Kidnapping in Kazakhstan: My Brush with Death in Central Asia

Hi,

I produce a regular newsletter for my cherished subscribers, where I talk about various things generally to do with horror: horror books and films and such like, or the many reported werewolves of medieval Europe, the expert vampire hunters of Santorini, the atrocious reported acts of Vlad Dracula, the real ruler of Wallachia in the 1400’s, vampire watermelons of Asia (yes, you read that correctly), and sometimes a little about me and my writing.

This is a newsletter I published a little while ago, telling of a rather scary incident that happened to me back in 2001 whilst travelling the wilds of Kazakhstan.

“Welcome to the new subscribers, and welcome back to the not-so new. In my last email I held a poll, asking if you’d rather hear about my kidnapping, my being shot at, or struck by lightning. Kidnapping won. So here’ goes, and buckle up, it’s gonna be a wild ride. Trust me, I was there… And like my medieval vampire thriller, “Blood of the Damned,” it’s a bit of an epic, so this is only part one. Here goes…

The Wedding, the Vodka, and the Kidnappers: My Brush with Death in Central Asia

Sometimes, the strangest nights lead to the darkest roads — literally.

In 2001, I was traveling in Kazakhstan when I found myself somewhat accidentally invited as the honoured guest to a rural wedding in the middle of the countryside. (And the prelude to this story is also a fascinating tale of craziness — for another time,  perhaps.) Anyway, only one person at the wedding  spoke English, but that didn’t matter. I was handed a glass of vodka — then another, and another. Soon, I was locked into an unstoppable cascade of toasts and alcohol-induced bonding with total strangers in a ramshackle farmstead with a leopard print sofa and disgusting toilets. Go figure!

I was propositioned by at least three different people using a mix of hand gestures and bold stares. Daughters were offered (probably) along with rooms for the night (definitely.)

“Niet. Danka.” I declined all. I wanted to go travel the Silk Road.

Error!

I caught a bus from the wedding toward the Uzbek border. And that’s where things went from unusual to terrifying.

A Taxi That Wasn’t a Taxi.

At the border, I got into a car that looked like a shared taxi. Two men were inside. They spoke no English. “Tashkent, da?” I said. “Da, da,” they replied. But soon, instead of crossing the border to the Uzbek capital, we were veering into empty countryside — dusty, dark, and utterly alone.

I leant forwards from the back seat. “Tashkent?” I asked again.

“Da, da,” they said, but clearly Tashkent was niet. The vodka quickly cleared from my head. I was being kidnapped. Oops-a-daisy!

Like Sir George in my “Blood of the Damned” medieval vampire thriller (and trust me, this was starting to feel like a medieval thriller) I had decisions to make, and fast. So, I did. As the car slowed at a bend in the road, I opened the door and dived out. Proper James Bond-stylee.

The car skidded to a halt. “Tashkent, Tashkent,” the men shouted. I now had three choices:

1 – Escape. Run back to the border. My rucksack was in the car boot, so I’d lose that, and my trip would be over, but at least I’d be alive.

2 – Fight. Grab their car keys, open the boot, fetch my rucksack, and then as per #1 above. But this would probably lead to an  exchange of harsh words, maybe a  struggle, possibly even a fight. And that might mean bad things happening.

3 – Submit. Dust myself off, and get back into the car.

Which option do you think I chose?

“Oh, Tashkent, you say? I’m so sorry, my mistake.”

Having just dived out of their moving car,  I brushed some grit from my clothes, extracted some chunks from my elbows, and got back into the car. I mean, things usually work out just fine. Right?

What must they have thought?

Eventually, we reached an abandoned farmhouse where two more nice men were waiting to help me from the car, and kindly carry my rucksack . . .

. . . into a back room of the derelict building  — little furniture, a naked lightbulb, a single chair in the corner. Where I was  unceremoniously plonked, whilst they robbed me. Yikes! I looked around. Four of them, one of me. Best I capitulate for now, but the moment I actually thought I was going to die, was the moment I would fight for my life. And I really did think I was quite probably going to have to do exactly that. Basically, if I saw the sunrise again, I’d be a happy man.

After finding some of my money (not interested in passport or camera) they started talking. Then arguing. I couldn’t understand what was said, but they were pointing at me. Probably discussing whether or not to kill me. And how.

And which ditch to dump my body in.

You’ve probably heard of the Stockholm Syndrome, where kidnappers (them) and kidnappees (me) develop some sort of relationship, so I decided to use this. I hung my head and tried to look downcast — that was easy, because I was. They were all smoking, so I asked for a cigarette to build rapport — it felt like the condemned man’s last smoke. But slowly, slowly, they started to act more friendly towards me. Suckers!

Finally, after a few hours, they gave me $10 back. I assumed it was to pay a taxi to take me away. I would live. WOOHOO! At which point I thought, this night really is extraordinary. I had a pack of cards, and wouldn’t it have been just amazing if I could get them to play poker, and win all my money back..?

And maybe some of theirs. I suggested it. They said “Niet.”

My next thought was, No one will ever believe this. And so, as I still had my camera, I suggested we take a photo together. They could cover their eyes with their hands if they were concerned — you know, like you see on the rear covers of genuine, factual spy books, or books about the SAS or secret service.

Again, “Niet!”

Finally, in the wee small hours, a car did arrive. A single driver this time — thank goodness — he  drove me to the border, where he then demanded money. I gave him a little piece of my mind instead. I think he appreciated that.

I was free. The man dumped me on the Uzbek side of the border, which was ideal as I wanted to travel in Uzbekistan. The fact that I had now entered the country illegally didn’t strike me as a problem.

At least, not yet. Doh!

There were three other cars at the border. I have no idea why they were there at 3am, but I approached, asked for a cigarette (that tactic was working for me), and told them I needed help.

“A lift into Tashkent, my good man, if you’d be so kind..?” I’m British, after all . . .

And one of them was so kind. He dropped me at the Sheraton, Tashkent, where I went straight to the bar, ordered a cold one, and told the barmaid, “Hey, I’ve just been kidnapped!”

However, the adventure was not yet over. Not even close.

But  for now, what did I learn? Perhaps facing death gave me a certain disposition to horror and the macabre. Perhaps it gave me a deep well of terror to draw from when writing my medieval vampire thrillers. Or perhaps I just learned not to do vodka shots with strangers in an unfamiliar and security controlled country.

So, that’s the end of my kidnapping and brush with death. As I said, like book one from my imminent vampire series, it’s a two-part story.

In a future newsletter, would you like to hear more of my stupidity?”

Anyway, that was part of the newsletter. I conducted a poll asking whether my subscribers would like to hear about the rest of that tale, and the result was unanimous. And so at some stage I’ll probably write the rest of the tale.

Hope you enjoyed reading about just how stupid some travellers  (ie, me) are when abroad and a little worse for vodka. Oops.

If you’d like to hear more from me, then please consider subscribing to my newsletter. You’ll also receive (for free) my multi-5-star reviewed vampire novella, “Speak of the Devil.” Drop me a line and say hi. I look forward to meet you.