Results tagged “Uzbekistan”

After a bit too much partying the previous night at Sabit’s house (our taxi driver form Kungrad to Moynaq), we get to the train station two minutes before my train takes off, talk about cutting it close.

I have a ten hour train trip, and have run out of cym, and as such am faced with a long day with no lunch. My plan is to walk down the carriage until I find a group of people to befriend and hope their natural Uzbek hospitality kicks in when it comes to lunch time and they notice I’m not eating anything.

I find a good group, a couple, a mother and daughter, and a husband and wife and spend the first few hours showing them photos and telling them about my trip. They reward me with tea, lunch and a bunk bed to sleep on.

I decide to wander up and down the train to see if I can find some foreigners to travel with. Big mistake. As I reach the guard for the next carriage, he asks me where I’m going, I give him some story about looking for my friends and do this for the next few guards also. Coming back, I stumble upon some of Uzbekistan’s finest (most crooked) cops (менты – slang term, pronounced Mentee).

Cops: Documents.

Me: *Giving them passport* Here you go.

Cops: Where are you sitting?

Me: The fifth carriage.

Cops: What, you think you can just wander around the train, where’s your registration?

Me: Here it is for the last night, the rest are in my bag. – Foreigners are supposed to have an OVIR registration slip from their hotel for every night they’re in Uzbekistan. I start to get the feeling that the rules are different for Russians and former USSR republics, similar to how it was in Kazakhstan, and start to think I could be in some trouble.

Cops: This isn’t the registration, you’re going to have problems at the border, the fine at the border is 1.5million cym ($1000AUD), you should come with us and answer some questions *cough* bribe us *cough*, and we’ll take care of the registration for you.

At this point their boss shows up:

Head cop: Ivan Alexandrovich ey, where’s your registration?

Me: I have all of the registration slips from my hotels in my bag, I can show them now. – I’m lying, I’ve gone close to five days unregistered.

Head cop: Where’s your OVIR registration that all former USSR citizens need to have?

Me: No one mentioned that to me, they just said hotel registration will be fine.

Head cop: Your Russian is strongly accented, where are you from?

Me: Australia.

Head cop *cracking a smile*: Get out of here son. *to the other cops* his registration is fine.

I head back to my seat and spend the rest of the trip to the border thinking about how to talk my way out of this fine.

We reach the Uzbekistan side of the border and everyone’s passports are collected. After an hour or so of waiting, we’re allowed to go outside for a smoke/stretch. After a few minutes, I hear my name called, turn to find a couple of border police, the guards from my carriage and a couple of other guys. I start to recite my story, I was told that a registration from hotel would do… BLAH BLAH.

Immigration Officer: It says in your passport that you’re from Australia, is that right?

Me: Yeah.

Immigration Officer: You live there?

Me: No, I’m homeless.

Everyone laughs, I notice that they’re all a tad drunk. We talk about seeing the world, and they keep telling me how cool I am. Happy to have befriended the Immigration Officers, I now stop worrying about the fine and as we chat, I don’t notice that everyone from the other carriages has hopped back onto our train. Our guards don’t notice it either.

The whistle blows and the train starts to leave, the guard realises and swears, back on the train he shouts and runs in front of the other passengers to get back on the train. We run alongside the train jumping on the train before it takes off, thankfully leaving no-one behind.

As I walk past the guards cabin, the guard comes out, Ivan, we need to talk. You will sit with us and eat melon and tell us about your trip. I sit down with them as they cut up a melon and the guard leaves presumably to do work. When he comes back, one of his friends turns to me.

Friend: Have you ever tried heroin?

Me: No.

Friend: Why not?

Me: It can do some scary things to you.

I shoot at a glance at the guard who’s just returned, eyes wide open, with an expression as if he’s not altogether with us. He doesn’t react. We go back to eating melon and chatting, when the friend excuses himself to the bathroom.

A minute later, the guard excuses himself and the friend returns, syringe visible in his shirt pocket, same expression as the guard. He pulls out a small bag with a couple of grams of heroin.

Friend: Man you want to try some of this heroin, it’s unreal.

Me: No thanks, but you might want to put away the syringe in your pocket before we reach the Kazak border.

Friend: Oh f*ck man I can’t believe I forgot about it.

He puts the syringe into his jeans pocket and thanks me for telling him, offering to give me the heroin as a present. I politely decline, thinking there’s no way I want to be accepting drugs as I’m crossing borders between two of the countries with the most corrupt police forces and worst laws against drug crimes. He tries to insist by putting it into my pants pocket. I firmly grab his hand before he’s able to put it in my pocket and shake it and sternly tell him that I don’t want any now, maybe later.

Shortly after, I find an excuse to leave the group and return to my seat, where the other passengers thought I’d been arrested and taken off at the Uzbek border. The friend walks past me, clearly high, winks to me and goes to his carriage.

An hour later, after we’ve passed through the Kazakh border, a group of soldiers come onto the train and make their way for me ignoring the other passengers. They look through my passport, and tell me to open my bag. They search through my bag and have me empty my pockets. I look to the end of the carriage to see the train guard talking with the head of the soldiers. I realise that he’d purposely had his friend offer me narcotics in order to be caught by the military, presumably to get a portion of the very big bribe they’d demand. Convinced that I’m not carrying any heroin, they let me pack my bags, and to show that they weren’t targeting me, they casually look into the bags of two other passengers nearby.

The soldiers leave the train shortly after and a few hours later we arrive in Beyneu with no further dramas.

While en-route to Moynaq, we stop to change cars at Kungrad and decide to organise a car to the Aral Sea. If we go through a tour agency, the car will cost $600USD, our plan, in true Russian style, is to approach any driver with a suitable vehicle and offer them money to take us.

Remembering how good a driver Yura (Inylchek Geology Expedition) was, Gianluca and I negotiate with the driver and friend of a Vassick and head off to Moynaq.

Welcome to Moynaq, a former fishing town on the coast of the Aral Sea. In 1978, this place was a huge resort town in the USSR, the beaches were filled with holiday makers in a bigger version of Issyl-Kol in Kyrgyzstan.

Now, all that remains is a shell of its former self. A desert of abandoned fishing ships, rusting away, abandoned buildings and the new coast of the Aral Sea over 150km away.

A man approaches us as we’re taking photos of the ships in the desert. Sayvul used to work in one of the tugs currently rusting away (second one pictured with skeleton visible). He now looks after the monument and the ships and gives some background on the area to incoming tourists.

Sayvul, the Karakalpak groundskeeper (Photo taken by Gianluca)

The story of the memorial is incredibly infuriating. President Karimov ordered a monument dedicated to the Aral Sea be built in Moynaq. One side shows the 1960 map of the Aral Sea, the other from 2008. The winning bidder for the contract, in order to cut costs, decided not to build a new monument. Instead, they painted over the Moynaq WWII monument, repurposing it as the Aral Sea monument. All of the soldiers that were sent from this town to the front lines in World War 2 were listed on the memorial and have now been removed by a fresh coat of paint.

Our river show up to take us to the new Shore of the Aral Sea, some 150km away. We make a stop at a spot just ten kilometres from the town, a small pond of the former sea, so incredibly saline, its similar to the dead sea experience.

