Post 15: POLAND/UKRAINE BORDER - JAROSLAW - WARSAW - MOSTKI - EBENDORF - ROTTERDAM - CALAIS - ENGLAND

After walking through the border Ukraine shares with Poland, I can think of no overwhelming reasons not to hitch hike the rest of the journey back to England.

Apparently during the communist regime hitch hiking was actively encouraged in Poland, and drivers could earn rewards for picking up the most passengers per year. With this in mind I stick my thumb out onto the road, but for ten minutes the cars which go past do not stop - the drivers tending to smile but point downwards and move their hands in a circular motion, representing that they are remaining local. Suddenly, though, an old Mercedes Benz comes to a halt, then reverses and they signal for me to get in.

It is a couple, a 27 year old man who has just picked up his 35 year old girlfriend from work. She is called Irena, and can speak English, Polish, Russian and Chechnyan fluently. The reason? She works with refugees trying to enter Poland, and thus gain entrance to much of the European Union. She says the job is difficult and, at times, heartbreaking. She explains, also, that the spot I am hitchhiking from is not ideal, as most of the cars will only be travelling a few kilometres to nearby towns - lots of the locals do their shopping in Ukraine, where some of the groceries are cheaper, and possibly smuggle cigarettes too. They drop me off at a petrol station, where they say that lorries may pull up and take me for the rest of the journey. I thank them for their kindness and jump out.

Alas, after half an hour, no lorries have pulled up to the petrol station, so I wander down the road, and find a lay-by situated next to a large housing estate. Locals going to and from their flats sometimes give me a strange look, though when I give them a wink and a smile it somehow satisfies their curiosity, and they carry on going about their business .I hold up a sign with ‘Rzeszow’ written on it, but the same problem of traffic staying local remains. In an attempt not to appear weary or intoxicated to the cars driving past, I force my eyes open like a puppy. But instead of attracting the maternal sentiments of a middle aged woman, a 19 year old lad pulls up in his car and takes me a further five miles westwards.

From this new spot, next to some traffic lights, I stick my thumb out onto the road again. A lorry driver ushers me to get on, but as I start assembling my luggage the traffic lights change. I point to a hard shoulder up the road, but it is too late, he is driving off and cannot stop. As I stare at the back of his lorry, gradually getting smaller and smaller in my vision, I am left feeling the frustration of an angler when a big fish falls off the hook.

It is not a problem, a woman who has been pulled over for a while approaches me and offers assistance. She takes me to the village of Jaroslaw and as it is now evening time she drops me off by a hotel and drives off. I circulate the building, trying to find the entrance, but to no avail. I hear a woman’s voice calling to me from a car.

“You want help?”
“Ermmm…yes please, I cannot find the entrance to the hotel”
“That’s because they have not finished building it! Don’t worry, there is a cheap one in the town square that should be able to put you up. Get in the car and we will take you there.”

We get chatting. She is an English teacher, and as a consequence her diction is well polished. She goes by the name of Barbara. Her husband, Peter, is in the driving seat with a mild grin on his face. Occasionally he mutters a few words to Barbara in Polish, then chuckles.

When I explain that I am trying to head in the direction of England they say I am in luck as Peter’s sister Klara will be driving to Warsaw tomorrow morning, and should be able to give me a lift. He needs to double check with her first, but it should be okay.

Whilst Peter speaks to his sister on the telephone, I thank Barbara. “Don’t thank me - thank my husband. It was him that saw that you looked lost and said to me that we should help you. I am happy that we could.”

I wake up the next morning to the chimes of the clock in the town square. As promised, Klara picks me up at 9am, and we head off for Poland’s capital city. We chat the entire four hour journey. She is a good listener and a good talker. I am envious of her intelligence, and also her language skills - despite having always lived in Poland her English vocabulary is far more dynamic than mine.

She takes me into the centre of Warsaw and (with the satisfaction that she has completed a good deed today) slams the car up a kerb and screeches on the brakes. “Steady!” I exclaim, but she just laughs and says it is a company car, so she feels no need to look after it. She has, though, felt the need to look after me, and takes me to a cheap place to stay round the corner from the iconic Palace of Culture and Science.

After a pleasant evening in Warsaw, I awake early the next day eager to get moving so as not to miss my deadline (I need to be home in four days). As any hitchhiker would surely testify, trying to get a lift in the middle of a city, especially a capital city, is very difficult. Instead I take a short train ride to a village on the outskirts of Warsaw, called Sochaczew. I have heard this is a good spot to get a ride westwards, though upon arrival it seems way too tranquil, and I cannot find any main roads, let alone a lift.

After asking around it transpires that the motorway is a few miles west of the train station. I lug my bags across fields of wheat, and find a petrol station located on the pulsating motorway. I hold up a sign saying ‘Poznan’ - a city 150 miles west of here. After half an hour of people shaking their heads, a middle aged Polish man, who has just finished filling his tank up, approaches me.

“The traffic come here go other way to Poznan, but donn worry, I will take you to a better place to find a car to drive you.”

This kind man does just that, and he is not wrong. After waiting next to the pumps of unleaded for about twenty minutes, a minibus full of cheerful Lithuanians pulls up. They are on their way from Lithuania to Germany, and have stopped off for a cigarette break.

As luck would have it, there is a one spare seat on board, and the drivers refuse to take any payment for it. As the sun goes down we thunder along both main roads and winding lanes of Poland, weaving in and out of scenic countryside and picturesque villages. On board some of the woman are practicing their German, some are nattering in Lithuanian, some are sleeping. A few of the women share with me some of the hop-filled Polish beers they had just bought. The drivers stick to coffee.

By the time we reach the western part of Poland, it is pitch black. The minibus pulls into a village near Poznan which is much different to the quaint old places we had sped through earlier. There are no churches, but there are a plenty of strip joints, seedy bars, gambling outlets and drive in motels, all with are advertised with flashing neon lights, which gives off the ambience of Las Vegas - albeit on a much, much smaller scale. I decide this is the best place to say farewell to the Lithuanians. I shake the hands of the men, and give each of the women a peck on the cheek.

The next morning I awake in one of the motels, and on opening the curtains I discover that this is a hub of lorries. Perfect.

I potter across to a lorry driver who has his door open, and ask if I can a have a lift. “Why not?” he answers. First, though, he wants breakfast, so we go to the nearby café and he orders a fried fish. I settle for a coffee and some bigos. He tells me his name is Dennis, and that he is on a five day journey heading to Portugal with a container full of dairy products (or ‘diary products’, according to the brochure he gives me).

When we pull out of the park and join the queue of lorries heading towards Germany the driver, Dennis, starts talking about his family. He shows me photographs of his two children, and speaks of how he misses them when he goes away. He lives in eastern Poland, near the border with Belarus, and has been a lorry driver for twenty years.

