Crossing a closed border

I get off a train that cost me 80 cents for a 6 hour Kupet ride with an elderly Turkmen couple and a woman with her two childern and make my groggy way out of the station. Naturally, a policeman stops me an interrogates me. He finds me a taxi, which I have to take to the border. I talk the driver down to $8 for the 40km ride, but that's as low as he'll go. Damn.

The ride takes us through a desert with grazing camels and across the massive, muddy Oxus river. Naturally, there's a police check point and I get the usual paranoid treatment from the officer in charge : "Why are you here? Who are you? What did you do in Turkmenistan? Isn't your visa expired?" Obviously the moron can't read. He can't really speak Russian either, and so one of the recruits - a relaxed young guy - ends up translating into English. Well, they let us go, only to have the traffic police stop us 2 km later and attempt to fine us for a malfunctioning handbrake. Who needs a handbrake in Turkmenistan anyway - the whole country is as flat as surfboard.

Customs, surprisingly, is no problem. The soldiers are friendly and eager to practice their English. I get waved through, and walk the 1 km of no-man's land to the Uzbek post.

Half of this distance is covered by a line of trucks, the Turkish and Iranian drivers picnicing in the shade. They tell me the border is closed and invite me to drink some tea.

Right enough, the border is closed. But the soldier in charge, passes me along to his friend a few metres down, who radios his officer. 20 minutes later, I get the medical examination : "всё нормално?" "да" "но, даваи" "Everything ok?" "Yes" "Ok, off you go." The passport control is just as straight forward.

Then comes customs. They look at my two forms and proceed to tear apart my bag. "What's this? What's that?" They take out every single box of medicine and question me about it. They even look at my dirty socks and undies. Finally they count my money and let me go.

The guys outside are having a good time relaxing. There's no taxi but they say that a tourist bus will come soon and that I should wait for it. In the meanwhile I get pushed into an improptu performance. They really enjoy "All Along the Watchtower."

The bus comes and I get a free ride to Bukhara, with the French-speaking guide. He shouts me lunch and then we take a shared taxi together to Samarkand. The driver is an ex-boxer who had had his hair fall out from working in a nuclear test site in Kazakhstan. Every second sentence he says contains the words "на хуй" (fucking). I ask him about the speed limit in Uzbekistan (we are doing 160km/ph). Answer : "Depends how much you have to bribe the cops."

In Samarkand the B & B is great. Leafy courtyard garden, litres of free tea, dinner and breakfast, clean room with bathroom. All for $10. The people are great. There's an Italian photographer, a Belgian couple going to Tajikistan, two French people working in Kabul, and many many more. But the topic of conversation is sobering. Andijan is rioting, 2000 prisoners have escaped, the police are firing on crowds, a suicide bomber has been shot outside the Israeli embassy. With the Kyrgyz border closed many of us don't know how to leave this country.