A Carpet Ride to Khiva: Seven Years on the Silk Road (28 page)

* * *

The developed, cosmopolitan air of Baku made a refreshing change from Khiva and I enjoyed
catching up with Ruslan, communicating with his parents through a pidgin of Uzbek and Azeri. Trekking in the lush mountains of northern Azerbaijan with Ryan felt like a real holiday. Soon it was time to head for Baku, pick up my visa and catch my flight back to Uzbekistan. Three aunts and an uncle were planning a trip out just a week or so after my return and I was looking forward to taking them
around the Silk Road cities.

My visa was still not ready but promised soon. I phoned or emailed the Operation Mercy office in Tashkent each day, but the message was the same. My return date came and went. Ruslan had to leave for another city and Ryan returned to Gusar in the north. This left me with an accommodation problem. People at the Baku International Church were incredibly kind and
hospitable, granting me official waif status as I waited for my visa. Phil, a young Scot with BP whom I’d met only once, offered me a place in his flat which, as it turned out, was situated in a five-star hotel. Exile – I pondered during laps in the pool – could be a lot worse. I was convinced that my visa would arrive soon and considered my two-week sojourn in Baku a bonus holiday.

Finally
the Tashkent office got a response, in the form of a letter, referring to Andrea (waiting for her visa in Germany) and myself: ‘The research shows that the activities of the above-mentioned persons exceeds the bounds of their professional commission and do not coincide with accomplishing the set aims and goals of the organization. Taking these factors into consideration, The Ministry of Justice
of the Republic of Uzbekistan has decided that granting them accreditation will not be expedient.’

There was no mention of what bounds we might have exceeded, nor were we given the opportunity to defend ourselves. I found out later that this standard letter was sent out to all NGO workers who had their visa application denied.

The rug had been pulled from under me. Malika, my little
sister, was getting married in a month. I’d miss the wedding. It was my turn to host the tashkil soon, but that would never happen now. My relatives were on their way to visit me and I wouldn’t be there. My belongings – apart from a small bag of clothes – were all in Khiva. Soon, short-term concerns were replaced with longer-term ones. There was so much I wanted to do at the workshops before leaving.
I’d never really told Madrim how much I’d come to value him as a brother, not just as a colleague. There would be no more wage days, watching the weavers carefully tucking their earnings into their bras. I would never again wake up on my roof and watch the dawn sun glinting on the madrassah portals and minarets of a place I considered home. Did my Uzbek family really know how much I loved them
and would miss them? There would be no goodbyes.

The computer screen blurred. I didn’t care that teenagers playing
Doom
on the internet café computers next to me were staring as tears splashed on the mouse-pad.

* * *

A few days later I left, arriving to a chill British autumn. It was good to see my parents again and to know that I still had one home, at least, that I could lay
claim to. My aunts and uncle returned from Uzbekistan having enjoyed the trip immensely despite my absence, couriering some of my warmer clothes back for me.

I felt lost, unsure what to do with myself. In Khiva I thought I’d learnt how to plan for contingencies, but nothing had prepared me for this abrupt exit. Nor was I ready to simply shelve my seven years in Khiva and start job-hunting.
Writing a book seemed the healthiest way to think about the past while staying in the present. I began to plan the book’s structure.

I kept in touch with the remaining team in Khiva, who were finding life hard without their team-leaders. We all agreed that some kind of team debriefing was essential for handing over roles, responsibilities and luggage. At first this was planned for Kazakhstan
but Andrea suggested we apply for two-week Uzbek visas, pointing out the need for proper project handovers. Much to my surprise, our visas were granted. However, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Tashkent pointed out that, while we had been granted valid visas, it was still the secret police who controlled the borders.

With this in mind, Andrea made use of her return ticket to Tashkent,
buying a follow-on ticket to Kazakhstan just in case. I returned to Baku, planning to stay there for a week if Andrea’s return proved futile and then join her in Kazakhstan. If she did get back in, then I would follow her to Tashkent.