We drive along a bridge over the River Odra, a natural border separating Poland and Germany. There have been no checkpoints since 1995 due to the Schengen Agreement, so we speed across. Within a few blinks of the eye we are on German soil, and switching lanes on a wide autobahn.

After quite a while on the road, Dennis pulls over into a petrol station in the village of Ebendorf, which is situated in the former East Germany, and we both jump out.

We have a coffee together, then say farewell as he will be veering southwest from now on. As he leaves behind Ebendorf I wave him off like he is a good friend, and he replies by honking his horn repeatedly for about a mile.

After enquiring around, I learn there are two hotels situated in the Ebendorf. The first I find is way out of my price range, so I locate the other one, which is much cheaper. But as I speak with the lady working at the reception it transpires that there is no room at the inn.

I don’t know if it is a nuance of desperation in my voice, or a look of vulnerability in my eye. But as I turn to leave something causes her to usher me back in and whisper that there is a spare room, but it is usually only given to people under exceptional circumstances. I am not sure if she is implying that my situation is ‘exceptional’ or not, but I seize the opportunity and accept the offer.

For the rest of the afternoon and evening I potter about the village, attempting to speak Deutsche. It should be easier than the languages of the previous places I have been to as German is in the same linguistic family as English. However, in most of my conversations the locals meet me halfway by using some English words. So for the most part we speak a fusion language: Ginglish or Englerman perhaps.

The next day I head to the petrol station and manage to get a lift with a German lorry driver called Ronald. Not long after driving westwards, he excitedly points out the window because we are crossing the former border between East and West Germany. Once a dividing line which was difficult to pass through, today the traffic is thundering past - blink and one could easily miss it.

Ronald grew up in East Germany, and still lives in his hometown. After an interesting talk about the changes which have occurred in the last twentyfive years he concludes that the eastern part of Germany “ist not better und ist not vorse. Just vewwy differvent.” We get as far as Hannover when I have to jump out, as he is heading north. He drops me off at a service station on the outskirts of the metropolis, which he says should be quite busy. “Gut luck my friend!” he calls out as he drives off.

He is not wrong about the scale of traffic here. It seems that there are lorries from every nation of Europe stopping by - Estonian, Latvian, Russian, Ukrainian, Romanian. Perhaps because of this, they are all going in different directions - north, south and east. But, frustratingly for me, not west.

Eventually a car with a Dutch number plate pulls up with two men in it. I ask the driver where he is going. “Holland of course” he replies, and midway into my explanation of what I am doing he interrupts and says “Hey its cool, get in, you can come all the way with us to Rotterdam. No problem!”

A proud Dutchman, Elbert is driving back home from a visit to Berlin. He talks of the economic crisis in Europe before unravelling his knowledge of the history of the low countries. As we near the border with the Netherlands he fills the car up with more petrol, as it is marginally cheaper on the German side.

Throughout the journey a Thai chap in his early twenties has been in the car. As we travel through the Netherlands I make conversation with him by asking what he is doing in Holland. He is quite vague, but the long and short of it is that he is here on what he calls a ‘friendship visit’ to Elbert. I don’t probe any further. We reach Rotterdam and Elbert drops me off and wishes me well.

The next two nights are spent indulging in the delights which Rotterdam has to offer. Then I have one day to make it back to England.

I find a petrol station in central Rotterdam and after a short wait a courier driver pulls up and agrees to take me to the outskirts of town. He says that for insurance purposes he should not really take hitch hikers, but as I need to get home today he does not mind taking the risk. He drops me off at a lorry park, and after an hour of waiting around a 24 year old Polish lorry driver named Martyn, who is heading to Belgium, picks me up.

As we drive along the flat terrain, the conversation bounces between football, women and travel. Perhaps because we are getting along well, or simply because Martyn has a heart of gold, he decides to change his route to give me a better chance of making it home by the end of the day. He says knows a place which is full of lorries heading to Calais, where I can catch the ferry.

He is proved right as we turn in to the service station - the lorry which is slowing down in front of us has a British number plate. Martyn honks his horn to get the driver of the vehicle to stop, and we pull up beside him.

“Hallo mate, where you from?”
“Wales”
“What’s your name pal?”
“Wayne”
“Where you heading now?”
“Calais, for the ferry to England”
“Wayne I’m Jerry, I’m from England, a town called Deal, near Dover. I’ve just got this far from Hong Kong without flying, and from the Ukrainian border with Poland I’ve done it almost entirely by hitch hiking. Any chance of a lift for the final leg to England?”
“Erm…yeah, I suppose I could make room for ya…”

Wayne clears the clutter off the passenger seat, and tells me to get in. I shake the hand of the friendly Pole, and then jump across with my bags into the Welshman’s lorry. I am moving from the passenger seat of a right-hand drive vehicle to a left-hand vehicle, so my feet do not even touch the ground. Wayne lets Martyn drive off in front of him, and with a gentle beep of his horn he bids farewell. Wayne has only stopped for a toilet break, so after two minutes we are also on the road.

Wayne is great company. We talk, talk, and talk some more. “I love all the trrravelling I do, the best think about ett is that ett brrrrooardens the mind” Wayne says in his well polished Welsh accent. As a lorryist of eight years he has touching stories about the countries he has been too, but like other drivers I have sat with he says the main things he detests about the job are the prolonged periods loneliness.

He sticks on his favourite radio station, BBC Radio 4, and the soothing sounds of the presenters cause me to nod off. When I awake, we are in Calais. I thank him and make my way to the foot passenger terminal.

I board the ship and before I know it we have set sail for England. I stare back at French coast, and feel a mild sense of achievement which is somewhat weakened by a sense of loss that the long journey I have made is now coming to an end. But nothing lasts forever.

Having predominantly heard pigeon English for the last seven weeks, it’s intriguing to listen to Kentish and Estuary English accents on the ship, saying phrases like “Well I never” and expressions like “Blimey!” I end up drinking a pint of bitter with Dave and Gary, two carpenters who have been on a day trip to France. Both think I am joking when I try to explain the journey I have made. “No way geezer, you’ve just been on a day trip like we have, aint ya - you can’t fool us mate, we weren’t born yesterday!”

I walk out on deck, and spot in the distance the White Cliffs of Dover. A smile fills my face, which mutates into a laugh, which in turn leads to a sob of happiness.
It has been a terrific 49 days. But there is no place like home.

Post 14: ODESSA - KYMEL’NYTS’KYY - L’VIV - POLAND/UKRAINE BORDER

At the chaotic bus terminal in Odessa, I find a coach heading northwest to Vinnytsya. Halfway along the journey through Ukraine’s flat terrain I notice out of the window of the coach a group of people having a picnic on some grass by the side of the road. With my belly roaring and also feeling starved of mirth, I cannot resist but attempt to join them.

