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Amsterdam-Tashkent-Bangkok

The journey was to consist of five flights; at five moments right after take-off I would think inevitably: 'Apparently everything's gonna be all right'. First I flew to Paris, then to Tashkent. There it was the next day already; Sobir and Nilufar were waiting for me, a car was arranged, an appartment as well, and I could have a shower. The three of us spent the day, walking through Tashkent, and when I lay down in bed I felt almost happy.

To wake up in a flat in Tashkent in May, in a room made available especially for you, while snatches Yulduz were seeping through from outside, together with the heat of the new day – it is quite unique, I thought, lying there. My hostess stayed in another room, but in the same house, which, without a doubt, would lead to Islamic allegations. Well, I didn’t feel like a professional traveller, but I did recall the passport control at the airport, the other day. There I had felt slightly superior watching the nervous doings of a small group of elderly tourists, a bit unreasonable a feeling.

The city has truly changed, the last four years. People anticipate their future wealth, there is a business centre, and hotel Uzbekistan, another classic and much too expensive Sovjet hotel, has become a joke compared to Intercontinental. The construction of the third subway line, which has lain idle for years, now seems to have been resumed, and the Lada nowadays constitutes only a small majority in traffic. Old governmental buildings have been replaced, there’s a brand new parliamentary building, as recent as the National Museum is. Cyrillic alphabet is disappearing, and the last Lenins have finally gone.

The small shops in the metro nearby Hotel Tashkent have also gone. They were taken away due to an order from the government, Sobir told me. After the blast last year absolutely no risks are taken anymore. The theatre opposite that hotel, where I spent my first hallucinating nights in town five years ago, was built by Japanese prisoners of war, Sobir also told me. It is well constructed, as it has withstood the earthquake of 1966. Later on my trip I would recall with some pleasure this forced labour by the Japanese.

For five days we walked through Tashkent, visiting that museum, sitting on horses and in bumper cars. More terraces than ever before. One wonders if Russians and Uzbeks ever will get on to each other. Now at least they don't get along easily, there's much inarticulate tension. It would be a good thing for the former colonizer to acknowledge its role. Abolish the police state, introduce anarchy under the name of democracy, add some demagogues, and suddenly in Uzbekistan less pleasant events might occur. Now, as a tourist, you may find yourself sitting in a police office only an hour a week, for nothing, but never mind.

On Thursday night Sobir and Nilufar took me to the airport. My first time to the tropics! From above I was looking down on Tashkent, the night was bright. After only a couple of hours, half of which spent asleep, I arrived in the country of the smiling people, although it took me some time to realize those people were really smiling. Bangkok early in the morning, a weird city! I was so glad to enter a room with airconditioning, my room in a small hotel. Let's discover the city, I thought, but within an hour I had to return to my hotel room to collapse. Sleep, sleep.

What a city, Bangkok! No pet ambulances or gay marriages, just skyscrapers without unnecessary gears. As well as a lot of beauty, and delicious food inbetween, although it takes some sweat to enjoy it. After another day of temples and tuk-tuks I thought it was time to leave. A tuk-tuk is called a "tempo" in Nepal, it's a motorized three-wheeler. Do not think the owners are worse drivers than the chauffeurs of the meter taxis. When I hired such a meter taxi, Tuesday very early in order to catch my train to Nyanmar, Birma, fortunately I discovered in time I was about to be dropped at the wrong railway station .What wonderful public places railway stations are, by the way! And how wonderful to catch at the very last moment the train one had in mind. As though I had a goal.

The death railway was a kind of goal. Sitting in the train I was thinking: 'don't miss that bridge ', afraid as I was to cross the river not noticing it, in a slumber. I found myself fully awake when the train went over the bridge. The terminus of the line, still in Thailand and reached after seven hours, is not a place to recommend. I lost my way and was taken to a bus stop by a guy on a moped. Haphazardly I took a bus, and the bus took me to the place where I wanted to be, believe it or not. In Kanchanaburi I was able to take a closer look at that bridge, and also to visit the graveyard and the war museum. I hired a bicycle. My room was at a raft in the river, in which the violent movements of small animals could be observed. It was impossible to tell whether they were making love or killing each other.

In the train I'd been reading about the experiences in a Japanese internment camp of the novelist A. Alberts, in his book "Een kolonie is ook maar een mens" (a colony is a mere human being). Alberts had only been locked up, just fighting starvation for three and a half years, trying not to succomb to annoying diseases. But those prisoners of war, that's a horse of a different colour. One would almost start to dislike the Japanese. Actually that was I nearly did when I noticed how they had themselves photographed in front of that bridge, pontifically. Such pictures were usually taken by the wife, who was waving away impatiently all pedestrians who dared to come inbetween her camera and the husband to be photographed. My father fortunately wasn't born two years earlier than he was. Most Dutchmen in that cemetery were. Instead my father was forced to take part in the last colonial war of the Dutch.

For the rest, I had a pleasant time, in Kanchanaburi. I encountered Régine and Didier, and a bunch of other Frenchmen. There was quite some laughter, about stories and things we noticed. Serge Gainsbourg rencontre Whitney Houston, for instance, or the signs "eco-tourism", to attract Anglo Saxon tourists. In fact there was some tourism there, during the day disco boats came passing by over the river, with simple beat and dancing silhouettes, quite encouraging for the ladies of the guesthouse. To be crushed by a Thai masseur was also one of the options, or to converse with nice European couples, only after having explained that sex was not the aim of your holiday. The three of us, R., D. and me, travelled back to Bangkok, where we said goodbye.

Back in Bangkok, I bought some presents and had a meal on the street. My luggage at that small hotel was waiting for me. Leaving Bangkok can be agreeable, certainly when you're heading for Tashkent. The plane was almost empty, it was a strange flight. I arrived in Tashkent too early, nobody was waiting for me yet. After half an hour I saw Sobir approaching. Nilufar had cooked deliciously, pilmenja, and also abundantly. We rowed round on a small lake, with a small beach, and we walked over Broadway, as it is called, with extraordinary performances of street artists. That night Nilufar got really ill, and after hours, worried, I called Sobir out of bed. He came over and took the job of caring for Nilufar from me.

Again I was able to look down on Tashkent, this time by day. I saw the small lake on which we had rowed. This fifth and last flight took me exactly above one of the two rivers that formerly provided the Lake Aral with water. The river was struggling with the countless irrigation canals, which drain the river. It continues for hundreds of kilometers, there in the Kazakh desert. The lake itself is cut into two. When I had seen that, I fell asleep.

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