Laos, Vietnam, Southern China

Slurping my noodle soup from the bowl, I became aware that no one else was guzzling their food in the same fashion, choosing to use the provided spoons instead. Perhaps I was making a social faux pas? Don’t they eat like this in Laos? Living in rural China certainly does not help one’s table manners. I decided to use the spoon.
I was in Luang Prabang for my holidays - the second biggest city in the tiny country of Laos. Though not as developed as its neighbour Vietnam, investment and infrastructure are slowly seeping into this sleepy backwater. It was the perfect antidote after a hectic end of term when the nerves of teacher and student alike are frayed. I had come to Luang Prabang after a couple of days in the capital Vientiane, and in the backpacker haven of Vang Vien (The main lure of Vang Vien being ‘tubing’, where you float down river in a rubber ring beside fellow troubadours while supping on a cool beer. As you drift, there are a few siren-like locals who entice you with their sweet words of, “Beer Lao Beer Lao Beer Lao”. Should you succumb, they ‘fish’ you over to the side with a bamboo pole, and replenish your beverage.).
Luang Prabang is the perfect place to meander, admire the winding Mekong and indulge in the local poison: Lao Lao whisky. Traditionally, it is served from a jar with snakes perched inside, and, if you are lucky, a few choice spiders and lizards. The locals claim it is very good for you, particularly for the libido. I suspect, however, that it will make you blind rather than being a miracle aphrodisiac.
Phonsavan is a day’s bus journey away from Luang Prabang, and is home to the mysterious ‘Plain of Jars’. These are giant, ancient relics that are thought to be burial urns from thousands of years ago. Incredibly, the majority of the hundreds of jars remain unscathed. Laos has the distinction, albeit rather dubious, of being the most bombed country on Earth (1.1 million tones of explosives were dropped on between 1965 and 1969). During the Vietnam War, both the CIA and the North Vietnamese flouted the 1962 Geneva Agreement that stipulated Laos was neutral territory. The CIA launched a brutal and indiscriminate carpet bombing campaign in an attempt to destroy the ‘Ho Chi Minh Trail’ in eastern Laos that the North Vietnamese communists used for supplies. My guide was a young boy when he and his family were forced to flee Phonsavan for the safety of Vientiane. When they returned there was, “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The Agent Orange had killed all the trees and plants, and the bombs had destroyed all the houses”. Indeed the unexploded ordnance used still poses a real threat to the large population of farmers tending their land and to playing children, with devastating results. In fact a bomb had been removed from one of the jar sites just the day before I went there. The government has launched a massive campaign to raise awareness about bomb safety and to train locals how to detonate them. Today the land is still deeply pockmarked, and in some areas the flora is sparse, but the scars of Laos and her people seem to be healing slowly.
I proceeded to neighbouring Vietnam, where Hanoi was resplendent in red flags commemorating 75 years of communism under the stewardship of ‘Uncle’ Ho Chi Minh, as well as the upcoming Vietnamese new year, ‘Tet’. Exhausted, I decided to splash out on a single room instead of a dormitory, with the luxury of a television. I switched it on and was presented with pictures of a scrum of sweaty puffing men in a street. I had a feeling I had seen this place before, and realized it was a documentary on ‘The Ba’ in Orkney. Gob smacked, I reminisced for a bit before heading into another scrum outside – the motorbikes of Hanoi.
The motorbikes resemble swarms of livid bees buzzing around, seemingly determined to bring anyone within a metre of them to the verge of a heart attack. Crossing a Vietnamese road is an art form that I never quite perfected, and I take my hat off to those who can casually stroll to the other side of the street while dodging hundreds of speeding bikes aiming for you from all directions.
The main attraction of Hanoi is the bustling old quarter. Full of architectural wonder and a million interesting shops, temples and snack stalls tucked away in every corner, it is the epitome of classic Vietnam. Despite possessing a map, I was perpetually lost, with even a trip to buy fruit taking an hour as I hopelessly wandered around the deceptive labyrinthine streets.
I went on a three day boat trip around the Vietnamese coastal area of Halong Bay with its 3000 islands piercing the glassy Gulf of Tonkin. ‘Halong’ is derived from the Chinese for, ‘where the dragon descended into the sea’, on account of a legend that says the craggy karst peaks were created by a dragon with his thrashing tail. Although it was drizzling and bitterly cold, the bay was stunning. After a year and a half of not seeing the ocean, it was fantastic to get the chance to kayak in the azure waters and flit in and out of caves, arches and beaches.
I also visited the Northern minority tribe area, Sapa, well known for its rice terraces and techno-coloured markets. The ridged terraces ran along the hills and mountains as far as the eye could see. Though not harvesting season, it was easy to imagine the backbreaking work that the farmers endured during the summer months. I attended one of the local markets – a throng of minorities haggling and vending in their long pleated hair and stunning scarves and dresses. It is possible to distinguish the minorities by the colours and styles that they wear. I was not very successful in my observations, as I was being beaten up and thrown aside by determined old women making their way to somewhere important; and gasping at the dog carcasses doomed to be dinner and the raucous cock fights.
Feeling it was time to head back into more familiar territory, I went north into China, through Guangxi province to the Paris of the East: Shanghai. It is a truly dynamic place pinned down by the gigantic Pearl and Jin Mao buildings on the Bund. It is unlike anywhere else in China - even Beijing. Glittering and groaning with decadence, luxury and liberalism, it resembles Europe more than Asia. It is not hard to believe that this city is one of the steaming engines behind China’s surging economy. Entranced by the abundance of neon lights and foreigners, I couldn’t resist hitting the tiles before I headed back to my sedate life in Gansu Province. With the chosen venue full of inhabitants who looked like they belonged on a Star Wars set and a smattering of classics by The Village People and Kylie, my holiday was rounded off nicely.
Arriving back in Xifeng after gruelling train and bus journeys across China, it was eerily quiet as most people had gone back home to the countryside for the Spring Festival. The town was sprinkled with red lanterns signalling the end of the holiday, the occasional firecracker wielding child and a sky aglow with fireworks. The next day, as the population returned to begin work in the year of the rooster, there was a parade through the town centre. Strangely similar to the Gala Week parade (though sans the plethora of coppers and air perfumed with vodka breath), the main features were Chinese opera artists and innumerable dragons, dancing and pirouetting to the beat of huge drums to bring good luck and prosperity to everyone. I hope it works.