“Please stop the bus, I want to get off” I say, “But this is not Vinnytsya” says the driver. “I know, but there are some people back there having a picnic and I would like to join them” I point backwards, but not surprisingly he has not idea what I am talking about. My persistence, though, eventually leads him to stop the bus. I thank him profusely, and drag my bags out into no mans land.

Due to the elapse of time getting the bus to stop, I am now several miles up the road from where I saw the picnic. So I stick my thumb out onto the other side of the road, and a few minutes later a Lada estate car pulls up with a middle aged married couple. I tell them I am from England. “Nice to meet you, where do you want to go my friend?” says the man, “Just a few kilometres please” A few minutes later I spot the picnic and, after thanking him for the lift, I jump out and wander over to the grass.

There are about a dozen people, all of whom turn to me. I have a small guitar in my hand, which seems to signify that my intentions are innocent, and they call me over and ask me to play a song. When I reply in English they all stare at me in amazement. “What are you doing here?!” asks one of them. I explain what I am doing, and also say a few Ukrainian words, as well as subtly dropping in that I have read some translations of Taras Shevchenko’s poetry. But whilst displaying a little knowledge of Ukraine goes down brilliantly, first they want some more normal, basic information about me which I have forgotten to mention.

“How old are you?”
“What are you studying?”
“Do you have a girlfriend?” one of them asks, but from their eager expressions awaiting my response it feels as if they are all asking this. To demonstrate that I do not have a girlfriend, I hold up both my hands to show that I am not wearing a wedding ring. However, instead of realising that I am single, they all think I am signifying the number ten with my fingers. “Ten?! So you must have a woman in every place you go!” says one of them, and they all chuckle. I attempt, in vain, to explain that I was actually trying to signify that I am single, but it is funnier for them to keep laughing at the prospect that I have women across the globe, so I just smile and eat another boiled egg.

After a few toasts, and some encouragements to eat a fifth plate of food, we eventually get into a van they have hired for the little trip they are on. And just like a coach full of kids on a school trip, when the van gets moving those seated on the back are much rowdier than those at the front. They exchange lots of funny anecdotes, and also delight in some rather crude humour - when one of the women opens a tin of sardines, causing the fishy smell to fill the van, there is no need  for a translator to explain the nature of the jokes being told.

After several hours of camaraderie, someone in the van notices the sign saying we are entering Khmel’nyts’kyy, and everyone in the van cheers. One of the men, who has been quiet throughout most of the journey, comes and kneels next to me and takes the opportunity to show off his grasp of English nouns by pointing out of the window and listing noteworthy sites: “Military Base…Hospital…Football Staddy…War Memorial…Market…”

I have still not quite ascertained why these people were on this trip - after broaching the subject several times I only ever received comical answers. And when the van starts dropping some people off I still cannot quite work it out. But the main thing is I have somewhere to stay - one of the lads, Boris, insists I stay at his house. First though, I must join him and some of the group for some late night drinks, and a second picnic, by a beautiful lake in the centre of town. There are birds on the banks, and some human beings swimming naked. The birds chirp, the skinny dippers yelp.

Eventually Boris signals for us to go to his house. He lives in a small bungalow, guarded by a ferocious dog on a long chain. The dog does not find it easy to grasp that I am not an intruder but a guest. Thus, Boris holds onto the barking dog tight and tells me to run inside. Boris comes in and gives me his bed and sleeps on the floor.

I awake in the morning and Boris is frantically getting dressed. He in running late for work. Even so, he insists on making me a cooked breakfast. He fries up four eggs in a pan, adds some herbs, then serves it up on a plate, accompanied by a mug of instant coffee. “This is just like you eat for breakfast in England, yes?”

Getting out of the house involves experiencing the same problem as the night before - not letting the guard dog near me.

Boris puts the snarling dog into his kennel and uses his body to block the dog from getting out. Too busy enjoying watching the dog try to poke his head over his owner’s shoulder, I forget that the sole reason Boris is doing this is so I can safely walk out of the garden without getting hurt. “Now go, now go…NOW GO!” I scurry out onto the street, and as the dog stops barking, a few more dogs up the street take over. I wait for a few minutes for Boris, who brings his motorcycle out of the house and gives the engine a rev.

He is convinced that he can fit me and all my bags on board, and does so successful, although it is not the pleasantest of rides for either of us. Despite being the opposite direction to his work, he kindly drops me off at the bus station so I can head westwards, and we say our farewells.

There is an hour to kill waiting for the bus to arrive, but this is no bother, as when I frequent the bar across the road I am instantly thrust onto a table with a couple of lads - one a 24 year old Ukrainian, the other a 34 year old Armenian. I wonder how they became friends, but when I ask they think my question is the same question people ask married couples to make conversation. “No, no, no, NO, we are NOT GAY!” I am tempted to jokingly reply “Honestly, it’s cool with me if you are”, but play it safe and explain that I am just intrigued as to the origin of their friendship. “Ahhhh” they both murmur, accompanied with a happy sigh. They met whilst doing the same job a few years ago.

An hour later the bus arrives on time and, following several painless bus journeys, I arrive in L’Viv. Then, after a pleasant night in a pleasant city, I take a bus to the Polish border.

Post 13: BATUMI - BLACK SEA - ILYICHEVSK - ODESSA

Batumi’s close proximity to Turkey is evident from the Turkish restaurants and sheesha bars, not to mention the “salamwalakums” being exchanged. I take breakfast in one of these establishments, and following some lengthy conversations it is clear that they are frequented by both Georgians and Turks alike; but not normally Englishmen. After lashings of tea I wander past the anglers which line the harbour and find the ship which is due to take me across the Black Sea.

There are delays to be allowed on board, then delays with passport control, then delays whilst on the ship waiting for it to leave. But this is to be expected, and any frustration is cooled over by the warmth of the other passengers, predominantly Georgians and Ukrainians, who share their food and their friendship. We are, as someone says, all in the same boat.

As the sun goes down the ship honks its horn and leaves the port into the mysterious Black Sea. When the Ancient Greeks first encountered the Black Sea, it was seen as the edge of the known world, inhabited by mythical beasts, half-men, and heroes. In the years since it has often been a buffer zone between differing ideologies and cultures - Christianity and Islam, Capitalism and Communism, Europe and Asia.

When I awake in my cabin the next day, the Georgians I am sharing it with have already started drinking vodka. They, along with the lorry drivers on board, are celebrating the fact that they have a day off and there is no requirement to be sober for at least another 24 hours. Not surprisingly, then, by midday many of the people on the ship are blind drunk, with bright red faces, hysterical laughs and reeking breaths.

Some people who are taking it a bit more easy (i.e. by drinking beer rather than spirits) are a few Italians motorcyclists. They have been travelling around the Middle East, and are on their way back to their small village near Udine. All have tales of how hospitable and kind people in Syria, Jordan and Palestine have been with them. The only thing which they did not enjoy was Arabic Coffee - “Italian coffee is so much better!” They tell me their ages, and I gasp. They all look twenty years younger.

