The end of a beginning
So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their ending!
J.R.R Tolkien
April has become October; rain, once turned to drought, has returned again and the air is full with smell of summer in retreat. Each morning begins with a jolt of cold and the feeling of damp equipment, but as things warm up a promise of one more adventure, one more story to take home….one more chance at seeing sturgeon emerges. I was in the Fergana Valley on a mission; to find what might be the world’s rarest fish, the Syr Darya shovelnose sturgeon in the hope that by finding it we can protect it. What was the fuel to my mental escapes during lockdown was about to become an experienced reality, and would be one of the most testing weeks of the trip yet.
My previous blog referenced my sub-par bowel movements and over the past week I have dramatically slid (pun intended) from farts that can’t be trusted into the throws of acute dysentery. Progress eastwards had the brakes put on as I tried every medical, herbal and magical attempt at a cure. Imodium aggravated it, mint and thyme tea gave me severe heart burn and lets not even get into what I had to do with those amethysts. It meant that an extended spell in a guesthouse was required and Andijan, a small town near the Kyrgyzstan border, was to be my unwelcome home for four days whilst I rode the worst of it out. However, much like an evening sky that has cleared after a severe storm, once recovered the majesty of this part of the world finally revealed itself.
Hemmed in by the mountains of Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan, the Fergana Valley is a low laying, verdant valley that is rich with agriculture and, importantly, wildlife. Running through the middle of this huge valley is the Syr Darya river, one of the major rivers of Central Asia and a place famed in antiquity. I was not here for history lessons though, and knowing I would be out of my depth had arranged to meet with a freshwater guru, Alexey Cherniak. Alexey is a veteran of many sturgeon expeditions and is one of the few people on earth who has seen the elusive sturgeon in the Amu Darya, a river I had previously visited after the desert crossing. Crucially Alexey also doubled up as a fount of information as I have travelled, with his previous search for the Syr Darya sturgeon in 2019 one of the main reasons I decided to venture to Uzbekistan. Needless to say, without him I would have been looking for the unfindable, speaking a language very few would understand for hundreds of kilometres around and stuck in first gear.
Not a bad view from the toilet: a break in the bouts
Our first day searching for the elusive creature focussed on speaking with people within the fishing communities, focussing on aquaculture sites, fish markets and importantly specialist fish restaurants known as baliq, who each have their own network of fishermen that bring them fresh catches each morning. We identified this as being the most important step during our short research window, building a reliable, local network who could keep us informed of any rumours or sightings long after we had left the area. A huge perk of focussing on the baliqs was that we were often given a meal, and I dined on an invasive species known as the Northern snakehead which was delicious…stayed well away from the chili seasoning though given my recovering state.
Day two focussed on raising greater awareness to a wider audience and we decided to focus on educational outreach with local schools and universities. It was incredible to see the energy they had for protecting wildlife in their country and despite no one ever seeing the fish I think we created the next generation of sturgeon searchers. It is always important to pass on the flame in life, and knowing home was calling it was good to see students come up to us after the presentation vowing to look for fish in their weekends.
With time running out and exhaustion setting in from the volume of travel and talking, Alexey and I were slowly coming to terms with the fact that the fish might remain ‘lost’ for a little while longer. Discussing what our best option should be for the following day we were having a chai when Alexey received a call from one of the fishermen we had met the day before. There was a rumour within the local fishing communities that 80km away lay an old mosque which had a tributary (a smaller river that eventually flows into the main river channel) of the Syr Darya within its boundary. Importantly fishing had never occurred within the mosque’s river as it is sacrilege to do so, and so Alexey and I thought there could be the potential here for sturgeon to exist in peace, tucked away yet hidden in plain sight for the believers.
Far smarter than I at their age, and maybe even now: Education outreach in Namangan
It would be a long journey and our legendary host for the past few days, Shuhrat, very kindly offered to drive us there to see if these rumours were in fact correct. Armed with red bull, mystery food and some grade A patter we drove right to the border with Kyrgyzstan to the Baliq Kol (fish castle) mosque. Despite being set in a stunning location, the mosque and its river were not the final stronghold for sturgeon we anticipated. The river, although gin clear, was too small and shallow to host sturgeon with a smorgasbord of vegetation covering the riverbed which a sturgeon needs to feed. Still, it was amazing to be in such a place, steeped in history and surrounded by mountains that mercifully I would not be riding over.