A small pool of the former Aral Sea.

Swiming in the former Aral Sea, an extremely salty pool. The salinity increases your buoyancy to let you play superman in the water.

One of our friends after a swim in the Aral Sea. The white on his skin is dried salt.

After we finish the Aral Sea teaser experience, we head off to the new shores of the Aral Sea, only to find our car stuck in the sand. After pushing it out, we all hop back in and start driving. Two minutes later, the drivers say they don’t know the way (obviously, we figured that we could find it as we went, hence the load of food and water we bought prior to the trip), they’re too scared to try and risk driving out in the desert without directions (pansies) so they give up and turn back. I am fuming that this incompetent pair would agree to taking us to the sea for a sum three times the average salary, only to turn back and quit the first moment there are problems.

Unfortunately, we don’t have the time to organise another car and driver, and thus are unable to drive out to the Aral Sea.

On the way from Khiva to Moynaq, we stop by Nukus, a middle of nowhere type city with nothing of real interest, except…

… the Stravinsky Art Museum, the third largest Art Gallery in the former USSR (after the Hermitage and Moscow’s Art Gallery). Thanks to the founder and collector, Stravinsky, a lot of works banned in Soviet times ended up in this backwater town where they’re now on display. Unfortunately the price for photography was over ten times the entrance price for the museum and as such I have no photos of the amazing works found inside. If you happen to be travelling between Khiva and Moynaq, or west from Bukhara/Khiva (Uzbekistan) to Beyneu/Aktau (Kazakhstan) make a stop here to see some of the works on display.

Since the girls are on a limited time schedule, they leave for Khiva (Хива pronounced Hiva) a day earlier than I do. I share a car to Khiva with an Italian guy Gianluca who’s planning to travel Iraq, Afghanistan and the Caucuses. We get talking and decide to one day buy a Lada 1400 or Uaz (former military jeep) and drive around Russia.

Can you spot the foreigners?

Along the way, the bridge just out of Urgench (not far from Khiva) is interesting for one special reason.

The bridge is made out of old ships parked and welded next to each other.

We stay in the same guesthouse and later in the day bump into the only other guests there, Alice and Georgie and make plans to go to the Aral Sea with them.

The day we show up to Khiva happens to be a national holiday, Independence Day and everyone comes out to celebrate. They celebrate by walking around town, for the whole day, doing pretty much nothing, there’s no big party no drinks, no music, just people spending the day out with their families and friends.

Inside the mosque at Khiva old town.

Khiva old town.

Khiva seems to be the one town in Uzbekistan where almost everyone is clued in on my I’m a Tashkent local scam.

Me: How much is the local price?

Ticket seller: Do you have any documents?

Me: They’re in my hotel, this isn’t a passport regime, I don’t need to show you anything.

Ticket seller: then you pay the full price, 11,000

Me: I’m from Tashkent, Chilonzor, opposite the bazaar (My friend Igor Supertramp lives here)

Ticket seller: Fine 5,500.

Me: No way is the local price 5,500, give me the proper local rate.

Ticket seller: Come back tomorrow with your passport.

Even sweet talking one of the old ladies at one of the museums doesn’t work.

A Khiva sunset.

Khiva at night. Tacky or tasteful?

Walking around Bukhara (бухара pronounced Buhara), I stumble upon the Photo Studio of Shavkat Boltaev a photographer with some amazing works. I chat with the man for a couple of hours and leave inspired to take more photos. If you come to Bukhara, make sure you pop by his gallery. From the Nasruddin Navruz guesthouse walk towards the pool at Lyabi Haus, turn left and keep walking until you see a sign saying free photo exhibition.

Also, if you get a chance, come into Anzor Salidjanov’s gallery, between Nasruddin Navruz guesthouse and Lyabi Haus.

Bukhara sunset.

Taking a break after walking around, I sit down to chat with Tahir, a local hat maker who tells me his son speaks great English and will meet with us the following day to show us around.

Tahir’s son Ahad is a former tour guide and exceptional story teller, he spends the following day walking around the sights with us telling us stories about Timur, Islam and the history of Uzbekistan.

The Emir’s summer residence.

One night as the girls and I are getting dinner, a group of middle aged gentlemen sitting next to our table offer us a round (or three) of vodka and two of the guys decide they’ve fallen in love with Alice and Georgie. Baha, a forty something slightly balding Uzbek spends the night calling Alice his honey, mermaid, sunshine, princess and what not. He says that he already has three wives but she will make a great fourth one. He has all of the creature comforts a girl could want, a pool, big screen TV and 32 channels (watch out ladies). He invites us to stay with him for the night, or a month, I will live as a king and one of his wives will cook and look after me, only Alice has to marry him.

Rahat, the Uzbek with gold caps replacing most of his teeth decides he will marry Georgie. His entire selling point is that he doesn’t have a wife yet. Wow ladies, don’t all rush him at once.

Another night, while searching for wireless internet, I come across the Karavan cafe, where, contrary to the sign the internet is not working. I’m offered beers by one of the customers sitting waiting for his mates. As they show up, I start showing photos of my journey. One of the guys is so impressed he tells me he will pay for my prostitute for the night.

We head out to see the sights of Termiz with Tolik, a half Tajik, half Uzbek driver who’s way too laid back to rip us off. First stop, the Uzbek/Afghan border and a quick chat with the border guards.

Me: So how many checkpoints between here and Afghanistan?

Uzbek Border Guard (UBG): Five.

Me: Can I go there?

UBG: It’s a shit country, you don’t want to go there.

Me: I just need an hour.

UBG:  No visa, no go.

Me: Do many tourists cross here?

UBG: Fifty or so a day. – No one crosses the border in the time we chat, most of the guards are asleep in their car and it seems no one has crossed in some time.

Me: Can I take photos for memory?

UBG: That, my friend, is categorically not allowed.

Me: Have any Afghan refugees made it here illegally?

UBG: That’s not your business.

The conversation ends there and we make our second stop, President Karimov’s Termiz holiday house (дача).

Me: Is it cool to take photos?

Tolik: Yeah, no problems.

Me: Have you ever been inside?

Tolik: I live just around the corner, we always go over to swim in his pool.

The next stop is at a mosque where a faithful Muslim tries to convert me. He casually says that all non-Muslims are going to hell. I leave him to his thoughts.

Stop number four is the house of forty wives. Legend has it that a man who had forty wives was slain by his enemies. The women lived together in the house, fending off attacks from sex-craved nomads. In other words, Termiz had the world’s first sorority house.

The party house.

The next stop is Old Termiz.

Old Termiz happens to be situated right next to the Amu Darya river, separating Uzbekistan from Afghanistan. Because of this, photography of the river is forbidden.

Taking this photo can lead to you landing in an Uzbek prison.

When we’re done, Tolik asks us if we want to go for a swim. I ask him if it’s in the President’s holiday house. He says it’s better.

After driving for fifteen minutes, he pulls into a driveway of what appears to be an abandoned building and tells us we’ve arrived. A rope is strung between two trees to prevent us from driving further. An Uzbek groundskeeper comes out, after some chat, we bribe our way in.