Kyrgyzstan - The Deep South

They say that a week is a long time in politics, but I am inclined to believe that it is even longer in Kyrgyzstan. This was especially true of my week-long holiday spent traversing around the Southern part of the country with Kelly (who hails from Texas), a fellow teacher from the London School in Bishkek.
We bundled ourselves into the shared taxi on a dreich Saturday morning for the twelve hour game of chicken that was the road to Osh - Kyrgyzstan’s second biggest city. En route we stopped for a bite to eat in a small lake-side restaurant. Being vegetarian, I opted for the only non-meat option of fried eggs. After struggling somewhat with using the single fork that had been provided to hack up my heart attack on a plate, I requested a knife. The proprietor obliged me by giving a bloody cleaver a quick wipe on a rag and handing it to me. Not quite silver service, but close enough.
Eventually arriving in Osh, we discovered that there was no water in the entire city. Our hotel assured us that the water would return by the evening, and offered the puzzling explanation that every time it rains the government turns off the water to prevent flooding. Too tired to question, we repaired to our beds in order to get an early start the next day.
One of the oldest cities in Central Asia, Osh is thought to have been founded by King Solomon, hence the name of the great crag protruding from the city’s heart: Sulayman Mountain. We clambered to the summit where it is said the Prophet Mohammed once prayed, and took in the clear views of the city, the sun glinting off the occasional mosque and Orthodox church. Osh is also known as the home of the traditional kalpak – the slightly comical felt hat that instantly transforms one into a garden gnome, and is sported by older generations of Kyrgyz men. Accordingly we stocked up, not only to do our part for the local economy, but also to mask our increasingly dishevelled appearance.
On returning to our hotel, we asked if the water was back on. The rebarbative middle-aged attendant with hennaed hair grunted, “Nyet”. Did they have anywhere we could go to use the toilet? Pouting her head towards a door, she barked, “The foreigners want a toilet!” Promptly, two minions came scurrying out with large pails of river water in their hands, and escorted us to the rather malodorous facilities.
Later that evening, feeling very cold, we requested more blankets to supplement the paltry bed clothes we had been given. Despite being practically the only residents in the hotel, the attendant stubbornly refused to part with any sheets as “other guests might need them”. Wearing all our clothes in our rickety wooden beds and resembling homeless tramps huddled on benches, Kelly and I decided that it was time to move on.
Taking a shared taxi (the easiest method of transport in a land lacking in tarmac and timetables) north to Jalalabad the next morning, we were chauffeured by a man with a full set of gold teeth, and by all appearances, an appetite to match. He quizzed us non-stop the full two and a half hours it took to reach Jalalabad, with oddities like, “Do you have mushrooms in Scotland?” “Do you like watching cows?” He did not hesitate to tell Kelly that at twenty nine she was far too old for marriage, but that he would happily take her on. However, in order to be a good Kyrgyz wife, she must behave, or he would beat her with a horsewhip. When Kelly replied that actually she would beat him with it, he shook his head forlornly and mumbled that the marriage could never work. We made our getaway as quickly as we could.
Jalalabad was also sans basic sanitation, but it is known for its natural hot springs, which potentially offered salvation from our tramp-like state. At the spa the matronly woman on duty informed us that there were no towels or soap and shoved us into a room with baths partitioned off from each other. She pointed me towards a large tub slowly filling up with steaming water. Unsure quite what I should be doing, and afraid that if I took off my clothes I might be arrested for indecency, I shouted over the partition to Kelly, “Are you taking your clothes off?” “I’m already in!” was the response. Dutifully I slipped in and wondered at how much dirt one could accumulate whilst on the road. Post-soak we had the dilemma of nothing to dry ourselves off with. Luckily I had brought our supply of toilet paper, and after co-ordinating our movements by ducking round walls and open doors, I managed to give half of the sandpaper-esque roll to Kelly. It was not the most effective system of drying I have ever used, but it did offer some exfoliation as an added bonus.