Andrea’s entry was successful. She was the last in line on a busy evening and managed to keep her hands from trembling as her passport was scanned and she
was waved through. I flew out the following day.

Arriving in Tashkent laden with parting gifts for everyone, I was first in line at passport control. I greeted the official in Uzbek. He smiled, surprised, and scanned my passport – the smile vanishing. There was a problem and he told me to stand aside. Someone would come and see me.

I waited until a Russian member of the border police
arrived. ‘This visa, no good,’ he said. ‘You, go home.’

I asked for a translator and an Uzbek was summoned.

‘The Uzbek embassy in London granted me this visa, so how can there be a problem?’ I asked. The official was in no mood for explanations and simply scrawled INVALID across the visa page. I realised then that for some reason I had been blacklisted.

There followed a short
discussion about what to do with me. I couldn’t be deported straight away, as the plane I’d arrived on terminated in Tashkent. Instead I was to collect my bags and would be escorted to the transit lounge. Vince and Marsha, friends in Tashkent, had come to pick me up. They saw what was happening and promised to call the British embassy.

It was already late by the time I was bundled into the
transit lounge, and I’d had nothing to eat. The building had a shabby grandeur typical of Soviet architecture, with a more modern glass front that faced the airport bus terminal and a small bazaar. I’d walked past this building many times without knowing what it was.

Babies cried, two televisions competed for volume, and bored passengers tried to smoke as much as possible between flights.
Most of the transit passengers were British Asians on their way to Amritsar in India from the Midlands. I found a quieter corner where four young Chinese were already camping. They didn’t speak English but managed to convey that they had been in the transit lounge for three weeks. They were obvious pros at transit lounge camping, so I mimicked their practice of laying out newspaper on the grubby
carpet. I was just falling asleep when a Russian voice bellowed over the tannoy: ‘Aleksandr! Aleksandr! Telefon!’

I ran over in my socks and answered the phone. It was the British embassy. They had been denied permission to visit me but promised to follow up on my visa renewal. I fell asleep naively imagining that they might be able to help.

The following morning the lounge was almost
empty. I took my bags to the window, staring at the autumn leaves outside as an old woman swept the street. A young boy passed by wheeling a pram full of freshly baked bread and meat
samsas
for sale in the small bazaar. A few Uzbeks stood at the bus stop spitting sunflower seed shells and waiting. The sound of Uzbek pop drifted across from a shashlik stall and a gypsy woman with a pan of smoking
isfan and a ragged baby pawed at people in the bus queue, hoping for money. I was in Uzbekistan, and yet I wasn’t. Beside me was a discarded copy of the
Economist
and a water dispenser, and nearby was a small, locked duty-free kiosk. I felt trapped between worlds.

A little while later Vince and Marsha arrived at the glass window and peered in. We established contact and moved to the glass
door. It was locked, but if we both pressed up against the crack and shouted, a conversation of sorts was possible. A guard, convinced that this was forbidden, came up and told me to stop talking.

I refused, challenging him to arrest me, as at least I’d get visiting hours in prison. He backed off. There was no news from the British embassy, but Marsha had brought a generously packed bag
of food for me. It was to be the first of many, and I soon learnt the complex routine needed for their procurement. It involved retracing the chain of command, with permission granted over a walkie-talkie by someone higher in the echelons of power who dispatched a staff member outside to collect the food bag, search it, and pass it on to me. The system failed when Russian staff members were on duty,
as they weren’t obliging like the Uzbeks. ‘We are busy!’ they would pout, varnishing their nails or looking at the pictures in
Hello!
magazine.

I passed the first day waiting for news from the British embassy. It was a Friday, so I held out hope that my case might be resolved before the weekend. I heard nothing, and the following day – having established that I was allowed to make local
calls – I asked Neville from the British Council if he could find out more. He assured me that the embassy could do nothing and that I should leave as soon as possible. There didn’t seem anything to stay for.

