Soviet trains. Platz class. All passengers sleep together in the same room on improbable little puzzle beds that fold into the walls. Everyone drinks tea (in full china sets that they’ve brought with them from home) on similarly puzzled-together little tables that pop out of the floor. There is an immaculately dressed conductress who bellows loudly at improperly made beds and delivers her instructions with strong, firm, and almost motherly discipline. And there is not a soul who speaks English… which means she is often bellowing at us, the only non-Russian speakers. We are in Uzbekistan, a country made mostly of desert. It is mid-July, almost 50 degrees celsius (about 115 degrees F). Trains only travel at night, to avoid the heat of the day. Beds are part of the purchased passage. Sheets as well, but that’s it, other than the engine-heated hot water for tea that comes out of a discordantly 19th century lab spigot connected to a labyrinth of metal pipes. And we are bumbling our way through what seems to be (to everyone else) a well-understood and immaculately timed operation of tea time, dinner, bed making, lights out, morning bed dismantling, and another tea time. 

Train was the only logical way to cross Uzbekistan.  Temperatures would make a bike trip a stubborn act of intentional suffering, aka masochism. Add the time constraint to meet my brother in Georgia, and we chose to jump from city to city across the desert country and become plain old sight-seeing tourists. Another consideration in choosing train travel was the difficulty we had heard of from other travelers who had been in Uzbekistan. That movement here was highly regulated and restricted, which encouraged us to stick to a beaten path. In fact, in order to talk about our experience of Uzbekistan, it seems necessary to first nod at our expectations surrounding Uzbekistan, as any experience is ever so strongly colored by expectation.

From what we read, we understood Uzbekistan to be a “new” country. Pre-Russian rule, it was comprised of three different states. But after the fall of the Soviet, with the need to define self in contrast to ousted ruler, Uzbekistan came together as a country and claimed full independence in 1990. Uzbek is the official language, but many people speak Tajik because of the large Tajiki population, and almost everyone, perhaps other than young children, speak Russian, as was mandated in school during the Soviet rule. The fairly new definition of borders in the country does not speak to the length of the area’s history, however. Uzbekistan is home to some ancient cities and a rich history of art, science, and war.  Samarkand has been a city since around the 8th century BCE.  It is full of monolithic and immaculately decorated mausoleums, mosques, palaces, madrasas, shrines, and burial grounds. It also has the honor of having been conquered by not only Alexander the Great, but also Ghengis Khan. Bukhara and Khiva are similarly old and full of the startling beauty of ancient walled cities within cities.

Seeing these sights had not been easy, however, until very recently. Uzbekistan’s first president (Islam Karimov, 1990-2015) was fairly xenophobic and kept his country quite closed. We had heard more horror stories about the entry into this country than any other on the trip (Kazakhstan a close second). The message was that Uzbekistan did not much care for visitors, and that to those it did grant entry, it made sure they underwent a rigorous process proving that they were entirely unthreatening (and well-tracked during their stay). Some stories included: hours spent at the border as all the pictures on your computer were looked through, nominally to see if any of them contained guns or beards (yes, beards); entry denial for a bottle of Tylenol; and unexplained visa rejection by border guards. 

Now, as our luck would have it, the new president, (Shavkat Mirziyoyev, 2016), was trying to change this approach to outsiders. He rightly recognized that tourism could be a big part of the country’s economy. Electronic visas had become available three days before we applied for one from Dushanbe (we’re not big planner-aheaders, and we got lucky). We were on the forefront of a sea-change:

“Since the liberalisation of Uzbekistan in 2018, no tourist has reported negative feedback about crossing the border… Border guards no longer check your medicine box or your wallet. In other words, the likelihood of you going to jail over any of the below [pictures, medicine, knives] has these days dropped to practically zero.” -Caravanistan, a go-to for Central Asian travel advice.

Of course, this wasn’t the narrative at the time.  Travelers were still being warned that a crossing could be very risky. We got on-line, got our instant visas, sold our Pamir-crossing bikes to a German couple, did a cursory glance through our photos for beards and guns, and headed for the border.

The taxi to Penjikent, the crossing closest to Samarkand, leaves from a nondescript bus station (I think it was a bus station). With knowledge garnered from other cyclists and double checked with the locals from the hostel, we arrived at the surprisingly late hour of 4pm with an expected 5pm departure and just asked around for Penjikent border crossing.  We were directed to several hatchback cars who’s drivers looked at our big bags and shook their heads and pointed towards a slightly larger hatchback car, almost a minivan.  The driver nodded when we approached and quoted a price as he loaded our bags. We didn’t haggle.

After maybe 3 hours of fairly suburban scenery, we left behind inhabited land and started climbing.  Up through what turned into rocky cliffs, we found ourselves on narrow winding roads clinging to them. I think the sense of awe and the edge of fear at a possible plunge to our deaths must have been exaggerated by the falling night and the knowledge that we would arrive at the already worrisome border in the dark. Still, it stands out as a particularly harrowing ride, especially the descent.