The swimming spot happens to be the water reservoir for the town’s water supply. No wonder it tastes so bad.

Arriving at Hotel Osiyo (Осиё), we’re met by the administrator who tells me she can’t take foreigners (as per the Lonely Planet guide book). I tell her I’m Russian. She laughs. I show her my Russian passport. She tells me I can stay. She asks if the other two guests are Russian guys, I tell her they’re British girls. She tells me that she can’t have foreigners stay here. I tell her I’ll be responsible for any mischief they cause. She tells me she can’t give a room with three beds to an unmarried man accompanied by two girls. I tell her she can give us a room with one bed to have a big cuddle party. She gives us a room with three beds.

Zolina the hotel manager is an amazing character. She’s from the Caucuses (Vladicavcas in Russia) and tells us about how safe it is here, how during the Afghan war, they’d hear shelling from Mazar-i-Sharif, how an American helicopter gunship opened fire on a wedding party and how surprisingly, the Afghans no longer hate Russians since most of the Afghan pilots and generals were trained in Moscow.

When we buy a honey-dew melon that happens to be less than perfect, she tells us she won’t eat it. As foreigners, we don’t yet know what to expect from local melons so it’s ok for us, but since she’s accustomed to eating the best ones, they will make her sick.

When we eventually get around to seeing the towns sights, we find the museum to be a let down and decide to see the other sights the following day.

We have dinner with a waiter who can best be described as an interesting character; think Michael Jackson’s child-like qualities combined with Jack Nicholson in the Shining. The guy has the mannerisms of a gay guy (apparently the term is camp) and we have fun telling him that he’s amazingly fabulous. Then our food comes out and there’s far more Shashlyk than we’d ordered, apparently Kusochnei (кусочней) means four small kebabs. Thanks for telling us we’ve ordered way too much food.

The waiter keeps coming over while we eat telling us how happy he is to have met us. Then out of the blue, he mentions that his parents died when he was young, that he lives on the street and how he looks after his brothers and sisters, no one helps him with money. It’s so difficult for him to support them on his salary, he’s been working there for ten years. We find it difficult to get rid of him.

The waiter tells us he’s free the following day to hang out with us. We tell him we’re leaving the following day.

Leaving Shaqrisabz, we head for Amon-Xona, a legendary place in Uzbek culture since their hero Amir Timur had once stopped there to drink with his armies.

We reach Guzor with a driver that chucks a tantrum, and accept a lift with another driver for half the distance from Guzor to Boysun. We end up spending the night at the family of the driver.

The driver’s sister on the left, myself, his nephew and his mother on the right.

When the driver is passing a lit cigarette to his niece to pass to his mother (her grandmother), we all laugh as the little girl takes the cigarette, takes a big drag and passes it to grandma.

Grandma smokes a lot, she probably drinks a lot too. When they setup beds for us outside, she tells me that if I do anything with either of the two girls, she’ll kill me, then take me to the police. For extra security, she sleeps outside with us.

When we eventually arrive at Amon-Xona the following morning, we laugh at the hilarity of the situation. Amon-Xona, similar to Gulcha in Kyrgyzstan is tacky and boring. The place is crowded with locals, all carting several bottles of Amon-Xona water back home. The water smells like sulphur and we can’t believe that people come this far and spend the day picnicking by the water and lining up to take a shower.

Uzbek pilgrims bottling the Timur Holy Water.

We’ve come so far, we decide to join in the ritual. After lining up for half an hour, it’s finally my turn to take a shower in Amon-Xona’s healing waters. It’s a shame that I have no photos of the experience, so words will suffice.

Imagine standing in line for half an hour with a large group of smelly dirty Uzbeks carrying towels. When the last woman leaves, the attendant says that now the half hour shift for men’s showering begins. Everyone charges at the door to get a spot. As a guest from overseas, I’m exempt from the fighting for a spot and am ushered into the room.

I enter the white room, reminiscent of a swimming pool change room and am greeted by a man in a doctor’s coat and gloves. Since I’ve only paid for a shower, I’m put in the only stall with a shower, the other men have gone the whole hog and opted for a bath.

The stalls are separated by short walls and everyone disrobes and climbs into their baths, the bathwater from the previous occupants has not been drained. They turn on the taps to fill their baths with cold smelly water and my shower stops flowing and resorts to nothing more than a trickle. As I stand and shower under this cold water, I think how the pilgrimage would cost a small fortune to the locals, start shivering from the cold and decide that the pilgrims are idiots.

The baths fill up and one by one, the fat Uzbeks turn off their taps, restoring my shower to it’s former glory of freezing cold tap water. The water is supposed to have healing properties, so despite the rusting pipes, bad smell and sheer stupidity of the concept, I start drinking as much of the water as I can handle. Peeking over the wall, I see my neighbour simply lying in the bath, supposedly letting the healing process begin.

Several minutes later, the doctor in gloves opens the curtain to my shower and tells me my shower time is up. I turn off the water and begin to dry off. Every few seconds, eager hands pull open the curtain to find that yes I am still in fact naked and drying off, depriving them of their shower time.

After a minute, the hands give up waiting and they walk inside, almost knocking me over while I’m trying to put my undies back on. It’s irrelevant to them (yes, two men have decided to shower together, probably to live out some sick fantasy that involves rubbing each other with holy water) and they’re stark naked and showering before I’ve left the stall. I wish them a fun shower.

All in all, the Amon-Xona experience was pathetically hilarious. At least the view along the way was nice. To add to the hilarity, work is currently underway to build a mega resort at Amon-Xona so bus loads of pilgrims can come and experience the fun.

If you’re anything like me, unless you’ve been to Central Asia, there’s a good chance you don’t know too much about Amir Timur (also known as Tamerlane or if you’re prone to mishearing words, Timberland).

Rather than retell the history of Amir Timur, which is definitely worth a read, I’ll stop at a photo and a few words.

The man is revered in all of Central Asia, most of the amazing medressas, mosques and mausoleums were built in his time. It’s said that after his troops would conquer a city, he’d send in builders to repair it. His wars were with governments, not their people.

The reason Amon Xona (near Boysun) is so popular with Uzbek tourists is because Timur once stopped his tired armies for a drink there. The following morning they felt refreshed as if born anew. He couldn’t understand why, until he had another drink of the water and realised it’s powers.

It’s said that WWII broke out as a result of opening Timur’s Tomb. Timur saved Europe from being conquered by the Ottoman empire.

Arriving at Shahrisabz, we need to find a place to leave our bags since we plan on leaving in the late afternoon. We walk into the first hotel we see and are greeted by the nicest receptionist who lets us leave our bags with her free of charge.

Second order of business is exchanging currency. The first person we ask happens to be a little bit dim-witted. He starts taking money out of the trunk of his car and counting it outside a cafe, five metres from where a policeman is sitting.

I tell him we should go for a walk and we make some distance before continuing to count. Realising he hasn’t taken enough money out of the car, he leaves us with all the money and walks back to the car to get more. We contemplate running, but decide that this fool probably has kids and a wife to feed.

