What a load of old Tosh. Toshkent that is.

In this guest post, football writer and Cardiff City and Wales fan Tim Hartley takes us on a central Asian groundhop in Uzbekistan.

The first thing you should do before groundhopping in bizarre places is learn how to get to the ground. Now, I should have known this, but having just three words of Russian – the most important of which are dva piva, (two beers) – and even fewer syllables in Uzbek, getting to Olympic Tashkent’s JAR Stadium was, in itself, something of an achievement. 

Fellow groundhopper Tranmerekev who’d travelled here the previous week had warned me in no uncertain terms not to trust Google Maps while in Toshkent (that’s the way the locals say it, apparently,) the capital of Uzbekistan. But did I listen? (By the way, seek out Tranmerekev on Twitter. He’s done some amazing trips.) My wife Helen and I traipsed up endless boulevards, around the giant Chorsu Bazaar and through rows of higgledy piggledy parked white cars, the seemingly only colour available in Uzbekistan, all to no avail.

We ended up gesticulating a round ball and our fingers running like a stick man to anyone stupid enough to listen. After half an hour, we rounded yet another corner and finally saw a piece of grass behind railings between the shops. We moved closer, only to see that both goalmouths had been dug up. No posts, no nets, surely not no football. ‘Come on love, it’s got to be here,’ I said, as much to myself as to Helen. And indeed it was. Behind the clapped out field was the JAR Stadium. Game on. 

Tonight’s footballing delight was against Termez Surkhon who were three points ahead of Olympic, both teams sitting in the middle order of the Uzbekistan Superleague. Up to the Kassa we went in search of tickets, but there was no-one there. Half a dozen away fans in bright yellow shirts were hanging around but I guess they had bought theirs before travelling. So what do we do? Beer of course! Or… not, as is the case in this Muslim country. 

We crossed the road and sat in the window of the local restaurant to try the Uzbek national dish, plov.  It’s a hearty stew of fatty beef, rice and onions topped with a healthy dose of carrots on top and was delicious. But beer to wash it down with, there was not. From our vantage point we could see the booth open up for business so over we went. ‘Dva ticket!’ The two fingers worked this time and for 10,000 som each, that’s less than a Euro, we were in.

I guess Olympic would be the capital’s second team. Pakhtakor are the current champions and have won the league most times, 14 titles in all. Bunyodkor also play in the city and right now lie just behind Olympic in the table. Renovated in 1985, Olympic’s JAR Stadium holds 8,500 spectators. But not tonight. Chatting to a taxi driver the day before, I asked about the football. We all know it’s the world’s number one sport. (I mean, even in a favela in Manaus I got an old guy who had never heard of Wales to remember John Charles, one of our greatest footballers at the 1958 World Cup.) ‘Not my kind of thing,’ said the taximan. ‘Boxing is our national sport. We won in the Olympics, you know. Yes, three gold and two bronze.’ So much for sports diplomacy.

‘Is that grass?’ said Helen as we took our seats in the JAR. It had been 39 degrees for most of the day and the sprinklers had been on. There were a few brownish patches but fair play, in this heat the pitch looked pretty good though the bounce of the ball was unpredictable at times. The first ten minutes though were dire. Head tennis and long, aimless balls hoofing away possession was the order of the day. ‘God, I’ve watched Year Eight play better football on the yard when I was on lunch duty in school,’ said Helen. ‘They’re just settling down. Give it a bit of time,’ I said, my head turning back and forth as if I was watching a long rally at Wimbledon. She promptly pulled out her Kindle. 

Surkhon kept a little more of the ball than our team but against the run of play we had an immense shot from distance which was just tipped over the bar. The game had settled down a little but chances for either side were slim. Then, on 59 minutes after a slick passing move Temur Mamsidiqov scored from close range to put ‘us’ in the lead. At last the home crowd had something to shout about. There was some polite applause but I think I was the only one to jump out of my seat and fist pump. I felt rather stupid but, come on, we’d just scored.

Half time came and went with a couple of waters to cheer us up. I asked for dva, got one, paid my 1,000 som so gestured for another one, which I received gratis. I knew my mastery of the Russian language would come in helpful somewhere on this trip.

Back on the pitch things started to warm up. There were some juicy tackles but, at even the slightest touch, players from both sides went down and rolled around as if they’d been shot. I’ve never understood this. Even at my crappy level of playing, if I were to behave like this I’d be the butt of my mates’ jokes for months. It’s embarrassing and yet the referee was forced to stop play, run the length of the pitch only to have to drop the ball again at the other end. 

‘The Surkhon’ had brought some 58 supporters with them. I know this because I counted them all. They were kitted out in their yellow shorts and fair play, they sang and beat a drum all through the match. It was a good showing for a Sunday night. Hats off to them; Termez is a ten-hour drive south of Tashkent. 

Our support was reserved to say the least, though we did have one superfan. A middle-aged guy with greying hair and a proud pot belly would get up every so often and berate someone or other. The crowd loved it and applauded him more than their own players on the pitch. In fact when Surkhon scored the equaliser, courtesy of a goal from Sylvanus Nimely on 76 minutes, half the home crowd applauded! I know back home there would have been abuse, the stewards called in and some poor sod ejected for sitting in the wrong end. Oddly though, this kind of tolerance was in keeping with this safe, friendly and gentle country which I recommend you visit.

And so it ended. A score draw which was probably a fair result for both teams, marking them down for a season of mid-table mediocrity. A wild, crazy groundhop this was not, but in the searing heat it was a fine way to spend our last night in Uzbekistan. Do, of course, visit the remarkable blue tiled mosques and mausolea in Samarkand and Bukhara that you may have seen on TV’s Race Across the World but remember that wherever you travel, there’s always a ground waiting to be ticked off. For that I say rahmat Toshkent. And thank you Uzbekistan.

Tim Hartley is the author of two books of travel /football writing, Kicking off in North Korea and The World at Your Feet. Follow his adventures on Twitter – @timhhartley – and check out our podcast with Tim on his groundhopping off-the-beaten track here.