We returned back to Shuhrat’s house for one final evening, full of chai, local plov and daringly, a few beers. I won’t deny I was a bit gutted not to have found it. I knew the chances were vanishingly small, but after all the other near misses and small chances that came my way over these past six months I just thought there might be one last hurrah. A large part of this nagging feeling - being crestfallen despite the joy – was the fact that this was as far east as I would go and my mission done. There was to be no more sturgeon, no more waking up each morning aching but eager; there was only to be the long road home.
The fabled river: not even praying coaxed the sturgeon out of hiding
The next morning had a strange muteness to it, a feeling of disbelief that my course was to change from east to westwards for the first time in over 8000km. No longer chasing the sunrise but following the long descent of dusk; a setting of the sun as opposed to the new dawn of day. The road to Tashkent was, stunning, exhausting and numbing.
The mountains abated and it descended into gentle valleys which I thought at first were covered by rain clouds. Pressing on and not experiencing any signs of rain my confusion into what was going on was answered as I rounded a bend, seeing huge coal-fed power stations and heavy industry span across the valley floor. It was the worst air pollution I had experienced yet and was such a scar to the beauty of the surroundings I was in. It was the announcement I had been dreading ‘civilisation is calling you again…and look at all the mess we have made trying to find you’.
It went from sheer beauty to a dystopian nightmare in the space of 30km, with the scars of ‘economic progress’ visible along the entire road into Tashkent. Luckily, Tashkent is a vibrant city and very welcoming to a stranger off the road. Beds, showers and a lot of admin were in order to ensure everything was to go to plan ahead of flying home. Bike packed, kit sorted accordingly and last minute trinkets brought for loved ones.
Up and over: getting out of the Fergana Valley
It appeared my reputation proceeded me from school visits in the Fergana Valley. I met with Alexey and a Global Environmental Foundation contact (also called Alexey) to discuss funding for Alexey (the OG one) Amu Darya sturgeon project he was hoping to initiate. It seems as a sweetener for the deal I was to speak again at the Tashkent International School, all about conservation and travelling to another, new generation of eco-warriors.
With the search over and my time in Uzbekistan running into fingers on one hand, I wanted to have one last throw of the dice. A chance to inspire as I have been inspired in turn. People do not fight for something they are not passionate about; and in turn, how can you be passionate about something if you have never heard of it? I barely even knew what a sturgeon was before I had the opportunity of a lifetime to volunteer in Georgia as a recent graduate from Uni. My time there has led to everything ever since, a place where all paths lead back to. If only I could inspire one other individual, one other to go one better than I… one better than even they believe in themselves.
Tashkent: a heady mix of big city lights and funky architecture
I write this blog from a guesthouse near Tashkent airport, with the sounds of airplanes taking off akin to the chiming of the hours passing on a grandfather clock. It does not feel like a final night in the gallows, but it does have the same feeling of saying goodbye to a good friend or relative moving abroad. Knowing you will always share a deep connection but unlikely to have the same common experiences for a long while. I know that finishing the expedition will be permanent in an intangible way, a slight ebb of my soul outwards as opposed to all the experiences I have absorbed for so long.
Oh to have sacrificed it all again, to have ridden out into the unknown once more, to experience that exhilarating and terrifying feeling I had as the ferry ramp door descended in St Malo harbour. I have finally answered the distant call of home and I look forward to the fruits of home with my head held high, not looking at the floor as one would being led to the chopping block.
A plane has landed, midnight must be near. But fear not, there is one last blog in me, one that will not recite the weekly ongoings of an average bloke, cycling. I will try as best as I can to summarise it all, all of the sheer madness and beauty of the past six months into one place. The learnings, emotions and stories experienced over six months by calendar year, yet accounting for more than a lifetimes worth of memory.
The last word should always be a note of thanks. To mum and Issy, for letting me go and calling me back, my siblings and mates for the support throughout, and for the sponsors of the expedition without whom I would still be dreaming of an escape from a flat in London. To the alpkit Foundation, the Fishmongers’ Company’s Charitable Trust, the Jeremy Willson Charitable Trust and New England Seafood International. Thank you, mission accomplished.