First order of sightseeing is Aq-Saray Palace, Amir Timur’s most grandiose palace, a mere ruin compared to the magnificence of its hey-day. The highlight of the palace was the roof top swimming pool, filled without pumps using a clever plumbing system that brought water from the nearby mountains.

On the roof of the palace with Georgie, Alice (center) and myself.

While walking through the nearby bazaar, some random guy just stops to take my photo, something I remember best from rural Vietnam.

Well sir, two can play that game.

The next place we walk into, a fat old woman starts chasing after us shouting Mister Mister, ticket. We ignore her by ducking into one of the temples currently under restoration.

We start chatting with the crew doing the work and they point out some of the original work left and where they’re doing restoration. The mausoleum in question undergoes restorative work every two-ten years.

Somehow, I manage to sneak my way onto the roof again.

The boys in charge of restoring many of the mausoleums, temples and mosques in Uzbekistan.

As we’re walking towards the mosque, we bump into the head of the Shahrisabz mafia.

The Bad

Having found the local price for the fare from Samarkand to Shaqrisabz (4000-6000cym), I approach the taxi stand and ask how much it would cost for three people (Alice, Georgie and myself) to go there. One of the drivers offers to take us for 25,000 cym each. I tell him fifteen thousand, he agrees, I say total. He thanks me for the insulting offer talks about his starving children and storms off. Ten seconds later another driver approaches me and says he’ll take us.

Along the way he says he’ll be charging us for every stop we make. He insists we make a stop at a spot where they shot the Hollywood blockbuster Apache and proceeds to have a long smoke. He makes another stop to take in the view from the top of a pass, it’s beautiful but we didn’t ask to make it. He makes a final stop to negotiate the price of mutton meat. When he asks me to pay for the three stops, I tell him that I owe him for one stop, and that he made two of his own and wasted our time. I tell him we’ll call it even and leave him at that.

We organise a cheap price to Boysun from Guzor as the driver lets us crash at his place along the way. His family is incredibly nice, but the following day, he’s back again in taxi driver mode and starts trying to rip us off everywhere we go.

We organise a car to from Boysun to Termiz for six thousand cym each and the driver takes us to the hotel (instead of the Avtovokzal five hundred metres prior) and demands twenty five thousand total. I tell him eighteen, he insists on twenty five. I tell him eighteen, he asks for twenty two, I tell him eighteen. He’s holding my phone and makes a gesture as if to take the eighteen and my phone as payment. I make a gesture as if to break his nose. He takes the eighteen.

The driver from Bukhara to Khiva jokes around with us a lot, telling us how cool we are to be travelling with him. He drinks our water and coke. When we arrive at our guesthouse in Khiva, I forget my laptop in the car and ask the administrator to give him a call; I figure since he drove us to this hotel, they’ll have his number.

When he shows up five minutes later with my laptop, he asks for money for the delivery. Thinking he’s joking, I tell him he’s too nice and reach for the laptop.

Driver: No seriously, give me some money for returning it.

Me: That’s the typical Uzbek attitude, how much are you going to give?

Driver: Yeah it’s unfortunate, give me some money?

Me: How much?

Driver: As much as your heart desires.

Me: My heart doesn’t want to give you any money.

Driver: Give some anyway.

Me: Here, have a thousand.

Driver: Don’t be cheap.

Me: Typical, have two.

Driver: Two thousand for a laptop.

Me (getting pissed off): Fine, take three.

Driver: One more won’t hurt your finances.

Me (biting my tongue to keep from cursing the c*nt): Take your money and get out of my sight.

The Good

When in Termiz, we need to organise a taxi for the day to see the sights around the city. Our hotel administrator says it should cost 10-12 thousand cym total. After the fifth taxi driver to laugh at our offer and counter-offer twenty thousand, we’re about to give up when driver number six agrees to the price.

The driver ends up taking us to all the sights we wanted (palace of forty wives, mausoleum complex and Afghan border) and throws in some extras out of his goodwill (holiday house of the president, another mausoleum we hadn’t even heard of). Best of all, when we’re done sightseeing, he offers to take us for a swim an extra twenty minutes of driving. At the end of the day, when he drives us to the Vokzal (train station) he gives us a big bag of grapes from his own garden. When we pay him, we give him a 50% tip, he trusts us so much he doesn’t even bother counting the money we gave him. Turns out the driver, Tolik, is not a taxi driver by trade, he’s a dyno mechanic who’s just out earning a bit of money for his family.

When leaving Qarshi for Bukhara, we’re offered a price of twelve thousand cym. Since it’s a bit expensive, we try and negotiate. The head of the taxi stand refuses to budge on the price. One of the drivers organises to meet us outside of the shared taxi stand and take us for ten thousand cym. Anton, the driver, ends up spending an hour and a half with us in Bukhara trying to find a cheap hotel and even offers to take us to the nearby lake for the cost of petrol alone.

And the Smelly

Every driver who tries to rip us off happens to be fat. Every driver who’s fat happens to be smelly. The best of all is the guy from Termiz to Qarshi. He’s very fat and very smelly. He offers us a reasonable price and spends the next five minutes telling us how he doesn’t want to rip off foreigners.

The car breaks down along the way, the front left (driver side) suspension breaks, the driver’s weight may have played a part in it.

After visiting the Registan, I bump into a couple of British girls who decide to come along with Dilshad and I to see Al-Buhari (an important Muslim pilgrimage site just outside of Samarkand).

The girls and I walk into Bibi-Hana’s (Amir Timur’s first wife) mausoleum past the ticket counter and score free entry.

Bibi-Hana’s mausoleum.

The girls sit by the ticket counter and start painting the vista. The guards on duty watch over their shoulders as they work. When we’re finished and about to leave, the girl working at the ticket counter says that we need to pay, we tell her no thanks and that we’ve seen everything we wanted to see. The guards just laugh at this and wish us a good trip.

Al-Buhari mausoleum, created in the Tashkent/Fergana style of lighter blue compared to the Samarkand/Bukhara dark blue.

Mausoleum, restored original work, everything around it is brand new.

Some of the cooler pilgrims at Al-Buhari’s Mausoleum.

After coming back from Al-Buhari, we hit up Shah-i-Zinda, a complex of mausoleums, which you can enter from the back (via the cemetery) without paying a dime :)

Dilshad and I find the staircase and climb on the roof of one of the mausoleums for a better view.

The cupola of one of the mausoleums.

The strip, mausoleum after mausoleum.

I walk into the Registan which will be closed the following day for the opening ceremony of the Central Asian version of Eurovision and don’t even realise that there’s a ticket booth, not that it matters since everyone’s so busy.

Front part of the Registan.

When all the foreigners are kicked out of the Registan for the dress rehearsal, I join one of the groups of dancers and stay for parts of the rehearsal. When I see that there’s a camera crew on the roof of the Registan, I decide that I will go there, despite the fact that the whole area was just swept by two soldiers with attack dogs.

I climb onto the roof and find a group of Chinese contractors laying cables. They don’t realise or care that I shouldn’t be up there. After I recite some of my phrases of Chinese (“Excuse me, do you have any beer?”) and tell them where I’d been in China, they become my new best friends and let me wander around the roof without asking questions.