After a few days strolling around the bazaars and parks, we felt the desire to go explore the snow-covered peaks that cradle the South of Kyrgyzstan. Despite the sound of its name, Arslanbob is a pretty mountain village right on the Uzbekistan border and home to some of the largest fruit and nut trees in the world. We were able to stay with a young family, who fed us and showed us around the area as part of the fledgling ‘community based tourism’ movement. Misha, the head of the family, arranged for us to go horse trekking along the small yet powerful river that gushed through the village. The flow was fuelled by two beautiful waterfalls, each adorned with cloth ‘wishes’ and ‘prayers’ from hopeful visitors. It was tempting to try to have a proper wash in them, but our horses continually bickered and couldn’t be left alone for fear that they would nip each other to death.
Misha then took us to visit his grandparents. His grandfather was one hundred years old and his grandmother eighty-six. He was husband number three for her, having been horrendously abused by the previously two unsuitable matches her parents chose for her. A rather sweet couple, the grandmother looked constantly startled with her large jam jar glasses tied on with a piece of string, and they both had a penchant for dropping off during conversation. It was hard to reconcile them with the image of the story that they told. Misha’s grandfather had been sent to Berlin during the Second World War and served there for five years. While he was at the Front battling Nazis and avoiding Stalinist purges, Misha’s grandmother raised nineteen children alone. Six of her children had died, but her sister had also passed away leaving progeny, and she had taken them on as her own. After the end of the war, they continued with the farm, eking out a living from it, which they continue to do today with the help of their family. We left Arslanbob feeling a little humble, and ready to head back to Bishkek.
Our rickety old bus was held together by rust and dirt, and looked like Fred Flintstone should be at the helm. Rather pleased we had managed to secure the spacious back seats, we were joined by a one-eyed vagrant who plonked himself down beside us. Alas the already stifling air was made even more oppressive as he muttered constantly, breathing fumes that ought to have been declared a weapon of mass destruction. A few hours into the journey, just as we were wishing we had brought our chloroform with us, our bus spluttered to a standstill. Still some distance from the nearest town, we heaved a big sigh and squatted in resignation at the side of the road. We watched as the other passengers yelled and screamed at the two bus drivers, who seemed to have no idea how an engine worked. Giving up any hope of vehicular assistance, we were all about to attempt the long slog home, when help came in the most unexpected form. A bus full of Muslim imams pulled up and offered us a lift all the way to Bishkek. Alas, the only space they had for us was in a small ‘roof rack’ on the inside of the car. After scrambling up into it in a rather ungainly way, we were able to lie across it in relative comfort, noses not quite scraping off the top. We stopped several times so that the imams could do their ritual ablutions, and they insisted that they were not allowed to see us: we had to we had to wait for them to get out of the bus before we could come down from the roof rack and go up before they came back. Whether this was because we offended their beliefs or nostrils, I will never know.
Nine hours later we were dropped off outside our home at 3.30 am in the pouring rain. After a hot shower I stretched out wearily in bed, appreciative I didn't have to share with baggage.

