Uzbekistan > Through the Kyzylkum desert

At half past seven on the dot, we are ready for breakfast. Today promises to be a long day across the Kyzylkum Desert to Bukhara. The weather forecast predicts an extremely hot day, with temperatures above 40°C in the cities. In the desert in between, it will surely be even hotter. We stock up on extra water and set off early—the earlier, the cooler it still is. Near Gokenz, we pull into a gas station. Unfortunately, they don’t sell diesel here. Neither does the next one, nor the one after that. Hans and Anja had already mentioned yesterday that finding diesel in Uzbekistan could be tricky.

Uzbekistan - After much asking there is a gas station selling diesel

We drive from station to station. They are fairly close together, but no one sells diesel—even if a sign on the road advertises it along with a price. What now? We ask a truck driver. Although many trucks here run on LPG, he should know. He only points further ahead and involves a taxi driver. The driver is willing to lead us to a station. Unfortunately, it too only has gasoline. How do all those trucks manage? Even at a station where the diesel pump actually has a hose, there is no diesel. We are therefore even more surprised when the fifteenth station shouts “da, da” as we ask for diesel. The pump is nothing more than a hose coming out of the ground. To be safe, we also fill two jerry cans on the roof. That extra supply could come in handy in this country. With a full tank of diesel, we set off again. The road up to now has been reasonable, meaning there are occasional big holes, but you can still drive along. As we get on the A380, the first section looks bad. Will the next 350 kilometers to Bukhara be like this? That could make for a late day. Luckily, a little later we get onto a proper highway—a four-lane concrete road. Probably concrete stands up better to the heat. The road runs straight through the desert. On either side, sandy plains with a few dried-out shrubs.

Uzbekistan - The endless road through the desert from Khiva to Bukhara

It’s hot. When we open the window, a blast of hot wind hits—a föhn. Brutus is hot too; the temperature gauge stays high. We decide to turn off the air conditioning and just open the windows the old-fashioned way. This frees up more power for the engine, which helps considerably. Halfway, we stop at a small roadside restaurant, more like a large living room. I order a cola. By around four o’clock, we enter the center of Bukhara. A man waves at our car. “Are you looking for Hotel Rumy?” This morning, we had received a tip at our hotel to stay at Hotel Rumy. Our arrival has no doubt been called ahead. An older man is now waiting for us on the street. The hotel is nearby but tricky to reach by car. We make a quick arrangement, and the three of us drive to the hotel. The hotel turns out to be a fine choice. From there, I walk into Bukhara—a feast of recognition from my trip four years ago. At a shop, I show a photo I had taken back then. “Ah, Hollandia!” the man exclaims enthusiastically. We quickly take a new photo. At a stall further along, I show the photo as well. The woman in the photo is not there. Her husband looks surprised to see his wife in the picture. She is at home now, he tells me. I take a photo together with him. At the central Lyabi Hauz Square, I sit in the park to write in my travel journal.

Uzbekistan - A chance meeting with Luc and Angela in the center of Bukhara

This square is the center of Bukhara. The Quranic schools around the pond date from 1620. Under the trees, it’s a lovely spot. I hear Dutch being spoken. As I approach, I hear: “Hey, Ronald.” It’s Angela. I met her eight years ago during the Patagonia trip. She is now following the Silk Road trip. Luc is her tour guide—he was also my guide on this trip. What a small world. Together with the tour group, we have a beer, go out to eat, and reminisce about Patagonia and the Silk Road. The walk back to the hotel becomes a challenge. I think I can retrace my steps through the narrow streets, but I can’t find the hotel. I forgot to bring an address—only the hotel name. I ask the way, but no one seems to know. More and more people get involved. Nobody knows the hotel. It must be nearby, right? Around midnight, I am lost in a maze of narrow streets, unable to find my hotel. What now? I point to the approximate location on the Lonely Planet map. Five young people think they might know what I mean. As they guide me toward the hotel, they introduce themselves in English, asking my name and where I’m from. I had probably taken a left instead of a right somewhere. I am quite relieved when I see the name “Ruby Hotel” again. I thank my guide group warmly.