3^rd August, Tashkent

We had arranged to meet Bakhtiar and the head mechanic, Alex, on the evening of the 3rd. The car was in a sorry state again. In addition to unreliable starting, the clutch was showing signs of developing a serious problem and stuck once depressed. Most inconveniently this mainly happened at traffic lights or in heavy traffic and we had to pull the pedal back up manually in order to engage the gears and get away.

Our agreement left us the morning to relax and an afternoon for shopping. Waking fairly early I wrote my diary and played some billiards with the receptionist who had been up all night at the desk. His father had been a professional and he beat me quite convincingly. Billiards is much played throughout the former USSR yet bizarrely I read that the Uzbek government had placed a nationwide ban on the sport in 2002 as many clubs had become havens for illegal drug use and heavy drinking. I have no idea how seriously this law is upheld or whether it even still stands. When Jonno was ready we headed to the bazaar.

Disappointingly civilized, the bazaar sold ordinary Chinese made tat and there was none of the expected Central Asian haggling. Undeterred we headed to the bank. The cash machine could only deliver around twenty dollars in one go, just enough to fill a single jerry can. Considering prices were nearly equivalent to those in Europe it was clearly impractical to withdraw all we needed for the next week from the cash point. After some discussion with the guards we were taken upstairs and given a receipt for a credit card withdrawal. We then went downstairs to change the receipt for US dollars, which we then exchanged for an exceptional wad of nearly worthless notes. The largest denominations were roughly equivalent to one dollar but the majority of notes we were given were worth only twenty pence and nearly worthless, even in Uzbekistan.

We took the underground back to the bazaar where we had left the car. Tashkent is the only city in Central Asia to have a metro. It is of the standard Soviet sort; epic in conception, well maintained and as splendidly ghoulish as any gothic cathedral. There was a guard at the top and bottom of the escalator and three armed guards on the platform. It was not very busy.

After the stress and the sun we were ready for a bite to eat. The food market of the bazaar, at least, was anything but disappointing. Many individual stalls were covered by one gigantic concrete canopy whose dark span was broken down the centre by a long strip of sky, blue and brilliantly light. Long red flags trailed down from the gap and charcoal smoke spiralled back up between them. It was also strangely peaceful; a free space where everything seemed more neutral. It was mesmerizing, watching the stall workers shuffle kebabs along the braziers and wafting them with fans. We got a little too relaxed and after three shasliks (meat kebabs) each and a couple of non (a Central Asian flat bread) we realised we were already a little late for our appointment at the garage.

It proved nearly impossible to find our way back. Unsure of where we were or where we were going, we ended up going around in circles. We were directed several times to the wrong car wash before finally someone who worked at the garage, who was driving home spotted us. He recklessly pulled out across three lanes of traffic, accelerating across the junction as the lights changed. Very relieved to see him, as we had kept our hosts waiting for over an hour, we followed him back to the carwash.

What followed was a very enjoyable evening. Alex forgave our late arrival and was very glad to see us again, having been home in the meantime to see his wife. The mechanics were excited by such a strange and wonderful car. One of the guys swapped our starter motor for a spare, plugged a hole in the exhaust and switched the spark plugs. Alex inspected the clutch. He noticed that it wasn’t a problem with the clutch cable or mechanism but something in the transmission. He said the car should probably get us out of Uzbekistan, warning us of the consequences of not doing so, but he did not expect it to make it all the way to Ulaanbaatar.

With one of the young mechanics, an expert panel beater, we exchanged our novelty air horn for a lucky talisman and hung it from our rear-view mirror. He explained that the hoop bearing a golden disk, worked with Arabic or Turkic lettering, all bound and tasselled in blood red string, was the mark of Tamerlane. Tom Bissell, in Chasing the Sea, describes Tamerlane or Amir Timur as ranking “among the worst mass murderers in world history.” Famous as a descendant of the slightly less destructive Mongol, our namesake, Genghis Khan (also known as Jenghiz and Chengiz), Timur was a megalomaniac without parallel in Central Asia and the wider world. Yet in Uzbekistan you can find statues in his image, his mark on notes and his name is honoured.

Born with a crippled leg and further disabled by an arrow wound to the shoulder, Amir Timur hence became known as Timur the Lame from which Tamerlane is derived. During and after his rapid rise to power in the later fourteenth century, Timur displayed a spirit of mercilessness towards both his enemies and those servants who were unfortunate enough to displease him. He decapitated bakers, craftsmen and architects whose work fell short of his desired standards and humiliated his captured nobles, breaking their castes and religious codes. In conquest, Timur was emphatically inhumane; killing man, woman and child and stacking their heads in great pyramids outside their razed cities. Tamerlane’s western apologists defend his remorselessness, asking us to make concessions for Timur’s personal boredom, to consider his unifying effect or by arguing the merit of his legacy of great buildings. Many of which are ornamented in ravishing turquoise or timurid tile work.

Dependant on perpetual conquest and re-conquest, Timur’s huge empire crumbled shortly after his death, leaving not only a legacy of notable works but also much ruin.

It is common to hear that Central Asians have different expectations from their rulers than Europeans, accepting ‘strong leadership’ more readily or at least being less likely to feel the need to make apologies for it and the suffering it can cause. It is a big generalisation to make but I believe there is something in it. Life in Central Asia is often very cruel. The lack of water and huge range of seasonal temperature make life very challenging and some people suggest this is the cause of their brave and rather unsentimental world view. However, for me this does not adequately explain why Central Asians might be more ready to accept hardships imposed on them by their leaders or why they might consider the challenges and hardships their leaders inherit more sympathetically than we often do.

It could be argued that the realism of the Central Asians if it indeed exists, their acceptance, if not celebration, of heavy handed leadership, may limit their dreams and hinder their progress towards a freer state. However, this is certainly not a simple argument. Western politics can often be incredibly ambitious and idealistic and not entirely unrelatedly we have also produced ‘strong leaders’ capable of great wickedness, even mass murder. Yet, we hold the culprits at arms length, where they are more comfortable, or simply we forget their misdeeds if not their power and presence.

Rising/Falling – Always Hoping -can be bought online at Amazon.co.uk, - ordered by your local bookshop for just £8.74 (the price the team’s car was auctioned for at the end of the rally) Just note the ISBN:9780956196613 - or bought direct from the suppliers @ £10.99 (£8.74 plus £2.25 p&p) Address Cheques to Craig Chamberlain, Glovers Cottage, Lazonby, Penrith, CA10 1AJ