The ship’s average speed is around 18 miles per hour, but eventually we arrive at the port of Ilyichevsk after two days and nights at sea. One of the Georgian passengers who now lives in Ukraine kindly assists myself and a Polish chap get through customs quicker by saying that we are with him. Thus, no questions asked. Once through, he sorts us out a cheap taxi which will take us to Odessa. The ‘Polish chap’ I have mentioned is called Kris. He is on his way back home to Poland, but is stopping off with a friend of his in the area, Julie.

For the next two days, Julie takes care of us. Her humour is more surreal than Spike Milligan, and she is full of energy all day long. As a guide around town she is a natural, whilst back at her apartment she cooks and entertains like no other.

A couple of her friends, who now live in Crimea, pop by and the energy levels fly through the roof. It is a wonderful spectator sport, though participation is difficult as their minds work in a higher gear to most. When the time comes to leave Odessa I feel exhausted, but in a pleasant way.

Post 12: AZERBAIJAN/GEORGIA BORDER - TBILISI - GORI - BATUMI

“Passport.” The customs officer requests bluntly. But, on realising I am a British national, his behaviour suddenly becomes quite jovial. “Welllllcome to Georgia!” he says, at the same time banging a stamp into my passport. I hesitate, not knowing where to walk, and he points to a door and says “Go, go, good lucka, good lucka!”

The other side of the border is, predictably, frequented by taxi drivers. For a few pieces of shrapnel one of them takes me to the nearest bus station. The only bus running goes to Tbilisi, the capital city. I hop on, and for the next two hours the bus winds along various lanes as if following the route of a meandering river.

When I arrive in Tbilisi I feel exhausted, which is a little perplexing considering I have been sat on my backside for half of the day. Despite being the capital city, as I walk around it feels more like lots of small towns glued together. In one of the areas on the east side of the Mtkvari River I find a homestay ran by a 72 year-old Georgian woman called Dodo.

In the summer she accommodates seven rooms of travellers, but at the moment it is not ‘peak season’, so in addition to me there are just a handful of Germans and a Swiss couple with their motorbikes.

For the next five nights this is my home, as I wait for ferry tickets to become available to cross the Black Sea. In this time I become part of the furniture and treated like one of the family. Dodo’s nieces, especially, give up their time to show me around the city, becoming my unofficial tour guides. My timing in Tbilisi coincides both with protests against the incumbent President, and celebrations of the 20th anniversary of Georgian independence. Thus, in one part of town there is a demonstration, with political speeches being made to the thousands of people taking part. Meanwhile, in the old part of town, families are dancing and having their faces painted.

Everywhere is the St. George’s cross, which features on the Georgian flag. As an Englishman it is a reminder that this patron saint, far from being synonymous with England, is celebrated in many other parts of the World too. Furthermore, the Georgians got there first - they were speaking of the legend hundreds of years earlier than the English.

Away from the demonstrations and celebrations, Dodo insists that I must take a sulphur bath. The spa facilities have existed in Georgia for centuries, although the current ones are reliant upon modern technology and drainage systems for heat and water. “Public or private?” the receptionist asks. I choose the much cheaper public baths. For some reason in my mind I am imagining a spacious, warm swimming pool. The reality is much different. I am taken to a room filled with naked men wearing shoes, toing and froing from the massage table to the showers to the sauna to the sulphur bath. I strip off and join in the experience.

As to be expected in a situation like this, it is difficult to know where to look. Staring too much at head height entangles me in conversations in Georgian or Russian, neither of which I speak well, and sign language whilst naked just looks strange. But not staring at peoples faces means looking at other parts - no need to digress. An alternative is to shut my eyes, but doing so whilst naked in public brings on a feeling of immeasurable vulnerability. In the end I do what seems the best course of action - stop being a wimp and get on with it. Life is too short.

My final experience in Tbilisi is a Georgian ‘supra’ (feast). I had been invited by a family I had met when I got lost on the Georgian subway (the maps and directions are all written in the Georgian script, which is like nothing else in the World). They told me that the next day would be the 21st birthday party of Kate, the daughter who spoke English well, and that I must come along. They had been so enthusiastic that I must join them for the celebration, that I found it impossible to refuse. Especially when Kate looked me in the eyes and said she would be disappointed if I did not make it.

I arrive, thinking there will just be a few family members, or perhaps a few of her friends giggling and gossiping. Instead, as I walk through the door, there are about thirty people sat in silence, gazing at me. “This is my family and friends” Kate says. They have all been waiting for my arrival. She asks if I would like to know all their names, and I say of course. Each person takes it in turn to shake my hand and say their name.
“You have remembered all the names yes?”
“Yes of course, she is Tomi and he is Kate” I joke. For some reason this terrible gag goes down brilliantly, and they say “Cargot” and we all walk into the dining room.

I have read a few things before about these Georgian feasts, but nothing can prepare one for the real thing.

At the head of the table in the ‘tamada’, who leads the proceedings.
“The men are standing - you must stand!” he says to me firmly. We all hold glasses of Georgian wine, take it in turn to say a few words, then neck it and sit down. Throughout the next few hours we repeat this procedure countless times; it is a battle of wits, patience and stamina. There are toasts to the birthday girl, to the immediate family, to diseased ancestors, to me and my journey. Then there are toasts to God, and things almost get sticky.

When they ask me what my religion is, I have no idea what to reply. This would not be a convenient time to explain my lack of belief, so I say Christian. But they pin me down and ask which sect. I do not want to risk pledging allegiance to the Pope, yet I am also unsure how it would go down if I committed myself to Luther. And if I say that I am Georgian Orthodox like them, it would so obviously be contrived. Thus, idiotically, I opt for “Oh, I’m errr… English Orthodox.” This, of course, does not exist. They look at me very confused, then say “Catholic or Protestant?” “Ermmmm…sort of but not quite Protestant?” Thankfully this is sufficient, and the toast in made, and the conversation smoothly rolls on to Georgian literature, followed by a toast to Kate’s parents.

When the feast has finished those in their early twenties keenly put on the latest Western chart toppers and dance enthusiastically. But there is no emotion, no depth to the songs, except for the fact they are in fashion at the moment - there is no way they will be played next year. Thus, the songs which provoke the strongest reaction and are played for the rest of the night are the beautiful old songs which have stood the test of time and get everyone joining in. At one point Kate’s mother gets on the piano.

I have to get up early the next day, so I thank them for a wonderful evening and try to leave. “No, sit down, we will tell you when to leave!” says the tamada. Georgian hospitality is a wonderful thing, and Kate and her family have been delightful. But when it means its not possible to leave at a reasonable hour their kindness can take its toll. I am showered with even more food, drink and encouraged to join in the dancing and singing. Then they give me a gift (a fluffy toy) and send me on my way. The next morning I awake after just a few hours of sleep and a head like a golden fleece on fire.

