As was a familiar sight at every border we’d been through since Turkey, guards commonly brandished combat knives and AK47s almost as tall as them. Sinister as they seemed, explaining why there was a bathtub on our roof, interrogating their foolish fascination with Manchester United and handing them a pen to sign the car usually broke the ice. What was slightly different however about the Turkmenistan/Uzbekistan border was the humiliating task of declaring how much money we each had on our person. As we counted our cash out on the table we came to the sheepish realisation that yes that really is all we have. This was about $40 worth in a jumble of currencies, most of which were now useless. As the lady stamped my passport she said something in Uzbeki that I’m convinced meant “you povvo” before waving me on.
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| This was for 8 pizzas |
After some much needed Western food we started chatting to a guy who could source us some petrol. Benzene, as they call it, cannot be purchased at gas stations in Uzbekistan and can only be bought on the black market. After agreeing on a price, he led us away to his backstreet compound where several men, a wise old grandpa and two little kids were waiting. They then proceeded to bring out several 5L water containers filled to the brim with petrol and quenched Marigold’s thirst. Next on the agenda was cash.
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| Black market petrol |
All of the banks we visited that day
told us that they could not exchange dollars for Uzbek Som and that our best
bet was to try at the local bazaar. We tracked down a nut seller in one of
these bazaars who agreed to change our dollars for us. As he started to do so I
noticed he was counting the notes out behind the pistachios in a rather
secretive manner. We soon found out why as within an instant the police
appeared and beckoned us upstairs to a holding room.
Three very animated policemen
gesticulated wildly as they scrutinised all our passports. Through very broken
English we understood that this kind of transaction was illegal in Uzbekistan.
Playing the dumb tourist card to great effect they eventually let us off and
ushered us out of the bazaar. As for the nut seller, the corrupt policeman
shook his hand, bought some almonds and turned a blind eye. In the space of one
day we’d completed the spiral of decline from respected chemical engineering
graduates to big players in the petrol prohibition and money manipulation
underworld of Uzbekistan. Never mind our past lives, we were now “Alf” Capone,
“Richey” Cohen and Ronnie “Kay”.
With that episode behind us we hit the
road again. On the way to the Aral Sea we waltzed into the middle of a wedding
convoy, giving us an excuse we didn’t really need to use our la cucaracha horn
again. We also encountered our Uzbeki alter ego, a donkey towing a cart
carrying a bathtub. Once the donkey clocked us, from the look in its eye it
became apparent we were locked in a street drag race. With 1 horsepower stacked
up against 60, it was no match for Marigold and we left them in our wake. A
noble effort but our bathtub is better.
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| Pitch at the Aral Sea, Uzbekistan |
Posted by: Rich