Lake Son-Kol, Kyrgyzstan

Life in Bishkek is not exactly akin to a rat race, but sometimes one is gripped by rodent-like feelings and an overwhelming urge to escape to the sanctuary of the surrounding lakes and mountains. Hence I found myself trundling along the bumpy road to Son Kol, a pristine Alpine lake situated to the south of the Kyrgyz capital. Hailed as a jewel in Central Asia’s mysterious crown and famed for its rich jailoos, or pastures, it is used as a summer camp for both nomads and London School teachers alike (an international quartet of Kelly and Brett from America and Matt and I from Britain). My reverie of galloping across vast plains and rounding up stray quadrupeds was interrupted as our bus came scraping to a stop. Everyone scrambled out to investigate exactly which vital part had dropped off, and we were greeted with the mangled remains of a rear tyre. Lacking a jack, but fortunately not a spare, the men folk had to attempt their best Jean Val Jean impression and hoist the vehicle as high as they could so that the wheel could be replaced. The female contingent, namely Kelly and I, supervised.
Eventually, after all the activity that would make a chiropractor weep, we rolled into Kochkor, the nearest town to remote Son Kol. We immediately headed for the large blue “Community Based Tourism” sign that stood out like an oasis in the dusty brown street, hoping to find their representative. This popular grass roots scheme arranges for travellers to stay with local families in traditional Kyrgyz yurts, or tents, with most of the profit going to the relatively impoverished hosts. The representative was basking in the rays outside the office, and after confirming our reservation, she pointed us towards a sturdy-looking jeep that would, tyres withstanding, take us to a little piece of heaven 3,013 metres high on Earth.
A few hours later as our jeep slowly clambered over the rolling hills, the glinting surface of Son Kol grew bigger and bigger until we found ourselves confronted with an expanse of strikingly blue water that looked as if it was being cradled by the craggy limbs of the protective mountains. The jeep grumbled to a halt outside a pair of yurts, and our hostess came out to greet us with a babe in arms and another child shyly clinging to her legs. She showed us to the larger of the two yurts and went to prepare a light supper for us, while some men materialized from nowhere to construct a pit latrine. Taking off our shoes, we stepped through the heavy felt door of the conical yurt (which always faces east) and gazed at the neat trellis of wooden poles that supported the white structure. The floor was covered in bright and intricately patterned rugs called shyrdaks that were illuminated by shards of light that shot through from the tunduk. A circular frame at the top of the yurt from which smoke escapes, the tunduk is so intrinsic to Kyrgyz culture that it is the centre-piece on the national flag. Indeed the highly portable yurt was at the crux of Kyrgyz life for thousands of years until the forced settlement of communities by the Soviet monolith, and still evokes nostalgia in the hearts of the population today.
After a leisurely cup of afternoon tea accompanied by thick, crusty bread smothered in cream and a selection of homemade jams worthy of The Savoy, we went for a stroll along the calm shores of the lake. Unbelievably quiet, the only movements were the waves gently slopping on the sand, the occasional bird twittering anxiously and flitting among the reeds as we walked past its nest, or hovering stealthily above the waters, selecting the most succulent catch from the writhing shoal. Even the distant yurts blended in perfectly with the landscape, resembling squatting clouds mulling over the day’s events. A small family cantered past us, the youngest boy clutching a twitching, glistening prized fish. His ruddy face beamed with pride as he tottered after the soft footsteps of his father’s horse.
Returning to our yurt our hostess nodded towards the dozens of horses scattered gracefully over the pasture and asked if we would like to, “eat one”. I politely declined, declaring myself to be vegetarian. I couldn’t understand why she looked so puzzled until Kelly pointed out that I had overestimated my Russian abilities and that she had actually said, “ride one”. I immediately resolved that my Russian dictionary would be my bedtime reading.
Dinner was a large bowl of steaming noodles, without a hint of equine, which we ate sitting on the floor around the small table in the middle of the yurt. As a digestif we were offered a drink of traditional Koumys – fermented mare’s milk. Legendary for challenging the stomach, I tried a little before deciding it was not really for me, and I would stick to tea. Matt however necked two cups. I feared for him, and our latrine.
Without any warning, the mountainous air suddenly turned bitterly cold and enveloped our foolishly t-shirt clad bodies. To get warm, we made up the beds on the floor, ensuring we had at least six blankets each to huddle under, rather like princesses without peas.
With chattering teeth we took in the beauty of the sunset that cast soothing pastels across the wide plain. It touched the tops of the yurts and the backs of the slumbering horses with a soft light, and transformed the lake into the colour of thick blue paint that would eventually shade the sky too.
We put out the gas lamp and settled into sleep. Or tried to. Our driver decided to practice his DJing skills with Russian pop using the car stereo for an hour. Finally, hardly able to move under the weight of all the quilts, I drifted off trying to remember the exact final words of Captain Oates, should I need to use them.
I woke up in the morning speckled with beads of sweat thinking that perhaps I had been excessive in my frostbite paranoia. We guzzled breakfast and sat by the water’s edge, skimming stones across the crinkled surface for a while, before being summoned to our jeep. We were rather far from Bishkek, and to avoid being stranded (as had happened to Kelly and I on a previous venture and had to hitch back) in the middle of nowhere we had to leave early to catch the bus. Thanking our hostess, we clambered into the car and staggered off along the slopes towards the twisting and ragged road that led north. Several times we inched our way through clusters of shepherds urging their livestock ever forwards: camels, goats, sheep, horses, cows – and teachers – all plodding on to pastures new.