We did indeed arrive in the dark.  It was about 10pm and it looked like the absolute middle of nowhere.  The taxi could not drive up directly, so we, along with the remaining 2 passengers (who only spoke Tajiki but were very friendly and encouraging), got out, got our bags, and hoofed it about a quarter mile down a dirt road.  We made it through a free standing gate–with no acknowledgement from the single armed guard–and followed our companions to a small, seemingly empty squat building.

Pre-2018, there were only 2 border crossings into Uzbekistan (there are around 12 now).  Penjikent was not one of them, and in retrospect, that explains alot about our experience. We entered the building, which was very well lit and felt more like a DMV than a security building. Two guards did a cursory search of our bags then pointed us towards a window with a guard inside.  We handed him our computer-printed visas and our passports. He looked confused and called over another guard.  That guard looked at our visas as well and asked in broken English what they were. So much for electronic visas.

We told him what they were. He looked skeptical. They called over another guard, same process. Soon we had all the guards huddled over our visas (after our companions quickly made it through, they must have been citizens, the place was empty of other travelers). Then one guard walked over to the telephone with our visas and spent way too long talking on the phone, looking at the visas, looking at us, an eyebrow raised.  But eventually he walked over and stamped our passports.  The guard who had some English explained that these were the first electronic visas they had seen there. Forefront of a sea change.

The fact that things were changing but not fully changed followed us on our trip. And honestly, so did the nagging suspicion that we were doing something wrong and that we were supposed to be more accountable than we were being. The expectations we brought with us coupled with a residue of the structure that demanded those expectations. Before 2018, all travelers had to have a stamped piece of paper for every single night of their stay in the country that certified they were in approved places.  Half of our accommodations still provided us with this paper. We ran into almost no other Western tourists and were undeniably a novelty, even in Samarkand, the largest city in the country. But weirdly it was maybe the only country we visited where you could get US dollars out of the ATM. 

After a few days in Samarkand (nowhere near enough time), we headed to the train station. An overnight train can be uncomfortable and dirty (and even less than safe), so I was not sure what to expect.  What we found was, to speak in hyperboles, my favorite part of our short visit to Uzbekistan. The sea change in governmental approach to outsiders didn’t seem to touch the train and perhaps that was because it was a pretty local experience.  I’m not sure how visitors get around, but locals know what’s up.

It’s funny to think of the train as a purely local experience, considering it in itself is a standing tribute to such a non-local presence.  The trains are a Soviet import.  Platzkart, the type of ticket you buy, originates in Tzarist Russia as a “seat ticket”-extra money paid for a specific seat in an open train car- but it’s basically third class. Nominally in Russia, there are three classes you can travel, but in Uzbekistan, it’s the only available ticket.The car is an open floor plan with around 50 beds. Everyone is given the same kind of bunk, the same sheets, and the same yelling at. The beds and tables pop directly out of the wall on the starboard side, parallel to the walkway through the car, and then small walls pop out perpendicular from the port side at regular intervals, two beds and a table that come out of the wall on either side. No doors, no rooms, and a single toilet for each car. 

Any travel website you read emphasizes that platzkart is not a luxurious way to travel. But that’s fairly narrow minded. The beds are comfortable, the service is straightforward and immaculate (if somewhat irate), and I can’t imagine a lovelier ambiance (the still-sweltering night heat of the Uzbeki desert aside). Train is obviously a well-used form of travel in Uzbekistan. The car was full of families, mothers often sharing their beds with small children. And everyone of all ages seemed to know exactly the flow of the process, and it was indeed a clockwork process. But this comfort with it led to an extremely social and lively night. As I said, and I’m not sure why this struck me so, but every family came equipped with their own tea set.  China tea set. Unpacked, set out on the little tables with big food spreads. It just looked so…comfortable. Which I’ve never really thought of travel as being, even boat travel. This experience reminded me how much of a mind-set comfort can be. We had the typical travelers approach-packs of instant coffee, crackers and cheese, mostly stuff I don’t remember, it was so non-descript. But everyone else treated a night of travel as though it were another night at home, surrounded by a much larger family. And the vibe was exactly that. Friendly and loud and talkative. Plenty of people tried to share food and talk with us… language was definitely the barrier, but we all managed to have a great time.  And when the martinet of a train attendant came through yelling, no one skipped a beat.  Some smirked at her affectionately, some grumbled, but everyone packed up and obligingly pulled out their beds.  She came back through delivering sheet sets and pillows (not wrapped in plastic, very much mismatched, but startlingly clean), and everyone diligently made their beds. Slowly, the warm chatter wound down, and people made their way into their bunks (most everyone slept in their clothes).

The morning brought much of the same: a punctual, loud reminder at 6:30am to get up and start breaking down beds by the same yelling attendant; the pulling back out of tea sets with friendly lines forming by the hot water spigot, across the hall from the single bathroom; the packing up of things, as urged by the attendant. Train departure times seemed to be dictated by the need to arrive at the destination at 8am. Which we did on all 3 of the overnight trains we took. Well-planned, considering the heat was already quite up even by then. And then a taxi to some accommodation, pre-planned or suggested by the taxi driver. Unloading of bags into a (usually) air-conditioned hostel or hotel room. And then the quiet and “luxury” of a non-train night.  Honestly, it was kind of lonely…