I asked at the information desk for flights to Kazakhstan. There were no seats available until Sunday evening. I made a reservation, accepting that I would spend two more nights in
the transit lounge. I read for a while, wrote, chatted with Uzbek staff members, spent an hour walking up and down the staircase, and managed to teach the four Chinese how to do Sudoku puzzles. I found out that they were illegal immigrants who’d been deported from Italy and were on their way back to China in four days.

The ebb and flow of the transit lounge seemed random. Sometimes it was
filled with people, noise and smoke and at other times it was virtually empty apart from myself and the other flotsam. The Khiva team called to cheer me up, and I spoke to Madrim and my Uzbek family. Speaking to the latter proved too painful and ended in tears. Bakhtior the wrestler was in Tashkent and came to visit. We had five minutes at the door before a guard on his side told him to leave, but
at least we had a farewell of sorts.

Madonna’s new video appeared regularly on Russian MTV. The refrain was, ‘Time goes by, so slowly, time goes by, so slowly’. Finally the time for my departure loomed. I had been so desperate to return to Uzbekistan but now I couldn’t wait to leave, focusing on the freedoms I’d enjoy in Almaty – no more food parcels; fresh air; and a much-needed trip to
the opulent public baths, as I was beginning to smell. Someone from Operation Mercy Kazakhstan would meet me at the airport and sort out any potential problems with my Kazakh visa, which became valid only in three days’ time.

The plane was delayed for an hour and then another hour and then indefinitely, due to fog in Almaty. I bedded down for a fourth night, but was woken at four with a
boarding announcement.

Almaty was bitingly cold, the first glimmer of dawn showing behind the Tien Shan mountains that dominated the skyline. A Russian woman checked my passport and called over her boss, pointing to the date. I asked a passenger who worked for the human rights group Freedom House if she could translate from Russian for me. I explained that someone was supposed to be waiting
for me who could explain the situation, but that they hadn’t come due to the plane delay. Surely I could apply for a transit visa? The immigration official suggested instead that I could pay him $300 and he would allow me through. I had only $100 left and offered this.

The official immediately lost his friendly demeanour and told me that I must return to Uzbekistan. My visa wasn’t valid,
so I must be deported. The lady from Freedom House tried to reason with him, but he paid her no attention. The idea of returning to Tashkent and the transit lounge was something that hadn’t even occurred to me. I blanched, refusing to return and foolishly pointing out that I couldn’t be deported back to a country that had already deported me. This was the wrong thing to say. The official seized my
passport, flicking through to the offending Uzbek visa, now more determined than ever that I must be expelled. The woman from Freedom House began to cry helplessly and was told not to meddle. A guard began dragging me towards the exit.

I protested, demanding to speak to the embassy. But the guards and others who had accumulated by now merely jeered. Did I have a phone and did I know the
number? I shouted at a group of incoming passengers, asking if anyone knew the British embassy phone number. Most hurried on, clearly alarmed by my wild-eyed appearance.

I asked to use the toilet, where I stared at a greasy-haired reflection of myself, unshaven and unkempt, with large bags under my eyes. I looked like a crack addict. Resisting the urge to somehow break out, I splashed water
on my face, took a few deep breaths and returned, hoping to reason with the guards. Surely I could just stay in the Almaty transit lounge for two more days until my visa was valid?

The more I reasoned, the angrier they became. They enlisted a Kazakh policeman who ended up siding with me, further infuriating the guards. Finally, they dragged me forcibly outside and bundled me onto a plane
that had been grounded – waiting half an hour for my presence. My passport was given to the captain and a guard stood beside me until take-off. I could hear the passengers behind me whispering and wondering who I was and what I had done wrong. I was back in the Tashkent transit lounge before breakfast.

Nargisa, one of the Uzbek staff on duty, stood speechless as I returned, wondering why
I’d come back. She clucked in sympathy as I explained what had happened. The four Chinese deportees offered me back some of the food I’d left for them. I realised that in the scuffle with the Kazakh guards, they had left my baggage behind. I had just my small rucksack and wondered numbly whether I would ever see my bags again.