The Registan, from the roof.

After I come down, I walk right up to the stage and watch the rehearsal from there, giving the dancers tips on how to make it magical.

Sitting on the stage watching the girls rehearse their piece.

The creative director thinks he knows better and has a few words with me to that effect. I tell him I’ve worked shows all over Europe and Australia… he says he’ll take some of my comments on board.

One of the policeman has been watching me with curiosity the whole time, I decide to put him to work.

The policeman kindly takes photos of me in the Registan, when I have no ticket and am not part of the show.

While watching the orchestra practice, someone approaches me and asks me where Misha the sound engineer has gone. I tell them he’s checking other equipment and whether or not I can help in his absence. I have no idea what it is they ask me to fix, but they thank me for fixing it anyway.

I’ve become so accustomed to acting that I’m a part of the show that I don’t even notice the police man approaching me.

Policeman: Who are you?

Me: Don’t ask such silly questions and get back to work.

Policeman: Do you work here?

Me: Of course.

Policeman: Show me your documents.

Me: They’re with my colleagues.

Policeman: Who are you working with?

Me: The Chinese.

Policeman: What Chinese?

Me: The Chinese on the roof, I’m their interpreter.

Policeman (while pointing to random Chinese person): That’s the boss of the Chinese, let’s go confirm with him that you work for them.

Me: That may be the boss of the Chinese on the ground, but the Chinese on the roof work for Chow Yun Fat.

Policeman: Wait here while I call my superiors to come speak with you.

Me: Be quick, I’ve got work to do.

He walks away to make the call, telling me to stay put. I wait until there’s distance between us and make a beeline for the exit.

I arrive in Samarkand after Nurtek kindly pays for my car from his late father’s place and am greeted with the daunting task of finding an inexpensive hotel. After half an hour’s search, the driver says he has to get back to work and drops me off not far from the Registan.

I ask a nearby taxi driver to find me an inexpensive place for 3,000 cym and he drives me half a kilometer and shows me an expensive place instead. After some negotiating back and forth with the manager and the driver, I end up agreeing on a price and decide to head out and see the sights.

Wandering around town, I bump into Mark and Sevianne, the French couple that crossed the border with me. With them is one of the other passengers for the Tashkent – Samarkand drive, Dilshad.

As we reach the ticket office for Timur’s mausoleum, I decide to pretend I’m a local. I tell the lady at the window that I’m from Tashkent, she disagrees and asks for my documents. I tell her we don’t live in a passport regime (Uzbekistan very much does have one). She won’t sell me the local ticket (400cym instead of 4,000cym) but says I can try my luck convincing the ticket inspectors at the main gate. They don’t doubt for a second that I’m from Tashkent and so begins the saga of being charged local prices for everywhere in Uzbekistan.

Man changing light bulb over Amir Timur’s mausoleum.

Back of Amir Timur’s mausoleum.

There’s a small mausoleum located behind Timur’s mausoleum, the price to get in for the French couple is 1000 cym, the local price for me is 0. Marc tells the ticket seller that to the Uzbeks, the French are just a cash machine. The man corrects him saying all foreigners are cash machines.

After visiting Timur’s mausoleum, Mark, Sevianne, Dilshad and myself head to park Navoiy (named after Alisher Navoiy, Uzbekistan’s most famous poet).

In the morning, I take a Tashkent to Samarkand shared car and as always, I start chatting with the passengers about my trip. Not long into the trip, we're pulled over by a policeman for speeding. After some words are exchanged, we take off. I ask the driver how much the "fine" was, and he replies with a sly smile, two of Samarkand's finest bread rolls.

One of the guys asks me if I want to exchange some of my money into cym, he says he'll do it as a favour to me at a rate of 1850cym. I appreciate the convenience and proceed to change 100USD. Every time we hit one of the many police checkpoints along the way, I hide all the money.

After we do the deal, I ask him for a plastic bag. As he opens his bag, I see it's full to the top with Cym, his wallet filled with crisp 100USD bills. He works at the bazaar he tells me, black market currency exchange.

Another one of the passengers (Utker) tells me that today is the one year anniversary of his father's death and that he would honoured if I would join him for the night. I misheard one of his questions (Astanishca Ostaneshsya? and not Avstralia?) and end up agreeing to stay, rather than confirming that I'm from Australia. He pays for my seat in the taxi and we go to his late father's place.

Utker far left, myself somewhere on the right, a small part of his extended family everywhere else.

From the moment I come inside his house, I eat. Although they're following Ramadan, I should not be shy, any moment that I'm not eating, they tell me to eat. By the night's end, I've eaten more than I would in two days.

The night is marked by a large amount of guests, family and friends and a memorial is said in honour of Utker's father after the last of the five daily prayers.

Utker's oldest son. This kid is a real blast. When I'm in a room talking with all the girls at the function, he turns to me and says "ваня брат, у тебя есть телка?" (Ivan brother, do you have a chick?) I reply that I don't and he points at all the girls and says "Which one do you want?"

I spend the night sleeping outside looking at the stars and in the process commit another crime by spending a night unregistered in Uzbekistan.

A few random points about Tashkent:

1. Police. There are far too many police in the town and their sole purpose is to annoy you. They love the metro and are tasked with protecting it from photographers, it is after all one of Tashkent’s strategic pieces of infrastructure and as such must be protected from spies taking photos. DO NOT TAKE PHOTOS OF THE TASHKENT METRO!
2. Sim cards for phones are a fun hassle. I tried to buy an MTC (local Uzbekistan carrier) sim card and was requested to show an Uzbekistan passport. I tried at several other stores, one of them offered me a Beeline sim card instead. Apparently, foreigners will have difficulty purchasing sim cards from any of the three major carriers: MTC, Beeline and U-Cell depending on where they enquire.
3. The house of photos is free. When we came in, the security guard said it was seven hundred cym. I asked for a student discount and he said five hundred cym. I paid the money and realised there was no signage for prices. When I’d finished looking around, the security guard was gone.
4. President Karimov is a nutter, one of his great presidential decrees was to build a clock tower, replicating the one commemorating the end of the war, right next to the original!?

Original clock tower. From this vantage point, if you look to your right, you’ll find this.

What was the man thinking?

Bang Bang Bang Bang…

Bang Bang Bang Bang Bang…

Mister wake up…

Bang Bang Bang Bang…

Wake up mister…

I get up still half asleep, put on some pants and go to see who’s at the door at 7am.

Woman: Mister, your laundry is ready, I wanted to give it to you now. I know we agreed it was three thousand cym without ironing but the girl went ahead and ironed it anyway you need to pay another thousand cym.

Me: Huh? I don’t need my clothes ironed, tell the girl thanks for a great job ironing but I’m not paying for it.

Woman: Oh… Ok…

I go back to sleep.

The following day:

Bang Bang Bang Bang…

Bang Bang Bang Bang Bang…

Mister wake up…

Bang Bang Bang Bang…

Wake up mister…

I don’t have any laundry, I wonder what’s up but given that it’s 6am on a Saturday morning, I decide I’ll sleep through it until I overhear.