I say farewell to Tbilisi and take a minibus to Gori. For some this town is synonymous with Joseph Stalin, it being his birthplace. I pop into an eatery ran by some Georgians women all dressed in black. After much communication, mainly by naïve sign language rather than verbal conversation, I mention Stalin, and one of the ladies leaves and comes back with a dusty wooden tablet from 1979 commemorating the hundredth anniversary of Stalin’s birth.

In the evening I eat khinkhali in a pub. The locals are perfectly at ease with my presence, and say they are happy to practice their English with a native. By ten o’clock everyone is glued to the football match on the television. It is Barcelona vs. Manchester United, with about half the people in the room supporting each team. I tell them I am neutral, but that I bet Wayne Rooney will score in the first half. When this happens some of the Manchester United supporters come and shake my hand, as if it was me that caused the goal, rather than Rooney’s foot.

At half time I have to leave, and one of the lads kindly saves me a taxi fare by driving me to the train station, where I board the night train to Batumi. As luck would have it I end up in a compartment with a couple who are at the peak of their lust for one another, and seem keen to convey their dreams and feelings to each other all night, without a minute of shut eye. Alas, I have another sleep deprived night. Thankfully, the train arrives in Batumi ahead of schedule, and the next day I will have 48 hours to rest on a ship.

Post 11: BAKU - SHAKI - AZERBAIJAN/GEORGIA BORDER

After a bumpy ride along miles of rural lanes and stunning scenery, the coach arrives in Shaki. I wander around the town, looking for a place to stay. It is a quaint place, amplified by the backdrop of the beautiful landscape. I struggle to find any lodgings until I notice a small advertisement in a shop window, written in English, which says “Homestay in Sheki with friendly family, call Illgar on this number.” Perfect.

I stop people on the street asking to use their cell phones, but have no luck. Perhaps they do not understand my theatrical sign language. Or perhaps, seen as most the people I stop are elderly, they do not have cell phones. Finally, though, I spot a man about 20 years old talking on one, so when his conversation rounds off I accost him to use it, and he kindly agrees.

I get through to Illgar, and he tells me he is currently at work but I am to remain where I am and in five minutes a car will pick me up and take me to his family’s house. The mystery car does indeed pull up, and I jump in. I am driven up tracks which were definitely not designed for motor vehicles, let alone a Lada, Somehow, though, the driver manages to wind along them, and drops me off next to a gate.

I step out of the car and ring what I think must be a doorbell. The door opens and I am greeted by Illgar’s mother, who is sporting a full set of gold teeth. She does not move or speak, instead she just stays stationary, beaming at me. I say hello and attempt to beam back. She signals for me to follow her along the garden and into the house.

The family also consists of Illgar’s wife, 14 year old son and 12 year old daughter. They, like many Azeris, are Shia Muslims. The two children can speak a moderate amount of English. They tell me that whilst the older generation were taught Russian as a second language, it is now more common for English to be taught instead.

After some wonderful food, they take me down to meet Illgar at his place of work. He runs a small leisure facility - a little warehouse with table football, table tennis, and a wall for practicing rock climbing. He has only been open a month, but says that so far it is going well. We sit and talk whilst various people come and go. A couple of times in the evening he goes off to pray to Allah.

He closes at 10 o’clock at night, and we walk and talk the way home. We stop en route at a grocery shop and he pulls out a small shopping list. He looks at me with a twinkle in his eye and says “Sorry but we have to go in here and buy these things. If I do not get them my wife won’t let us into the house, so we would be forced to sleep outside on the grass!” Thankfully when we arrive back not only does she let us in, but she has prepared a feast. Illgar goes off to pray again, and on returning we say our goodnights.

The next morning, after some exploration of historic sights, I return for a farewell lunch at the house. Upon leaving, Illgar’s mother beams at me for the last time - I attempt to beam back, before wandering down to the bus station.

I find the only minibus heading north, and feebly scramble my body on board, squeezing my way intimately passed the other passengers who got on first. The vehicle is jam packed. It is as if someone has told the start of a joke: “How do you fit twenty Azeris and an Englishman into a minibus?” but instead of a verbal punch line the answer is performed physically. Despite the discomfort I feel admiration rather than aggravation - they are pushing economic efficiency and environmental kudos to the limit. Consequently, the journey only sets me back 2 Azeri Manat (less than £1).

The minibus drops off at a town called Balaken, situated near the border with Georgia. A taxi driver offers to drive me to the border cheaply, so I jump in. He starts driving but I ask him to stop and turn back as I suddenly realise that these are my last few minutes in Azerbaijan, and whilst it is time I leave, I do not feel quite ready. I ask him to take us to his favourite place to eat, and treat him to some dinner. It is a wonderful final experience of Azerbaijan. The place is empty, except for a mother and daughter, who say I am the first Englishman they have met. We talk, laugh, and yes, flirt. Meanwhile the taxi driver keeps thanking me for the food, scoffing it down like there is no tomorrow.

I still do not feel ready to leave, but time is not on my side so we step back into the car and he drives me to the border. The customs officers on the Azerbaijan side stamp my passport and wish me good luck, and I cross the bridge over the Alazani River into Georgia.

Post 10: AKTAU - CASPIAN SEA - BAKU

Pitch black at the sleepy port of Aktau. The cargo ship has docked, but it will be another twelve hours of waiting before I am allowed to step on board. Once on the ship, the beautiful sunrise is no consolation for the further twelve hours of waiting before the ship gets moving. This is, though, to be expected. The ship’s raison d’etre is not to assist fools like me who want to traverse the World; instead it is meant for carrying tonnes of goods of exchange between Kazakhstan and Azerbaijan. Thus, rather than frustration at the delays, I remind myself that I should feel lucky to even be allowed on board.

This is the first journey so far where I am not the only Englishman on board. Also on the ship is Peter, a 24 year-old wheelchair-bound man from St. Helens. He is travelling from Bangladesh (where he has been setting up centres to help disabled people get work) back to England. He has a site.

Also on board are some adherent followers of the Islamic faith, who are travelling to Azerbaijan for a month of living and learning from some Imams. They say they do this once a year, but to a different location. Last year they were in Turkey, the year before they were in India. Next year they will be going to, of all places, Tewkesbury. I wish them good luck.

Rather than wave, the water ripples with beauty in a way which both Monet and Manet would struggle to capture. The boat does not rock like it would if it was going across the English Channel. This is partly because, contrary to the name, the Caspian Sea is in fact a lake - the largest in the World. But it is also because the wind has barely been blowing for the last few days. I am told by the sailors that it can get very choppy in the deeper waters when the wind is howling.

