How sweaty it is

But then it was back to the 20th century, with a bang. We were due to fly out of Urgench back to TAS, then onto a flight to Moscow, but two things got in the way. First, we got to the airport to discover that our Yak-40 had been commandeered by a bunch of bigshots in the Uzbek Communist Party en route to some event in Tashkent or Moscow. Don’t worry, we’ll get you out later. Hah.

Then the power went out. To the whole city. Our already-awful hotel in Urgench didn’t have air conditioning in the first place, but even the electric fans didn’t turn now. No refrigeration in the hotel kitchen, and nothing cold to drink (no beer anyway – Muslim country) and all there was was warm apricot juice. That evening, the thermometer in our hotel room exploded. I’m not making that up.

The next morning we finally got to the airport for the short hop to Tashkent, followed by a longish time sitting in the airport, followed by the worst plane ride of my life, or at least one that didn’t crash (of which I’ve had three.)

So the story goes that the Soviets were very proud of the Ilyushin-62 with its four rear-mounted jet engines; when it was introduced in the 1960s it was the largest passenger plane flying. The Russians were accused of having stolen plans for the (very) look-alike VC-10, but the IL-62 was considerably bigger and no evidence ever turned up to confirm the espionage charge. The IL-62’s engines were more powerful than the VC-10s, but it was a bigger plane overall, and some thought it was underpowered.

Like me.



So here we are, loaded onto a full-to-the-gunwales IL-62 on the ramp at TAS. It’s around 4 PM and the outdoor temperature is hovering around 40° C. Now Tashkent isn’t at especially high elevation, but an underpowered full aircraft + high air temperature + not the world’s longest runway… danger, Will Robinson. The driver is obviously concerned about density altitude, so we taxi to the end of the runway, and sit.

The pilot then does a thorough static test of his engines. Spool up No. 1 until the aircraft is trembling like me on my first date, then back down. Same with No. 2. Then 3, then 4. Then he turns off the air conditioning in the cabin, and starts to repeat the process. By the time he’s finished with No. 4 a second time, the interior of the cabin is like a lobster pot. I’ve never been this hot in my life, and that includes August in Singapore. A tour group member sitting next to me, a physician from Mumbai, tells me that he’s afraid he’s going to faint. From Mumbai.

A few rows ahead of me, an older man in full Uzbek traditional garb, jumps up and starts brandishing a decorative (?) knife, one of those curved Ali Baba jobs, all the time wailing and shouting in Uzbek. Two of the Aeroflot FAs, retired Olympic shot put stars, tackle the man and stuff him back into his seat, while a third appears with a bunch of seatbelt extenders which are deployed to harness the still-yelling gent. I am not making this up.

Finally, minutes (or was it hours?) later the pilot has obviously made up his mind that his craft is - probably - airworthy, so this time he pushes the throttle handles all the way, the engines all start screaming like the old Uzbek man, and he pops the brakes.

I’m looking out the window (just behind the wing) and the plane starts rolling down the runway. Faster and faster and we’re still stuck to the planet; faster and faster and… he rotates and I see the main gear fall with a bang to their max extension (no ground under them) and right that instant the cement ends and the weeds and dirt are all that’s under us, maybe five feet below the spinning wheels. He climbs out, ever so slowly it seems, until it’s clear we’re not going to rejoin the pedestrians. Oh, sh*t, the air conditioning.

It’s like he’s opened a window at 30,000 feet. The temperature inside the passenger cabin falls from lobster-pot to cold beer in twenty seconds. It’s obviously way more than the dehumidifiers can handle, so the (liters? gallons?) of accumulated perspiration in the cabin air immediately starts condensing onto anything cool, like the metal strips along the bottom of the overhead racks (not bins, 1974) or the light fixtures or air vents. It rains on us. Sweat rain.

We arrive in Moscow, most of us (me and my friend included) feeling like we’re steps away from pneumonia, and bused to the Hotel Rossiya, at the time the biggest hotel in the world, right on Red Square. We’re hustled by the key ladies to our rooms, then told that dinner is on our own (still included, just not a set meal) in the hotel dining room.

But wait. The kitchen is out of food. Huh? In the largest hotel in the world, the pride of Intourist and the emblem of the ascent of Marxism-Leninism? Uh, yah. No, wait, we have bananas. And champagne, which we’ll comp you. No, it’s not more of that blindness-inducing Uzbek crap, this is the good stuff. From Armenia. Bananas and champagne. Enjoy your feast, comrades!

***