Male voice: Go get the key to open the door.

Female voice: Not possible, he’s dead-bolted it from the inside.

Male voice: We’ll give it another minute and kick in the door.

Damn, seems I’ve pissed someone off. I wake up, get dressed and go to the door to be greeted by a very serious looking guy.

Me: What do…

Male: (Interrupting) Passport.

Me: You can’t just wake people up demanding their passports. Show me some ID then we can talk.

Woman in charge of my floor face palms herself, signalling that I should politely go with whatever the man says.

Male: Passport or we’ll take you away right now.

Me: Wait here… (Find passport) Here you go.

Male: You can come down with us for questioning or wait here and the girl will bring it back to you.

Me: (Thinking I’ll have a few words to say to his boss) I’ll…

Woman: (Interrupting) He’ll wait here and I’ll bring it back to him.

Something serious must be going on, they must have stumbled onto my secret identity. The pair walk away and I decide to try and get some sleep.

Given that some unknown secret service type figure has my passport, sleep escapes me. I go outside and decide to get to the bottom of the situation.

Reaching the woman in charge of the floor, she stops me.

Me: What the hell’s going on?

Woman: Mister, you better go back to your room and wait. There are a lot of police downstairs and they’re going to find something about you that requires a bribe.

Me: F*ck!

I go back to my room still confused and try and figure out what I’ve done wrong. Just in case, I hide most of the money that I’d exchanged earlier but seriously doubt that’s the reason they’re here.

Ten minutes pass and there’s another knock on the door. I open it to find one of the male receptionists.

Receptionist: You better come downstairs with me now, the police have some questions for you.

Me: About what?

Receptionist: I don’t know.

I reach the ground floor and find lots of serious looking men talking with all the staff. As I’m ushered down a corridor and into a room I notice several rooms with police officers interrogating people.

I enter a small room with the Receptionist, the serious looking guy who took my passport standing by the window and someone who appears to be his senior sitting at a desk. The senior guy tells me to sit down.

Senior guy: Ivan Alexandrovich Kruchkoff, is that your real name?

Me: (Surveying the room)

Senior guy: Don’t look around, answer the question.

Me: Yes it is, how do I address you?

Senior guy: What date did you enter the country?

Me: Look at the stamp in the passport, the 19th of August.

Senior guy: And where have you been the whole time?

Me: I’ve been staying at this hotel.

Senior guy: (Turning to receptionist) Is that true?

Receptionist: (Clearly nervous) I’m not sure, I don’t deal with the registration of foreigners, I don’t know really.

Me: It’s true.

Senior guy: (Leafing through the hotel’s registration books) You were here on the 19th, where else have you been?

Me: I’ve been staying here the whole time. During the days I go out sightseeing.

Senior guy: Here’s the 20th, the 21st. Hmm… What’s this?

Me: What?

Senior guy: Nothing, get out of here.

Me: Cheers for the wake up call.

I leave the interrogation chambers and as I’m walking back to my room bump into the manager of the hotel. She explains to me that given that there’s a big holiday coming up in two weeks (1st of September), the SNG (Uzbekistan’s three letter agency) are on heightened alert for terrorists and people in the country illegally.

Hooray for Uzbekistan’s secret police. If Stalin was still in power, these guys would have taken half of the guests to the Gulags by now.

If you plan on spending more than one week in Uzbekistan, you have several options for funding yourself.

1. Use one of only two ATMs in the entire country, conveniently located in the most expensive hotels in Tashkent. These dispense in UZS (Uzbek Cym) at the official rates or in USD. They do take a small commission for the service.
2. Take your currency to one of the official currency exchange points (banks) and lose 20% due to the artificially unfavourable exchange rate. You will however be issued with a receipt for your exchange and as such can use this money to then buy a plane ticket.
3. Take your USD or EURO to one of the unofficial black market exchangers and gain a more realistic rate. These people rarely take other currencies.
4. Exchange your money in Kazakhstan (or the country you plan on entering Uzbekistan from) and bring a small (or large) backpack to carry the money in.

After spending all the cym I had with me, I needed to exchange some USD into UZS – whenever you travel try to have USD or EUR with you, they tend to be accepted/exchanged everywhere, USD more so than EUR.

Speaking with a guy I’d met one night, he tells me I can go to a bank and laughs at the idea or I can go exchange with his preferred money changer and proceeds to give directions to the place.

1. You will hop on the metro and get off at the third stop. Leaving the metro you will cross the road, turn left and continue for several hundred metres to the bazaar.
2. The main entrance to the bazaar will be in front of you, you will walk around from the side entrance to the right and ask for the dairy section on the second floor.
3. Once you reach the dairy section, you will do a lap around it to make sure there are no police around.
4. Once you’re sure there are no police around, you will walk into the shop selling sausages and when you catch the attention of the shopkeeper, you will make the signal that you need to exchange currency – horizontally rotating your index fingers around each other, similar to the travel signal in basketball or the thumb twiddling motion when you have nothing to do.
5. When the shopkeeper finally asks you what you want, point to the sausages on the left for USD, on the right for EUR and how much of that currency you want to exchange.
6. If the shopkeeper has enough to cover it, they will tell you the rate for one unit of that currency.
7. Mention my name, where I work and that you’re my nephew and they will give you a more favourable rate.
8. They will tell you that the sausages you want are in the back, you will go there and get your money. Count it, twice. After you’ve counted it twice, count it again and give them the money.
9. Hide the money in your pockets (or bag depending on how much you’re changing), smile, thank them and leave.
10. Don’t forget to get me some of my favourite sausages as a thank you.

I ask the guy what the exchange rate should be for USD, he tells me that three days ago it was 1900, though now it’s closer to 1800 but at his rate, 1850 should be possible.

Just for giggles sake, I decide to check what the official rates are according to the banks.

I approach the sign and take a photo, turn and leave. A guy follows me some ten metres before asking me how much I want to change (unofficially). Looking back into the direction of the bank, I see the policeman trying to make himself look inconspicuous.  I tell the man to go back to his friend and that I only deal with banks.

I reach the bazaar, but it ends up being the wrong one and given the amount of police walking around, I decide not to ask around for currency exchange. Time for plan B.

Plan B is to use the same strategy that I used in Vietnam. Changing currency in Vietnam is best done at gold shops and not in banks as the gold shops will give you a more favourable rate after intense negotiation.

I walk into one jewellery store some distance from the bazaar and ask them if they exchange currency. The girl at the store tells me they don’t, but the jewellery store across the road should.

I ask at the store across the road and they ask me what rate I want, I tell them 100USD at 1850 cym to the dollar. They accept, the other customers pretend like nothing is happening and the manager goes out the back to get the money.

She emerges with three packs of cash and tells me I’m free to count it. I point to the counting machine and tell her we can use that, she smiles and tells me that I’m smart to not manually count it. Twenty seconds and 270 bills later (100 at 1000 cym and 170 at 500 cym), I’m satisfied that I haven’t been ripped off. A minute later a guy comes in, inspects the bill I gave, says it’s genuine and takes it for himself. I stuff my pockets with the bills and the manager makes her commission, win-win and no need to risk dealing with police and manual counting of bills.