In the evening my belly is doing somersaults, so I go to the onboard canteen. The crew call me over to sit with them. They feast me with their cuisine and shower me with their vodka. They are all Azeri, as is the food. The toasts are numerous, and all revolve around solidarity and friendship. Despite the incredible amount of vodka consumed, their behaviour changes very little, and there are no signs that they are intoxicated at all, save for a few glazed eyes. There is certainly no call to sing “What we gonna do with the drunken sailor?” I, however, am spent, and retire to bed.

The next day it is becomes clearer that we are getting nearer to Azerbaijan by the plethora of oil rigs which the ship weaves between. They almost look like giant spiders, although with so many legs they are certainly not arachnids.

By the late afternoon the coastline of Azerbaijan is in view. I feel what must be a similar joy which innumerable sailors have experienced upon seeing dry land. The sailing time has only been a meagre 23 hours, yet it feels like weeks since I have seen a settlement, let along an enormous city.

 

In Baku I somehow manage to find a very cheap place to stay with a family in the ‘ancient city’. Upon walking around this picturesque, historic area, it becomes clear that the home I am staying in is surely one of the last enclaves of the area to resist the gentrification that an influx of wealth has generated. Baku has been booming in the last ten years due to oil, although this is not the first time it has had an oil boom - many of the buildings near the mosques and old walls reflect the previous ’gold rush’ which occurred in the late 19th Century.

I am welcomed into the house by Micher. He explains, in broken English, how he is the only man living here, the rest are his sisters, nieces, aunts and mother. He asks if I am hungry, and then walks me to his friend’s restaurant. We are arm in arm, but this is friendly affection in this part of the World, not an indication of sexual preference. Men who are friends can hold hands and even kiss. It is no big deal. Over some food he explains that he fought for two years in the Azerbaijan-Armenia war in Karabakh. He shows me a long scar down his chest and one down his leg. He has also lost the hearing in one of his ears.

On returning to his home, I notice a mouse nibbling away on something near the entrance. I point at it, thinking he will go and get an instrument akin to a baseball bat. Instead, he leaps at it with his bare hands and grabs the mouse’s tail. There are a few squeaks from the mouse, before it breaks free and scurries off. Micher is left holding the small piece of the tail which broke off in his hand, but sees the funny side of his fruitless attempt at pest control, and for the next ten minutes keeps retelling what happened to his family.

 

 Due to a combination of their personalities and their sheer numbers, the household feels very matriarchal. For a visiting male, though, this is wonderful, as they shower me with their undivided attention.

The next day one of the women, 36 year old Jamilya, goes to leave the house. I ask if I can join her and she accepts. I assume she is walking somewhere, but it seems the normal way to get about this city, not least because fuel is so cheap, is by car. As we drive along she shuffles the music player through different dance songs, some of which sound familiar, some of which sound as if they could only have been conceived amongst the Caucasus mountains.

We arrive at her flat, where she is dropping off some bits and bobs. The exterior, whilst not grey, is quite a generic design from the 1960s which does little to inspire. The treasures are to be found inside. We get out of the lift on the thirteenth floor and unlock the door to a miniature palace. As she shows me the rooms it feels like I am on the set of one of those TV shows where so-called celebrities allow cameramen into their house. Everything is plush, polished, and no doubt obeying every rule of feng shui. Even the bathroom feels like somewhere I could spend a whole day in. For the big finale, she shows me her bedroom. “Come, Come!” she holds my hand and drags me in there. “What you think?” “Wonderful, can I sleep here too?” I (jokingly) ask. “NO, NO, NO!” she smiles, “No one is allowed in this bed!”

I think she is (jokingly?) rejecting my advances, but it later transpires that not even she sleeps in this bed. The reason being that the flat is soon to be sold to a wealthy American, no doubt involved in the lucrative oil or gas business. Therefore it must remain spotless.

On the drive back she keeps returning to a song which makes her whole body and emotions change almost into an alter ego - this is clearly ‘her song’. Keeping her left hand on the wheel, she extends her right hand and moves it like a snake to the beat. Somehow, through the carnage of the traffic, we make it back to the more sedate ancient city.

The next morning I find a coach which is heading northwest to Shaki and, after quaffing a shashlyk for breakfast, take to my seat.

Post 9: TURKESTAN - ARALSK - AKTAU

The train journey from Turkestan to Aralsk is spent in a shared cabin with a middle aged alpha male Russian - Vladimir. We converse little when I first get in as we are both tired. There is something quite soothing about both the movement and the sound of the train. Perhaps this is something which takes one back to being a baby rocked to sleep. Or maybe it is just because I am tired. But it is the best sleep I have on the journey so far.

The next morning whilst Vladimir snoozes on the opposite bed, I lye and read. Abruptly he wakes up, and in less than two seconds he is rummaging about and chatting away. The idea of there needing to be a transition between sleep and daytime activity seems pointless to him. In a friendly manner he lectures me about how the route I am planning is stupid, and that I should go via Moscow, not Azerbaijan. He then somehow musters up an enormous breakfast from his small rucksack, feeds me and continues refilling my plate until I explain that, if I eat any more, it may come back up as there is no space left in my body for it to go. He jokes that if I manage to hold some more food down it may help a certain body part expand - but that is not enough to tempt me.

The train slows into a town full of small white cottages. According to the clock this is the time that I am due to arrive in Aralsk, so I assume I am here and get up to leave. “Where you going? This not Aralsk”, firmly asserts Vladimir. “Oh, okay” I sit back down, and he explains it is not for quite a few more miles yet. Five minutes later he overhears some voices talking outside and jumps up and shakes me. “Actually this is Aralsk, GO, GO, GO, GO, GO, GO!” I step off just in time, as when I turn and face the train it is shuttling off. A grin finally fills Vladimir’s face as he smiles and waves goodbye from the window.

Walking through Aralsk is not an experience which could be described as enchanting. The place has clearly seen better days. Back in 1921 it gloriously responded to a hunger shortage in the Soviet Union by provided fourteen railway carriages full of fish from the Aral Sea. However, the drainage of the Aral Sea for the irrigation of cotton fields since the 1960s removed it completely from Aralsk’s coastline, leaving the town to rot. Apparently, though, the times are a-changing, as dams are being built to try and move the lake back to where it once was.

Despite being a sleepy town, when I walk through the town centre it is pulsating, not with trade but with a carnival atmosphere. Today is Victory Day - a celebration and remembrance of the Soviet Union’s role in defeating fascism. A staggering twenty-seven million of her citizens sacrificed their lives in the Second World War, and countless millions were maimed.

As well as a day of remembrance, like most public holidays around the world this is a chance to take time off work and revel in other activities. Groups of boys linger near the groups of girls, eager to flirt, though desperate not to embarrass themselves. Old folks sit on the benches and reminisce. Some of them have eyes which radiate that they have seen and experienced more than I will ever know.

Between groups of people with different ages and genders I turn my attention. I do not need to approach anyone - they call me over. I stand out like a sore thumb for at least two reasons. Partly because the town in so small that everyone seems to know each other. And furthermore because I am wearing shorts, the only person in the square to do so.

