2,200 meters above sea-level. There was a viewing platform up there. "Don't lean too close to the railing", I begged my sister. This whole thing did not look too secure. Sonia leaned over. "It's safe. Great view too. There's our road, very far below." I took her word for it, a deep breath, a quick pic, a quicker look and beat a retreat. Gaping gulf gazing - check.

 

 

A huge wooden statue of an eagle celebrated the soaring heights we found ourselves in. A much safer photo spot. "Make sure you don't get my feet on it", I warned my sister. One does not want to come across as a tramp, traipsing around Central Asia in plateau sandals and white socks. As you can see, Sonia obliged and my reputation is safe. :)

 

We found a small shop selling sodas. I grabbed a Sprite bottle, the young man typed in 9000, I produced a 10,000-som bill. He rummaged through his cash register and finally handed me a 2000-som bill. Oh no, I wouldn't bring his profit margin down even further. I pushed the bill back into his hand. He smiled and gave us two small wrapped sweets for free. We both put our hand to our heart and thank you'ed each other. Nice interaction. And back onto the road again.

 

 

The mountain pass road down was in good condition too, freshly tarmacked, with escape routes for trucks and a safety barrier between the upcoming and downgoing traffic. Only my ears were clogging up because of the difference in air pressure. "Let's have that bonbon he gave us", I said. Sonia eyed it suspiciously. "It's called Zizi." I wanted to try it anyway. Turned out, it was a small bubble gum cube, and it tasted just like the pink Bubblicious we had as children. Memory lane!

 

We passed a major traffic jam. The two lanes going up the mountain were taken over by a big troop of sheep, moving up at a leisurely pace. Why did their shepherds not guide them along the slopes? I felt sorry for the truckers who would have trouble picking up speed again on these steep hills.

 

The petrol gauge had fallen well under the middle line. Still plenty of gas to get to Tashkent, but the fact that we had not seen a single "normal" gas station since the border was slightly disturbing. The vast majority of fuel stations only sold метан, as Uzbeks Chevrolets all seemed to run on methane. Two or three times, I had pulled into a gas station claiming to sell 95, but the pumps had just seemed too "adventurous". I didn't want to be stranded in the Tian Shan with a clogged-up engine. Sonia consulted Yandex Maps and announced that just before Tashkent, there was a Lukoil station. The Russians to the rescue! How happy I was to pull into a normal gas station, they even had a Western-style mini market and French croissants! Admittedly, it was the most expensive fuel since Germany, 20,500 Uzbek som for 1 litre (1.52 euro). But at least I didn't have to worry about the quality of it.

 

 

 

 

We had booked a hotel on the Tashkent Ring Road, just a pitstop for one night. Tomorrow, we would head to Samarkand and stay there for a few days. Or so we thought. Lying on the stately bed in our slightly gaudy "spa" hotel, we tried to find a hotel in Samarkand for the next three days. Everything that looked promising was booked out, and in Bukhara the same! We panicked a bit. These last few weeks, the crème-de-la-crème hotels with the best reviews had often sorely disappointed. I did not want to find out what the dregs of the keg were like. So we improvised: two more days in Tashkent, why not, we're here now. A so-so stopover on the way to Bukhara, then - with the weekend bottleneck gone - a few days in Bukhara, then back to Samarkand.

 

After a few hours, we had everything figured out and booked. Now: dinner. We headed down into the lobby and made a beeline for the restaurant. The pictures in the elevator had looked promising. The restaurant was dark. The receptionist explained that yes, the hotel had of course a restaurant, but it was closed. "Can you recommend something in the area then?" Sonia insisted. No, he couldn't. When pushed, he motioned vaguely to the right. Maybe two kilometers. "He just said that to get you off his back", I fumed. "This is supposed to be a wellness hotel. On a highway. Nothing around. And they don't think they should open their restaurant?" I was so fed-up with Central Asia. The Silk Road Hotel in Kokand seemed like a solitary oasis inside a hospitality-desert. I wasn't hungry anyway. For tomorrow, we had booked us into the Ramada Plaza near the Tashkent airport. Let's see if the Americans deliver.