1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192 
SEEKING SANIARQUAND
Page 50
Page 51
If you've noticed an error in this article please click here to report it so we can fix it.
It's that man Oliver Dixon again, still with the relief convoy and heading from Turkmenistan to Uzbekistan by way of a bridge that floats (most of the time) and a suicidal pedestrian...
Every schoolboy worth his salt knows how to make a Maltese cross; most also know how to make a Venetian blind. But how do you irritate an Uzbek? It's a question that's been bothering me ever since I got into this country.
Allow me to explain.The border between 'Thrkrnenistan and Uzbekistan is a pontoon bridge, which means it floats.
We're carrying a couple of hundred tonnes of supplies on 10 trucks, so some of us are a bit chunky. So far this hasn't proved to be a problem — in fact, the ballast has been a boon on poor roads because heavy trailers tend to stay on the ground while the lightweights seek orbital stardom.
But the Turkmen-Uzbek border reminds me that heavier isn't always better.
I'm sitting in truck number nine, front end afloat, back end still on terra firma. Behind me is about four hours of transit traffic attempting to get into Uzbekistan fromTurkmenistan.1 can see three trucks ahead, but after this there is a gap. Locking the doors. I wander up to see what the problem is It's a real doozey: truck number five has shrunk by around three feet. Or, more accurately, pontoon number 17,1 think it is, has sunk by around three feet. Oops.
I return to my cab, shaking my head. Cigarettes have dropped to crisis level and I may yet be forced to take a pack of Pine Lights from a passing tout.They sound like lava tory cleaner and they taste like they've been dipped in it too, I've finished my book, and getting at another will require an unscheduled sort-out. Only one thing for it: on goes the radio, and Uzbek FM cascades forth from the Actros's myriad speakers. I'm trying for the traffic news, to see if we have been immortalised therein. Instead, overdubbed in the local language and replete with a Central Asian baseline, there pours forth a version of Roy Brown's rendition of Living !Vex( Door to Alice.
Anywhere but here
The surrealometer leaps into the red zone and! lay my head on the steering wheel in an attempt to be somewhere else.
What really blows the goat here is that I should be out taking photographs of the melee. But I'm still inTurlcmenistarhand this would be iffy. Moreover,! have spent the past day driving parallel to the Iranian border, taking occasional photographs of slogans picked out in stone on the side of the mountains.
Closer inspection on the computer screen reveals that I am now in possession of a complete set of pics detailing Turkmen border defences against their southern neighbour, and I'm rather hoping that the guys with the AK47s at the bridge check point won't want to take a look. Four hours later, with the traffic backed up five time zones, we're on our way.
We're maybe five miles down the road when an unscheduled pedestrian pops out from behind a tree. My colleague can't stop, despite the fact that the Mercedes brakes have been a revelation, and for the second time in my life! hear the sickening sound of human being and motor vehicle coming together.
The first time I heard such a noise was in Birmingham 10 years ago and thankfully the drunkard in that incident was OK.This time I cannot believe that we (or indeed he) will be so lucky.The law of averages are against it. and we're in a part of the world where "due process" means "stay in the cab with the door locked". Amazingly, unbelievably. the bundle of rags sprawled in front of one of our vehicles is sitting up in bed four hours later with no more than a headache.
The mood in the convoy lifts to a state of quiet ecstasy and, perhaps for the first time in three weeks. we are no longer a set of individuals driving a set of vehi cles, but a single entity with a single aim. Caspian Sea Now I understand what convoy driving Stage 3 is really about. So how do you irritate an Uzbek? I'm sitting in Samarquand. realising the drear travellers around the world, and! just can work it out.We come to their country, bre their bridge, play pinball with their pedestrians, yet everyone we pass on the road smiles and waves.
Worrying...for the first time in 36 years close to a point where,on the very distant horizon, I can see the possibility of some f sympathy for the Royal family. Nine hour driving and waving, and my left arm has le the building.
We're drawing breath here before the run into Afghanistan.The end is in sight, only through a long lens, and there's muc still to do before the seals get broken and get tipped. •