At night the atmosphere grows more exciting. The coming together of young and old is not just visually apparent but can also be heard in the music. The DJ somehow manages to blend modern dance with old rallying songs seamlessly.

Early the next morning I catch the train to Aktau. It is a thirty-four hour journey, but as I speak with others on board I soon learn that I should not complain - they have already been on this train for thirty hours, travelling all the way from Almaty. This is, after all, the ninth largest country in the World, and distances between the towns and cities are long.

I am in the lowest class of carriage, so am surrounded by many beds, and hence many people. Some of the people sitting and socialising around me are from Turkmenistan, and are taking a slow but cheap route home. They want to know everything about me, from my age and nationality to the specific details of my hobbies and my family. I ask if they are spies, and they laugh and say they are just curious as they have never met someone from England. They joke that it is more plausible that I am the spy, a real life James Bond.

In the evening I find a food cart for some peace and quiet, after many hours of chatting. But in the food cart I am called over to a table of people, this time some lads from Almaty in their early twenties. They pour me out some beer and say “Relax, man!” They are on their way to Aktau to collect some cars. As things stand import duty is remarkably low, so they can make a decent profit if they buy cars from abroad (the Middle East), collect them from Aktau port and drive them to Almaty to sell on. This lucrative trade is set to end, though, as the government is hiking up the import taxes in June.

They say that when we arrive in Aktau I can share a flat with them. I accept. The next day they stick to their word, and we are collected from the train station and driven to the entrance of one of the many concrete blocks that dominate the town. The exterior may lack character, but the interior is lovely. They cook me dinner and pour out some vodka.

We walk towards the shore of the Caspian Sea. Every fifth car is a Lada. Once the norm in much of the Soviet Union, they are slowly becoming extinct, and perhaps because of this, as well as their simple design, they appear almost quaint. Almost. And they are certainly much less threatening than the SUVs which roar around this town, a status symbol of those who are getting rich from the oil pipelines and shipping which is taking off ‘big time’.

Aktau is perfectly situated to watch the sunset. It is beautiful. I end up staying in Aktau for seven days and nights waiting to receive an Azerbaijan visa and then waiting for the ferry to arrive. Plenty of things happen, but there is a saying amongst people who are only in Aktau on a temporary basis - what happens here stays here. Thus, in respect of this rule, I shall stop there.

Post 8: SHYMKENT - SAYRAM - TURKESTAN

I awake in my lodgings in Shymkent and give Olesa (the friend of Zaur who lives nearby) a call. She meets me in the bustling city centre and we go for a Turkish coffee. She asks what my plans are, and I tell her I do not intend to stay here long, but would like to see the ancient town of Sayram before heading northwest to Turkestan. She tells me that she would be honoured to do anything she can to help, and gives her next door neighbour, Almaz, a call. She says he will take me to both of these places, and will not accept any payment off me except for the cost of the petrol. Half an hour later he pulls up next to us with a face of restrained excitement. We jump in, he navigates the traffic with ease, and we arrive in Sayram.

Sayram has recently celebrated its 3000th anniversary. The town is populated mostly by Uzbeks, which has earned it the nickname ‘Little Uzbekistan’. We find an Uzbek restaurant, and spend an hour sat cross legged eating the most delicious cuisine. As we munch away the conversation flows. Olesa, although no communist, talks with sorrow about how it has become very expensive to go to decent universities since the Soviet Union collapsed. When she was younger it was completely free to study, but she says that now parents are having to amass great debts to give their children any kind of hope.

We leave the restaurant and somewhere in the distance can be heard a song which causes Olesa and Almaz to smile and join in. Apparently it is a Kazakh song which is played when a couple have just become engaged. The romantic theme continues when we get in the car, drive off and overtake a convoy of cars which have flashing lights. This usually means that there are newly weds inside.  Love is in the air.

Much of the landscape along the journey is, in a word, barren. The vast, flat ‘steppe’ which dominates the geography of Kazakhstan provides inspiration for the eyes, except for the occasional camel grazing on the dry grassland. I wonder if they are happy. Can a camel suffer from depression? One thing they can do is produce milk, and we stop off at a cottage and each drink a cupful, before continuing along the bumpy road.

Despite the barren nature, the land is not uninhabitable. There are various small communities we drive past, including some which still have the old nomadic ‘yurt’ style housing. Furthermore, the environment is more diverse than the eye can see - there are an eclectic selection of minerals and materials in Kazakhstan’s landmass, and the President (whose beaming face, shiny forehead and neatly combed hair can be seen all over the place) has boasted that they have almost every element of the periodic table available.

When we arrive in Turkestan, Olesa kindly accompanies me to the train station to sort out tickets for the rest of my journeys across Kazakhstan. She then asks around for a cheap-but-cheerful place for me to stay. They drop me off there, and we say our farewells.

The next day I potter around Turkestan. The old mausoleum is spectacular. It is situated next to a vast square, which by the early evening seems to be the place to ‘hang out’. Some lads spot me walking with what must be a distinctive gait, and they call me over. They are playing guitar, drinking beer and talking about girls. Splendid. As with previous encounters in Kazakhstan, there are different ethnicities. This becomes apparent from the word go. Well, actually, from the word ‘hello’ - some say ‘salamatsiz  ba’, some say ‘salamaleikum’, some say ‘dobridyehn’. Some shake my hand, some hold it and cup it with their other hand. Some bow. It is a satirical and fun way to celebrate diversity. They give me a can of lager and I join them for an hour.

As if to emphasise that Turkestan is more youthful than the facades of the buildings convey, when I go to the train station in the late evening I am again summoned by some people in their early twenties, wondering what I am doing in this town, and for that matter why I am leaving it. They are heading to the larger city Kyzylorda for a few days, and say I am welcome to join them. Alas, I do not have the time. I do, though, have two hours with them waiting for the train. Their English language skills vary, but as we all seem to be full of energy and lacking inhibitions, we manage to have no major communication difficulties. Their humour is very sharp and to the point. One lad in particular has the knack of entertaining absolutely everyone without ever running out of steam. He kindly gives me a present on behalf of everyone. Appropriately it is a catapult, one of the many objects he keeps up his sleeve.

The train arrives on time, and the group gather around me, carry my belongings on board and help me find my cabin. They say goodnight and move on to their carriage, and the train picks up speed. Soon not a single street light can be seen out of the window.

Post 7: ALMATY - TARAZ - SHYMKENT

I stick my thumb out to the traffic of a busy Almaty street, hoping to get a cheap ride to the bus station on the western outskirts of the city. A chap in his late teens pulls over, his brakes screeching loudly. I start to tell him where I want to go, but he signals to get in first and then explain. I throw my bags in the back, jump on the front seat, and he revs the engine and accelerates down the road as if he is in a motor race.