My advice, if you want to risk illegally changing currency in Uzbekistan, find a jewellery store. If you don’t speak the language, write on a piece of paper how much you have, how much you want for it and show it to the manager (e.g. 20th August 2009, $100 = 185,000 CYM).

Before exchanging currency in Tashkent, Uzbekistan

After exchanging currency at the black market rates

Now I challenge you to find a store selling wallets in Tashkent. They do exist. Give up? Back home, we call them backpacks.

Everyone who comes to Uzbekistan cannot leave until they’ve taken a similar photo.

Having seen all that Shymkent has to offer, I decide to head to Tashkent, Uzbekistan. There’s a sign for Tashkent next to the Bejan bazaar, conveniently located next to the Avtovokzal (bus, marshrutka and shared taxi stop) and so I aim to get there.

I hop on the first bus with a sign for the bazaar and after some time the attendant on the bus asks me where I plan to get off. Bejan bazaar I reply only to have her inform me that the bus won’t be going there. So much for trusting signs indicating where the bus is going.

Conveniently though, where I do get off also happens to be an Avtovokzal. Shymkent has close to a dozen of these, a real nightmare for travellers, especially those not familiar with the language. Since there are no marshrutkas standing in the Tashkent stand, I walk up to the first one I see and ask them about getting to Uzbekistan.

Within five minutes I’m on a marshrutka bound for somewhere close to the border from where I should be able to find another car. One of the older motherly types takes pity on me, speaks with all the passengers and says that we’re making a detour to the border. Woohoo!

Sitting next to me for the trip is an interesting character aka MBG (Misinformed Bus Guy). Our conversation goes like this:

MBG: Where are you from?

Me: Australia.

MBG: The country with the kangaroos.

Me: Yeah, great food.

MBG: Do you drink their milk?

???

Me: It’s winter in Australia.

MBG: Interesting… What year is it in Australia?

???

MBG: What’s the military service like in Australia?

Me: There is no compulsory service.

MBG: Then if you have no army, won’t your neighbours invade?

Me: We have an army. We’re neighboured by oceans. The only dangers there are sharks and beached whales.

MBG: I’d be careful, if the sharks know you’re country is undefended, they could invade.

???

MBG: Have you been to the USA?

Me: No, not yet.

MBG: Did you know there’s a state where it’s completely illegal to drive cars? Everyone rides on bicycles and horses and cows.

Me: I highly doubt this.

MBG: It’s true, my friend went there last year. He also told me there’s a state where everyone has to wear a sash indicating their ethnicity.

???

MBG: Can I get a job in Australia?

Me: What are your skills and qualifications?

MBG: I almost finished school.

Me: Do you speak English?

MBG: No.

Me: You can work in a call centre. :D

At this point we reach the border and everyone on the bus wishes me a safe trip. I’m swarmed by a small mob who offer to get me across the border hassle free for a small price. I ignore them and approach the border guard, who promptly tells me that the border is for Kazakh and Uzbek citizens only. I tell him I’m a Russian citizen and that we’re all friends. He tells me that the foreigner crossing is 80km away at Yallama. I tell him that if Stalin was still in power, this man would be sent to the gulags for his insolence.

The taxi drivers offer me ridiculous rates of 8,000 Tenge (60 AUD) for the taxi and think I’ll negotiate from there. I tell them to f*ck off, scam someone else and that I’ll walk. One of the guys kindly offers me to exchange money, saying that I’ll get 180 Cym to the USD instead of the 160 he claims I’ll get in Uzbekistan. The official rate is 1,500 Cym to the USD, again I tell him to f*ck off.

I ask a bus driver headed for Almaty if there are any cars to the border, he tells me that I should take a taxi and points to the drivers who are still waiting around like sharks. They take turns approaching me and offering ridiculous rates. I tell them I’ll walk, tossing up my options.

Eventually a driver tells me to hop in and that he’ll drive. I ask how much and he tells me that we can negotiate along the way, I tell him upfront or it’s a no go. He tells me that he’ll drive me to the main road from where I can get a lift to the border for around 200tenge. I hop in and thank the man for his generosity. Unfortunately at the borders, you’re swarmed by the sharks and don’t notice the good drivers.

I wait at the intersection for a car and am offered a taxi for 4,000 Tenge, he tells me the border will close in one hour and that it’s a half hour drive. I tell him I’ll take my time and sleep at the border if I have to.

The first lift I get is with an off-duty police man who tells me that he used to work at the checkpoint and that it closes at 9pm (in four hours, not the half an hour that every driver claimed). Price 200 Tenge.

The officer drops me off at the town closest to the border from where a shared taxi is 200 Tenge. Given the short distance involved, I try to haggle, they tell me to f*ck off. I give up trying to flag down a lift after five minutes and hop in the taxi. 200 Tenge, total price from local only border, 400 Tenge, total price from Shymkent, 700 Tenge.

I reach the officer just outside the border and show him my passport. He says that it’s $10 to cross here. I tell him it’s free for everyone to cross. He tells me the foreigner crossing is 70km away and that this isn’t Yallama. Playing along, I thank him, turn to start walking only to have him laugh and say I can come in.

Between the gate and the Kazakh side of the border, I bump into an Uzbek who offers me to change currency at 1,800 Cym to the USD (the official rate is 1,500 and the current black market rate is between 1,800 and 1,900). I tell him I’ll change $50 but he says he doesn’t have enough money, but will see to it that I’m taken care of.

I leave the man and walk to the Kazakh side of immigration and show my passport.

Officer 1: Where are you going?

Me: Tashkent.

Officer 1: Why?

Me: I hear it’s beautiful.

Officer 1: You heard wrong.

The next officer I reach.

Officer 2: Where did you come from?

Me: Shymkent.

Officer 2: Where are you going?

Me: Tashkent.

Officer 2: Why?

Me: People told me it’s nice there.

Officer 2: They lied. Open your bag.

Having expected this, I’d taken the precaution of hiding all my money on myself as there was a chance the bag would be swarmed by immigration officers who would steal my things. Unfortunately I couldn’t hide my laptop and the officer asks me to take it out and turn it on. As it’s turning on, he says I can be fast tracked for $20. I tell him I’ll wait.

Officer 2: Have you got any movies?

Me: No, it’s for work.

Officer 2: How about porn?

Me: No, it’s for work.

Officer 2: You have a program for music, put on some music

I turn on the program and the music starts, he calls his buddies, who, as predicted swarm my bag.

Officers: Where do you keep your money?

Me: I don’t have any.

One of the officers picks up a T-shirt and smells it.

Officer 3: Smells like narcotics.

Me: You need a new dealer, that’s the smell of sweat buddy, while you’re at it, do you mind washing it?

Pissed off that there’s no money, the officer swarm leaves, however I’m stuck with bored officer listening to music. While I wait, several men with suspicious packages or large sums of money walk past, pay a small bribe and keep going. After half an hour the officer lets me through. Note to self, hide laptop and make sure it has very little charge when exiting Uzbekistan.

I proceed to the final Kazakh officer.

Officer 4: Where did you come from?

Me: Shymkent.