India

THE rickshaw zigzagged deftly through the swarming, pulsating throng that passed for traffic in Delhi.
Two lanes were marked, but there were definitely 4.5 rows of cars, rickshaws, motorbikes, taxis, cattle and pedestrians blaring horns, throwing up dust and jostling for supremacy.
For one who has convulsions when she hits the Longman roundabout, it was rather disconcerting. However, my rickshaw, like most others, had a shoe tied to it acting as a talisman to ward off the "evil eye". All would be well.
Of course there are a lot of preconceived notions about India, but nothing ever really prepares you for what comes ahead. One of the first things to strike you about the former jewel in the Empire's crown is that it is truly a land of contrasts, however clichéd that may seem. The smog-smothered streets are punctuated with luxury buildings and cars: bold markers declaring the wealth and success that is spreading here, and of a behemoth seeking its rightful position in the world.
Life constantly mills around these status symbols. In the morning you are woken up by the soft batting of cricketers completing runs around the bovine spectators, as armies of workers (often those who have moved to the city from desperately poor provinces) make their way to their place of employment. Women flit through the dirty brown streets like birds of paradise in their vibrant saris to clean houses or cars, while men carry Herculean weights of goods to be sold at market. Or maybe to work in one of the countless textile factories crammed into every available space in the city. Each nimbly avoids the numerous filthy bundles at the roadsides which suddenly reveal themselves as a homeless family, a fattened, slumbering stray dog or a pile of refuse proving irresistible to a cow.
Though there seems to be a never-ending supply of menial tasks to keep people in employment, in a country of 1.1 billion it has not prevented the lowest castes from falling into the Stygian hell that is beggardom. There is truly nothing more heart-wrenching on this Earth than to have a bedraggled two-year-old child pathetically tap your foot in want of a banana, or a hunched old woman desperate for few pounds that would shelter and feed her for several months, or to see a man with his fly-infested leg slung over his shoulder drag himself though the streets. The poor are with us always, but they seem to be particularly omnipresent in India. It occurred to me, as I watched part of Delhi's old city wall being restored by extremely poor labourers carrying huge chunks of brick on their heads, that all the magnificent buildings I planned to see had literally been built on the backs of the poor. India's architecture is certainly a testament to creativity and ingenuity, but at a poignant human price.
Still, the Taj Mahal in Agra was utterly astounding. A memorial to Mumtaz Mahal, Shah Jahan's second wife, who died in childbirth, it was just breathtaking. In typical Mughal style, it is surrounded by geometric bodies of water alongside lush green lawns that lead up to the legendary marble dome. The four pillars that flank it are imperceptibly tilted out so that if there is an earthquake they will collapse on unsuspecting tourists, rather on than the attraction itself.
The other reason people go to Agra is to see the rather opulent Fatehpur Sikri. This was a planned city built during the 16th century by the wily Emperor Akbar, who had three official wives: one Hindu, one Christian and one Muslim (and hundreds more concubines). The partial ruin contains an enormous functioning mosque, incredibly intricate and well-preserved artwork, and an escape tunnel to Lahore. However, although the king may have been thinking about the afterlife, he forgot about the here and now, and built his town on a dry area. Not long after the entourage had settled there they had to leave because the water supply ran out. Perhaps Buddha had been peeved at the snubbing of his faith.

Ruth has a go at riding a rickshaw in Agra.
One of the most interesting places that I saw in Delhi was Chandni Chowk. You step off the new pristine metro and find yourself catapulted into meandering streets full of spices, clothes, beautiful buildings, hidden temples, shrines, orange garlands and the lingering scent of incense. The food served along the way in tiny restaurants and kiosks looked and smelled fantastic, but the family who were showing me around (and with whom I stayed) insisted that I shouldn't eat, "That... that... that... that... that... that or that." A little dejected, I also didn't want Delhi belly, but what I did eat was rich in flavour and texture, and cooked to perfection. It was also a vegetarian's paradise, with a vast array of dishes to choose from, though as an egg-eater (the theory being that eggs give life) I was not considered as bona fide.
MUCH more glamorous and affluent, and only a bit less effluent, the Bollywood capital of Mumbai is one of the fastest-growing cities in the world. The best way to get around Mumbai is to use the local trains. These are divided into men's and women's compartments (a few men have a penchant for groping in crowds) and are utter chaos at peak times. It is no wonder that yoga originated in India, as you see people hanging out of the train doors, clinging on for dear life, or lounging on the roof. This costs one or two lives daily, but no-one takes heed of the warning signs. Rather foolishly I had thought that the women's compartment would be somewhat civilised for travelling – but, as I found myself slowly becoming part of the wall with my face in a variety of armpits, I was proved wrong.
Of course, we went to see the obligatory Bollywood film. Bollywood is one of the most popular film industries in the world, and is mostly light-hearted, surreal fun with Eurovision-style songs sprinkled liberally throughout. Having been advised on a film to watch, I entered the cinema and took my rather wobbly seat, cheese-flavoured popcorn in hand. The screen flashed: Stand up for the National Anthem. Was this a trailer? No. I stood up, hands on my heart, contemplating with the rest of the audience what the nation had had to do for independence. The film was set in London, and was about five hours long. There was the usual "one moment on the Tube being shot at by gangsters, the next moment dancing around Trafalgar Square with flowers singing love songs at incredibly high pitches", but I thought that actually it wasn't too far-fetched for a typical Saturday night out in the capital.
India is famed for its national parks too, so in order to get some tranquillity and a wee bit of karma I went to the Bharatphur nature reserve, near Jaipur in the north. After two weeks of the constant barrage of noise and humans and dirt, the silence and cleanliness was a bit discomfiting. Hiring a bike and cycling around the park for a couple of days whilst keeping eyes peeled for exotic birds (alas no scorries pass through here on migratory routes) and animals was the ultimate way to end this mere dipping of a toe into this unique land.
It is no wonder that India has always held so much fascination for so many. The sheer assault on the senses is both repelling yet incredibly tempting. As the global spotlight focuses on Asia, this is a siren whose song will lure many more.

