Uzbekistan Pt 10

A Bully on the border.

The road to the Uzbek'/Tajikistan border saw us making fairly good time I recall. I also remember filling our tanks using up the remaining Uzbek' Cym, so felt pleased at the efficient use of the last of the local currency before leaving the country. There was a nice guy at the small shop that served as both local bar and gas-station who insisted on buying me a beer. He spoke a little French and his mate a few words of English, and therefore became a surreal experience because the usual choice of tongues for this region in which to converse were Tajik, Uzbek or Kyrgyz, with the only unifying language being Russian. But the the border was only minutes away and would likely be hanging about for some time when we got there. So some little time spent there speaking Franglais with these Uzbek's was a bit of a novelty. Besides which, the beer might even help me sleep through some of the expected waiting time at the border.

As predicted we soon come to a barrier and STOP sign that signaled the edge of Uzbekistan. Gathering up our paperwork for both the bikes and ourselves wandered into the border post building to start the exiting process. It was here that I found myself observing some rather disturbing behaviour by one of the guys in charge. He was a stocky sort with thick hairy forearms, and after seeing him order some people to be strip-searched on the flimsiest of excuses, made a note to treat this guy with kid-gloves. Patiently waiting in line with my one single piece of luggage brought in off the bike, was hoping they'd not insist on us carrying my whole 'kit & caboodle' inside to be searched. With it being hot and getting hotter, I sure wasn't about to haul it all in unless specifically asked to do so. The panniers and tank bag were left on the bike. So far as I was concerned it'd be heaps easier if they took a look inside those luggage items in-situ.

Our passports were taken for perusal, then after some debate taken elsewhere to another office. Lord knows why, but whatever came of it I was intent on sitting patiently till they'd finished looking at them, exit stamped our visas, returned our passports and let us go. But before getting that far Bjorn suddenly said to me “What's he doing?” with some annoyance then disappeared outside. Evidently he'd noticed the brutish guy had wandered outside and with curiosity getting the better of him, was seen poking around with the GPS unit on Bjorn's Dakar. In the interests of keeping an eye on the situation (or you could say I was being a nosey bastard!), wandered outside myself, just in time to see Bjorn barge his way in between the bike and the Customs guy. He then removed the GPS unit from it's cradle on the handlebars and put it into the tank-bag he'd brought along as his 'luggage'. Obviously this had the effect of putting the border-official's nose out of joint, as his reaction was to immediately order Bjorn to take all of his luggage into the customs hall to be searched. Outwardly I was calm but inside I winced, as this was the definitely the wrong bloke to upset.

Any chance of getting quick clearance had now gone, so put my backside on the tiled floor of the customs office and squatted with back to the wall, getting as comfy as possible in readiness for a 'long-wait'. During this time, practised my 'calmly bored expression', and did little more than answer a couple of questions over the course of half an hour or more. One question was ... “Australian?” (it's written plainly on the front of the bloody passport, ya Jackass!) to which I gave a 'yes', and the second was “Tajikistan?” and gave the same mono-syllabic reply, while thinking: Now, that's the 2^nd completely inane bloody question you've asked me! As if I'd come all the way to the border of Tajikistan, when I really wanted to go into Turkmenistan or Kazakhstan. This of course is rather long-winded, because the words that actually formed in my brain were ... 'this guy's a real twat!'

In retrospect Bjorn got away lightly, as the disturbing behaviour I mentioned earlier was repeated on some other unsuspecting emigrants. We watched as more people came into the building and stood in line for a few moments. It appeared to be a complete family with grandparents and parents right through to kids and grandkids. There might've been an uncle or aunt or two to swell the numbers as well. In waiting for their turn to be processed the father reached across a short barrier, to get one of the customs forms on the desk where the guard was sat. The guard immediately scolded him for this misdemeanour. I thought at the time that this guards reaction was disproportionately harsh and wondered why he should do this. Maybe he saw these people as coming from the 'wrong side of the track'. But whatever the reason, they appeared to be open for general abuse from this guard. After that short exchange, I thought things would calm down. But no ... after the bollockin', the Father seemed to be trying to explain himself. Which prompted the guard to launch a further tirade. Then 'Bully-boy' came back in and took over! With him facing me I could see he was relishing the fact that he was going to 'take control'. Barking orders at the family, things suddenly erupted into a full scale argument. But it didn't last, because whatever was being said, could see that a couple of female family members were soon pleading. A short while later it became obvious what was happening. They'd been ordered to go into a room to be strip-searched. Now, if you were to have seen these people, they were about as far as you can get from international smugglers as it gets. It seemed pretty clear to me, that it was never expected to find any contraband on any of those people, the strip-search was just being used to demean these individuals, and was a form of punishment. The thought passed through my mind ... what if I get the same treatment? Would I comply? Or would I do my best to ram the rough end of a metaphorical pineapple up this brutes arse! Talking of pineapples and arses ... maybe he was like that prison warder guy in the film The Midnight Express. It was enough to give you the shivers ...

Luckily it never came to this, and a big show of unlimited patience seemed to do the trick. After the men from the unfortunate family came back out buckling up trousers and straightening themselves, they appeared to have retained most of their humour if not dignity. It seemed to have the affect of placating the border officials though. Things started to move for us after that and could get going at last. One small hiccup was that in being told to go, had yet to get given my bike registration document back. So the fake anger tactic was called into play once again, and gambled that my age and nationality would command some respect. Up until that moment I'd been both calm and polite with them, but as soon as this bully tried to be dismissive towards me I 'barked' “Moto Passport!” at him, and looked him square in the eyes. It did the trick and he started made some noises to try and placate me. I stayed rooted to the spot and retained my grim expression until he eventually walked back over to the other office and came back with my paperwork. With passport stamped, rego' document back in my sweaty little hands, that was it. We were off to Tajikistan.