Officer 4: Where are you going?

Me: Tashkent.

Officer 4: Why are you going to Tashkent?

Me: I heard the girls are pretty.

Officer 4: Good answer.

Me: I’m going to be returning to Kazakhstan, your girls are nice too, I don’t want to go through the hassle of re-registering, I need my registration card.

Officer 4: Sure I can help you with that. I help you, you help me. How much are you going to give me?

Me: As soon as you give me the card I’ll be out of your sights.

The officer, seeing that I won’t be giving him any money gives me the registration card and tells me to go away. Cheers to corrupt Kazakh hospitality.

I walk between the Kazakh and Uzbek sides of the border and just as I cross into the Uzbek side (passing a Kazakh officer who doesn’t demand a bribe), one of the guys who was talking with the officer says he received a call about a guy with a backpack looking to change currency. Looking at the Kazakh officer, I say we should walk a few steps away from him.

The guy says to not worry, that he can’t enter Uzbek territory (highly unlikely since he could easily rat on me and split the bribe money with his buddies on the Uzbek side) and walks a couple of steps with me to put me at ease. At 1,800 Cym to the USD, I offer to change $50 USD and am faced with a dilemma, verifying that I did in fact receive 90,000 Cym when the largest note is worth 1,000 Cym.

The guy takes out a pack in a rubber band and says it’s one hundred thousand in notes, quickly thumbs off ten thousand Cym notes, leaving them in the rubber band and puts them in his right jacket pocket. He gives me the stack and I tell him I’ll count them. I count them out slowly, reach 89 and tell him he’s wrong. He tells me I’m mistaken and we count them out together. The stack consists of 500s and 1000s interspersed (in order to confuse myself) and I catch him trying to double count notes and count a 500 as a 1000 when he speeds up. I tell him to stop, sort the pack into 1000s and 500s and tell him to count again slowly. Watching intently, I see him try to double count again and correct him. He finds that I’m watching so intently that he doesn’t try a third time and counts all the way to 89. He looks confused, pulls out a small pack in a rubber band from his left jacket pocket and surprise surprise, it contains eleven thousand Cym bills, conveniently explaining away that he tried to rip me off. I tell him it’s good that he remembers which pocket to take which stack from, exchange money and walk away, noting the smirk on the Kazakh officers face.

In total we spent fifteen minutes counting money between Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan customs and I smile at the fact that I’ve committed my first felony (black market currency exchange) prior to even being let into the country.

Outside the Uzbek side of the border, I chat with an Italian trio doing the Mongol Rally and make a note to one day also take part in it. After a short chat, I head in to the Uzbek immigration office, show the officer my passport and am told to speak with the doctor.

Doctor: Are you sick?

Me: No.

The doctor gives me the all clear and says I can keep going. The officer decides he’ll escort me personally. Uzbek officer 1 takes me to the immigration booth where they handle cars and the three officers inside talk about not letting me in due to the state of my passport – it suffered some damage when I came into Laos and was drenched in water as part of their new years celebrations (March 14th-16th).

Uzbek officer 1 pulls me aside and asks me how much I’m willing to pay to be let into the country. I say nothing and that if there are any problems he should call the Russian consulate in Tashkent to explain that he thinks the passport does not belong to me.

The officer makes me stand and wait while he goes off to speak to his boss (have a tea and see if I’ll get nervous and want to pay his bribe). In the mean time, one of the other guys, having completely taken apart everything in one of the cars headed towards Uzbekistan turns to the guy next in line with Russian plates and asks if he’s carrying any forbidden materials like narcotics or guns. The guy replies that he has nothing illegal, except for the car bomb which will go off as soon as someone opens the trunk. I laugh.

Uzbek officer 1 decides he’ll parade me in front of some of the other officers hoping I’ll want to pay a bribe. I meet a French couple (Deviane and Mark) and have a short with them while I wait, telling them to not pay any bribes.

After finally being let into the country, I walk along with the French couple and find out they were at the other border shortly after me and paid $20USD for a taxi to this one. I cringe.

They ask me to help find them a lift to Bukhara. Given that I know Russian (but not the prices of taxis here), I accept thinking I’ll save them at least some money. As we pass a group of women with prams full of goods to take into Kazakhstan, I chat with them and find that the cheapest way to Tashkent is to take a taxi to the intersection with the highway (500cym) and a bus to Tashkent (1000cym).

We reach the taxi sharks and I enquire about a taxi to Bukhara, the price is outrageous so the pair decide to try catch a bus from Tashkent. We negotiate a taxi to the intersection and after 20 minutes agree to 1000cym, they weren’t willing to take us for the 500cym. We’re followed by another taxi, the driver of which asks how much we’re offering to get to Tashkent. At this point, I’m pissed off that they lied to us about the distance involved and wouldn’t take us for the going rate and tell him to go away while we wait for the bus.

Eventually I agree to take the three of us for 2,000 Cym each, thinking it’ll be quicker than taking the bus. We get in the car, and at one point do an illegal U-turn and head in the wrong direction on the highway as the driver tries to find some guy that owes him money. I enquire about seat belt laws and am told that no one bothers since the fine is only 2,000 Cym. Our car has no headlights so the driver leaves his indicators on.

We reach Tashkent and are told that no buses or marshrutkas run after 9pm between cities since there was a bad accident two months ago and many people died. Not trusting the taxi drivers, we walk to a marshrutka to find that it is indeed true. We eventually settle on 30,000 Cym for the couple to go Samarkand (down from 40,000 after half an hour’s negotiation). I tell the couple to not pay any money until they arrive at their hotel and work on getting my own lift into the city.

The taxi mafia tell me that the only way into the city is by car since the buses don’t run. A bus goes past one minute later. I ask them where the bus stop is. One of the guys tells me he’ll take me for 500 Cym. I agree and put my bag in the car. He resets his odometer as we’re about to leave and I ask him why, saying he offered 500 Cym. He tells me it’s 500 Cym per kilometre. I laugh and tell him to piss off, open the boot and take my bag. I walk away from the taxi mafia and ask one of the shopkeepers where the bus stop is since I want to go to the centre.

The shopkeeper tells me I should take the metro and points to the stairs right next to where' I’d been negotiating with the taxi mafia the whole time. I go to the metro and ask one guy where there’s a cheap hotel in the city. He speaks with someone else on the metro and this other guy (Rustam) says he’ll tell me where to get off.

Rustam gets off at the same stop as I do and we walk together towards the bus stop. He has a Tony Montana swagger to his walk and even resembles the man somewhat. We hop on the bus and Tony Montana shows some card which entitles him to free travel. I ponder whether he works for the SNG (internal spying organisation). Turns out he’s an Afghan vet and swaggers because he was shot in the leg during his service, go figure.

We reach the hotel (Al-Hocilot - Ал-Хосилот), a derelict building from the soviet times and Rustam bids me farewell as I check in. Showing my registration slip to the attendant on my floor, she informs me that I have to pay for soap, shampoo and toilet paper. Also, if I want a “little sex” she can arrange it. I thank her for the offer, tell her (over fifty and overweight) that she couldn’t handle a little sex with me and head to my room for much needed rest.