Uzbekistan

I PASSED through Kyrgyzstan’s western border with dozens of sun-baked men and women shuffling along beside me. The men wore dark colours and thick boots, while the women were best viewed from behind sunglasses, lest the garish colours and sequins render one blind. I was on my way to the eastern part of Uzbekistan known as the Fergana Valley, once part of the ancient Silk Road. My first stop was the small town of Andijan. A pretty place in its own right, it will always be remembered as the site of the 2005 massacre of pro-democracy protesters by the government, with hundreds thought to have been killed. The incident and the subsequent exodus of refugees into Kyrgyzstan has put a considerable strain on Kyrgyz/Uzbek relations, and led to the EU imposing an arms embargo, though the previous year the British ambassador Craig Murray was allegedly relieved of his post by the British government for criticising president Karimov’s appalling human rights record lest access to Uzbekistan’s gas and mineral reserves be blocked.
After a stroll through the tree-lined streets I enlisted one of the hundreds of “shared” taxis and set off for my next stop, Fergana city. My fellow passengers, two teenage girls, struck up a conversation with me, which was slow and painful on account of my poor Russian. They were on their way to their friend Monica’s house, and invited me along as she had studied English at university and didn’t get to meet many native speakers. She was now a housewife with a one-year-old boy. Interestingly her parents were magicians, and the evening was spent with Monica and her mother regaling me with stories of their performances around the Middle East in the 1980s and ’90s.
The next day they took me to see the still-functioning circus in the nearby town of Kokand. The acrobats, with clothing and piercings that would not have looked out of place in a punk band, must have raised an eyebrow or two amongst the conservative locals. Kokand was once a major religious centre in Central Asia, though only a handful of the old buildings remain. The most impressive structure in the town is the former palace of the khan, who was forced into exile in 1874. The entrance looks like a yawning mouth, the drawbridge like a big lolling stone tongue. The thick walls hide beautiful courtyards and a small rock garden. Monica’s mother revealed that she was descended from the khan’s sixth concubine (the busy man had four wives and a 43-strong harem), and had been told only a few years before by a cousin. She, naturally, gets in for free.
After bidding farewell to my new friends, I went to the capital Tashkent, the fourth-biggest city in the former Soviet Union. It is a typically drab Soviet city but it is peppered with interesting statues, in particular that of Tamerlane, or “Timur the Lame”. Descended from Genghis Kahn, he was born near Samarkand in 1336 and became one of the greatest rulers of Central Asia. His domain stretched from Turkey to India in the last half of the 14th century, and his offspring founded the Mogul (a corruption of Mongol) empire in India. The Moguls were renowned for their architecture, particularly domed “onion” roofs, which can be seen throughout their former realm, the most famous example being the Taj Mahal. As with most “heroes”, Timur is far more revered in his homeland – flowers are still placed by his statues and mausoleum – than in those he subdued, where he is viewed as a tyrant and a pillager. Not too surprising if you consider his idea of fun was to cut off the heads of those he conquered and put them on display. Rough estimates put the death toll of his 40-year reign at 17 million.
The reason the majority of people visit Uzbekistan is to see the ancient cities of Samarkand and Bukhara. These cultural and intellectual centres remained hidden from much of the Western world until the “Great Game” played between Tsarist Russia and Imperial Britain. The term, popularised by Rudyard Kipling, refers to the period of exploration and espionage in the 1800s when the two powers vied for the mysterious and uncharted deserts and mountains between their empires.
Timur made Samarkand his capital with the Registan square at its centre, flanked by three colossal domed medressas (Islamic schools). About 200 students would have lived and learned in each school, now given over to trinket and carpet sellers. Unusually, one of the medressas depicts huge snarling beasts that look like tigers – Islam forbids the representation of living creatures. These were where some of the greatest mathematical and astrological minds studied, including Timur’s grandson, the ruler and famous astronomer Ulug Beg. Ulug Beg’s star maps of the 1420s are considered some of the most accurate ever written, and the remains of his enormous observatory lie on the outskirts of town. I decided to go there, passing a cemetery en route. I was stopped by an elderly couple, surprised by my lone trek, who insisted that I went with them into the cemetery to look at the headstones. They were on their way to pay their respects to family members’ graves. They took me to an area on a hillock that overlooked the city and showed me the resting places of their mother, father and brother. “I will be over there,” the man chuckled as he pointed to a plot. A mullah approached and had a brief conversation with the couple. Before I knew it, the four of us were praying and chanting in a ritual over the graves as the woman wept loudly. I figured my best course of action was to look at the ground and mumble a bit. Afterwards I thanked them for letting me join them in their private moment, and I wandered back in to the old city. Dazzling blue tiles, hectic bazaars and minarets jutting authoritatively into the skies as the call to prayer rings out are a heady feast for the senses that catapult you back to the days of the Silk Road and a golden age.