The five mile journey, despite being the shortest of the trip so far, is definitely the most dangerous. Although he is young, the driver has quickly learnt every trick in the book to beat the traffic. This does, of course, include throwing caution to the wind when it comes to the law. The colours of the traffic lights are irrelevant as he breezes through them whilst the stereo blasts out Jamaican Reggaeton, Hispanic Hip-Hop and Kazakh Dance Music at deafening volumes. He is more than happy to drive on the wrong side of the road to get me there quickly. Sometimes we ride on the tram lines, turning back into the road only if a tram is several feet away. From time to time he drives with no hands, preferring to sticks them through the sun roof and feel the air resistance.

When we come to a standstill at a crossroads he points at some policemen who are parked at the turn off to our left. “You…see…those…cops?” I nod, thinking I can relax that he will finally drive a bit more carefully. I am wrong - he speeds ahead so fast that I feel like my face is going to melt. He grins excitedly, perhaps because he finds it fun to plough through the roads like a computer game, but more likely because he enjoys glancing at my expression of fright. My fear only ends when he swerves 270 degrees into the parking bay of the bus station and shouts “YES!” I give him the agreed amount (about £1) and shake his hand, though I should really be shaking the hand of Mister Good Fortune that I am still alive.

I ask around where I can get a bus to Taraz and a woman ushers me onto a coach which has already started its engine. I am the last person on board, and sit down in the only remaining space next to a middle-aged man. Upon realising that I am not a local, he shows me videos of his little wolf on a camera phone. Not the most conventional way of getting to know someone, but he is only being friendly. When the bus stops halfway along its route, he treats me to dinner, refusing to let me pay for anything. Early on in the journey we had conversed very little - his third language (after Kazakh and Russian) is German. But as time goes by his English gets better and better - it is as if the cogs in his brain are like the pistons of a steam engine. And as we tuck in to dinner (chicken, mashed potato and grated carrot) he is flowing like a thespian.

After several more hours on the bus we get off at another stop and he excitedly tells me that is possible to buy the milk of a horse and a camel. “Which you want?” I choose horse milk. He takes me over to the stall, and in the darkness, with the Tien Shan mountains no longer visible, the milk glows like a star. I am dehydrated and also in need of some nutrients, so this milk appears almost holy. We jump back onto the bus just in time - it has already started moving, so we have to step on in the same way people did on the old Routemaster buses.

Once on board I take a big swig of this milk, expecting it to taste like heaven. Food palettes are to a large extent nurtured, so the experience of flavour is highly subjective. But my awareness of this fact is of little use in stopping me from gagging. My whole body heaves, trying to forcibly remove any trace of the milk from my person, but I somehow manage to hold it down and turn to Zaur and muster a smile. “You like?” “Errmmm…” “Here, have some more!” Seen as he has paid for this gift to me it is rude not to, so I take another swig, repeating to myself that with practice it is possible to enjoy eating and drinking almost anything. This time it is not so bad, as my body is prepared for it. I thank him, but refuse all future offers, which is fine by him as he is getting almost orgasmic pleasures from necking the stuff.

When the bus finally arrives in Taraz it is wet and late. But after eight hours of my company, Zaur is not sick of me yet. He tells me I must stay at his house and meet his wife, son and father. I accept his kind offer. We take a smoke filled taxi to his flat, the second floor of a small concrete block. Zaur’s father is asleep, but his son, five years old, comes to life at our arrival. Ten minutes later, though, he is so burnt out that he goes back to bed. Zaur’s wife cooks us some midnight snacks, and we all turn in.

The next day, after laying on a large spread for breakfast, I get to meet Zaur’s father, the eighty-nine year old Oljaz. He beams at me, and as Zaur translates his face fills with pride, as does the nuance of his voice, because he has the opportunity to uninterruptedly talk about his life and his family. Many Kazakhs can trace their ancestry at least seven generations. It is only in relatively recent history that a large number of Kazakhs were nomadic - Oljaz was the first generation of his family to grow up in a permanent environment. Oljaz fought in the Second World War, and has plenty of medals to prove it. He knew plenty of people who lost their lives in the fight against fascism. He is a lifelong communist, but he asks me to take his photograph with a backdrop not of Lenin but of his ultimate hero, Abai Qunanbaiuli: “The Kazakh Shakespeare!” Oljaz exclaims.

It is Zaur’s 49th Birthday, and throughout the day the telephone rings with cousins, cousins of cousins, and cousins of them wishing him well. In between these calls, we sit on the balcony playing guitar and singing songs. He is a big fan of The Beatles, and sings well. He also introduces me to some more local songs, as well as a few he has written himself. In the afternoon we go for some Turkish coffee and watch the World go by. When we return, his wife has prepared yet another incredible display of culinary expertise.

To compliment the food a bottle of Kazakh vodka and some shot glasses are produced from the cupboard. Zaur makes a point of saying that drinking vodka is not an every day thing, it is reserved for special occasions. And as it is his birthday, and also as they have a guest from abroad, it is a cause for double celebration.

We toast the unity of an Englishman with a Kazakh - “Za Druzhbu Myezhdu Narodami!” - we toast the birthday of Zaur - “Za Vas!” Drinking premium vodka neat is a magnificent experience. Unlike the muck that can be found in any newsagent and supermarket in England, this is sensational stuff. I get a taste for it, and don’t refuse a few more. The feeling of delayed warmth is enduring. After having one-for-the-road, we say our goodbyes. I thank them for their overwhelming display of hospitality, and they say I am always welcome.

Zaur accompanies me in the taxi to the bus station. He finds me a marshrutka (minibus) going to Shymkent, and gives me the contact details of a friend he has there who speaks English. We embrace. “Stay in touch, you have problem, call me!”

The effects of the vodka kick in on the minibus, and I fall asleep. An hour later I wake up, and the bus is considerably more empty. A girl is staring at me smiling. I say hello, and go through the process of trying to explain who I am and where I am going. “Ahhh” she says, understanding what I have said, but a little perplexed by why I did not just get on a plane in Hong Kong. She takes deep breaths and then attempts to say some long sentences. She is seventeen years old and wants to improve her English speaking skills, so is glad to be able to speak with a native. The chap sat next to me does not speak a word, but just sits with a mild grin on his face throughout the journey.

At Shymkent everyone goes their separate ways. The city is full of activity. It is the capital of the South Kazakhstan region, and a place which has been a trading centre since at least the 12th Century, owing to its location along the Silk Road. Today it is quite a modern development, but as I wander through an enormous bazaar it is clear that it has not entirely broken from its past - although the goods on sale are predominantly tracksuits and plastic gadgets, rather than rare silk. After a long walk I stumble upon a cheap place to stay. It is a newly built hotel and the bedroom walls are made of glass. For the sake of privacy, though, there are curtains. I draw them together and collapse on the bed.