Bukhara is Central Asia’s holiest city and produced Avicenna, the father of modern medicine, and Rudaki, the Persian Shakespeare. Full of beautiful mosques, medressas, mausoleums and stone pools, this oasis is exactly the place of wonder its name conjures up. It is also known in British minds as being the last stand for one of the Victorian era’s legendary spies, Arthur Conolly.
Around 1840 a British agent named Colonel Charles Stoddart went to see the megalomaniac Emir of Bukhara, despite being advised not to, to try to bring him onto the British side during the war with Afghanistan. The emir, peeved at the lack of gifts or a letter from Queen Victoria, threw him in the notorious “bug pit” in jail. Conolly arrived about a year later on a rescue mission, but was thrown into the pit too. In 1842 the emir had them march out to the front of his citadel, or ark, to dig their own graves before being beheaded.
No creepy-crawlies remain, only shabby mannequins and money thrown in by tourists. The ark is virtually intact, its impenetrable walls scorching in the sun. It offers a fantastic panorama of what is left of Bukhara’s azure skyline after the Soviet invasion.
I stood on the battlements looking down onto where Conolly and Stoddart had lost their lives, and at the dozens of tourists wandering around. The journey to Uzbekistan may be less perilous today, but it is certainly still as exotic as it always has been.

Iran

THE wind snatched my headscarf and carried it away. Aghast, I raced after it, grabbed it and tied it back on with my bumbling hands as quickly as I could. I looked around anxiously. No-one in the smoggy streets seemed to have noticed. Heaving a sigh of relief, I dodged my way through the unrelenting traffic to meet my friend Reza.

It was my first day in Tehran, the capital of the Islamic Republic of Iran. Reza, whom I had met in Kyrgyzstan, had been kind enough to invite me to visit and had arranged for me to stay with his friends and colleagues around the country during my one-month trip. I was a little apprehensive about going to Iran because I had applied for my visa when the Revolutionary Guard had "kidnapped" British sailors – how would I be received as a lone female Westerner? I need not have worried.

As Reza had to work, his mother and sister adopted me and took me on a tour of Tehran. The decadent palaces of the shahs were now museums to a foregone age that had ended with the 1979 revolution. Each was filled with incredible masterpieces, lush lawns and neat gardens with Persian fables depicted in vivid tiles. In the Golestan Palace there was a young girls' school trip. Clutching Barbie schoolbags they gazed attentively at whatever their teacher instructed them to and skipped hand in hand around the gardens, just like any other children. Except they were wearing white hijabs to cover their hair. Islamic law states that, after the age of nine, girls should cover up when outside of their home. Older, conservative women wear the black chador, holding it closed with teeth or hands (the chador, meaning "tent" in Farsi, is just a big piece of cloth), but the Iranian reality is that women have bright headscarves barely on their heads, hair carelessly flowing out, loud make-up, tight jackets, increasingly risqué hemlines and stilettos that would make Naomi Campbell gasp.

I headed 400 kilometres south to Esfahan, where Reza had arranged for me to stay with Faridae, who was 25 and an accountant. Iran's bus system is incredibly cheap (petrol is subsidised by the government), efficient and comfortable. Men and women are segregated and snacks and drinks are included in the ticket price, which is most welcome for the massive distances covered. A former capital, it was known as "half the world" in Persian times because of its cultural and architectural diversity and wonder, including its stunning bridges. In the centre lies Imam Square, formerly Shah Square, which has a palace and two stunning mosques, the most beautiful being the Lotfallah. Originally for the shah's harem to worship in, the cream tiles of its domed roof change colour to reflect the mood of the sun throughout the day, contrasting beautifully with the rich greens and blues inside. Still a place for contemplation, a young woman was sitting down on the mosque floor vigorously typing into her laptop, oblivious to the slow, shuffling gait of tourists.

The Armenian quarter, New Jolfa, was founded in 1606 when the shah kidnapped the entire population of Jolfa, famed for their artistic skills, near the Armenian border and relocated them to Esfahan. The area is a series of twisting lanes with distinctly Christian architecture, in particular the striking Vank cathedral bearing grisly images of saints being tortured, and containing one of the world's smallest bibles, weighing just 0.7 grams.

To round off the day's sightseeing, Faridae and I went to an old teahouse that was straight out of 1001 Arabian Nights overlooking Imam Square. The smoke from hookah pipes twirled and vaporised into the twinkling night as she told of the frustrations she felt living in Iran, particularly of her lack of freedom to travel: the permission of a father, brother or husband is needed before a woman can go anywhere. All of the women I spoke to felt this way, and there is an increasingly powerful movement among both men and women to allow equal rights.
Friday is the Muslim day of rest, and when almost the entire population of Iran goes for a picnic. Faridae had to work, but her friend Atifeh, keen to practise her English, invited me to join her and her family in the park. The park was packed with groups dining on enormous banquets of roasts, breads, rice, salads and ice-creams whilst supping tea from large urns they had taken from their kitchens. I was amazed at the sheer quantity of food that was consumed and how on earth it fitted into the car. Sitting in the shade to get protection from the fierce sun, Atifeh's family began to talk about their strong dislike of their government, the current political situation and fears about an American attack. I felt great pangs of sadness and guilt when they asked me what I thought was going to happen, a question I would be asked many times. Potentially my government could drop bombs on these moderate people who had shown me nothing but incredible warmth, respect and kindness, wishing nothing in return.

My next stop was east in the oasis city of Yazd, where I was to stay with Leila, a secretary for a tile manufacturing company, who was fiercely independent and drove faster than Schumacher. Yazd is the heart of Zoroastrianism, the first religion to embrace the dualist concept of good and evil and a single god, Ahura Mazda. Zoroastrian symbols permeate the city: two huge "towers of silence" sit brooding on the outskirts of town, and an eternal flame blazes within a fire temple in the town centre. Worshippers believed a dead body to be unclean, and to bury it in the earth would pollute it, so the body would be placed atop a tower under the watch of a priest, who would observe which eye the waiting vultures plucked first. If it was the right eye, the soul would fare well; if the left then certain doom.

Going still further south to Kerman – famed for pistachios – Bijan, a computer analyst, and his wife Marian and their daughter were kind enough to put me up for a few days. Like everyone in Iran, they constantly fed me huge plates of food, cakes and sweets. From breakfast till the late 10pm Iranian dinners I could feel my body crying out for mercy from the gastronomic onslaught. Their English was quite rudimentary, but Bijan's cousin Mohammad was fluent and more than happy to take time off from work to show me around. He was the manager of an insurance company, but had been the BBC's translator after the 2003 Bam earthquake when 26,000 were killed. Bam was renowned for its enormous citadel, the biggest mud-brick structure in the world, which had collapsed in the disaster. Mohammad hadn't been there since, and was shocked at how it had changed. He recalled that when he was young it would take four hours to walk around. It now took four minutes. The site is being rebuilt with the help of UNESCO but will never achieve its past glory.

Shiraz, brimming with rose-filled gardens whose scents permeate the air, is the birthplace of the famous grape, and of Iran's most famous poets Hafez and Sade – the Shakespeares of their time. Indeed it is said that Hafez is more revered and read than the Koran, and people are to be found in every park engrossed in his works. A young family, one of whom spoke English, allowed me to be their guest. Ali was a musician with the Shiraz symphony orchestra and Firozeh was a new mother to 10-month-old Dorsa and had studied English at university. Dorsa and I were at the same Farsi level, much to the mirth of everyone else. We would both point at things, delighted that we knew what they were called, grinning widely at the praise this received.
The main tourist draw in Shiraz is the ancient ruined city of Persepolis, which dates from 500 BC and was ransacked by Alexander the Great. The grand stairway leading up to the huge Gate of Nations has shallow steps so that dignitaries could glide up with their robes flowing majestically behind them. The immense marble walls of the complex are adorned with reliefs of subject countries bringing gifts to the Persian king, legendary battles and elaborate mythical beasts. The former grand halls and temples, full of cuneiform (one of the oldest alphabets in the world) tablets, are protected by huge statues of bulls and griffins that are still awe-inspiring. Even at this tourist site, locals, a little shyly, would stop you to ask if you needed any help, to welcome you to Iran or to invite you to dinner at their house.

Every week Ali and Firozeh had a dinner party with their friends, most of them also in the Shiraz symphony. The guests brought their instruments rather than an illegal bottle of wine, and the evening was spent singing and dancing to Iranian songs. It ended in great laughter as they tried to remember the words to the only English song they knew: "Hotel California". I couldn't remember the words either.

I took off my headscarf as I left Iran and entered Armenia, the first country to declare itself Christian. A dour Russian with bleached hair and a skirt up to her oxters glared at me while her colleague scowlingly gave me a visa. I had not even left the border town and I was feeling nostalgic about saying farewell to such a fascinating place. My Iranian companions were not. They were already in shorts and T-shirts and filling their bellies with vodka.