Uzbekistan > Smuggling porn

The large fan barely managed to make the room a little cooler. There was a strange central beam in the bed. I tried to lie in a way that didn’t bother me. I didn’t sleep very well. In the morning, with the last of our money, we bought some food at the local supermarket. This was not easy for the equivalent of €1.20. At half past eight, we drove off the hotel grounds. The car started without problems. The road toward the border town of Termez, near the Afghan border, is marked red on the map—a main route. As earlier in Uzbekistan, this is no guarantee of a good road. Some sections are fine, alternating with stretches full of potholes. By following the small minibuses that pick up and drop off people, we drove over the best parts. They know the road by heart. Suddenly, there was a fine stretch of four-lane road with smooth asphalt. A pleasure to gain some speed. Just as suddenly as it started, it ended. The road turned into a gravel road with a deep pothole. Full brakes. Still, we went into the hole at sixty or seventy. Sorry, Brutus. The wheels must have come loose. We braced ourselves for the yellow route, which we had to follow for about fifty kilometers. What would that be like? Just after a police checkpoint, where all details must be registered again, we turn left. One officer mentions that France won the opening match of the European Championship last night. “Holland no,” he says, making a cross with his arms. No, Holland is not participating. The road to Termez goes straight here. To our surprise, this yellow route is reasonably good. Probably, this section was just resurfaced recently. We don’t complain. Suddenly, a man in a small white car overtakes us, waving furiously. He wants us to stop. He comes over to shake our hands. Then he goes back to his car and returns with a five-liter bottle of water—for us, for the road. As quickly as he stopped, he drives on again. Funny. Back on the last stretch of red road to the border, the potholes increase again. So do the police checkpoints. Although we are often allowed to drive through, we still have to pull over twice for registration. At half past two, we arrive at the border between Uzbekistan and Tajikistan. The paperwork goes smoothly, but during the car inspection, the officers find the medicine box. The inventory list still mentions codeine.

Uzbekistan - View over the center of Dushanbe

Since this is not allowed in Uzbekistan and is considered a drug, we had already removed it. But it’s still on the list. The entire suitcase is emptied. We explain that it’s no longer inside. A customs officer, who speaks decent English, explains that they will search the Land Rover. If they find anything, it will be considered a drug offense. Meanwhile, the phones are also examined. Do we have pornographic videos on the phones? Not deliberately, but via WhatsApp, some things do show up. The officer is skilled at handling the phones—I think he knows how my phone works better than I do. On one phone, he finds a sexually-themed video. “Problem, problem,” he says. The phone has to go inside. The second officer continues bravely with the car search. The luggage is checked, the drone, folding chairs, and cameras. He seems most interested in the photos from Turkmenistan. He probably hasn’t seen the gas crater before. When the motorcyclists arrive at the border and he realizes we’re together, he finishes the search. The car is approved and must park further along. Inside, the phone issue is still ongoing. For the illegal import of pornography, a fine must be paid. A notice is drafted in Russian. It must be translated by one of the staff, otherwise, we have no idea what to sign. Everything takes and takes. Finally, almost four hours later, we leave Uzbekistan, having been fined $20. What a difference at the Tajik border. “Welcome to Tajikistan,” they say at the border. When registering the car, the declaration form turns out to be unnecessary. The officer takes it from me, crumples it, and tosses it out the open window. Fine then. I do get the stamp in my passport. Shortly after, I receive two forms for the car. “Receive?” For both, we must pay. About €2 in total. The forms are in Russian. I deduce that at least one is for “guarantee.” Could it be some kind of insurance? At the third counter, the car registration in the computer system is delayed—the power goes out. Nobody seems to mind, except that the TV stops as well. We have to wait until the power returns. The barrier gate cannot open or close either. At a small restaurant for truck drivers, we buy some drinks. The truckers want to know where we come from and where we’re going. Once the power is restored, the registration is completed. For the temporary import of the car, $25 must be paid, and the car is registered with the police. At eight o’clock, we drive into Tajikistan. It is slowly getting dark. The road is surprisingly good. No potholes or bumps, and occasionally there are even streetlights. We hadn’t expected this in Tajikistan. In the dark, we enter Dushanbe. At the central square, we stop to figure out how to get to the hotel. An officer approaches immediately. When we park the car at the side, we are allowed to take photos of the statue in the square. The officer takes photos with our cameras. We can also take photos behind the statue. There, away from others, comes the inevitable question: “Money, money?” It feels strange to hear this from an officer instead of a beggar. Just around the corner from the hotel is a cozy restaurant. Since it’s already late, we decide to stay in Dushanbe tomorrow as well. A nice feeling to have a relaxed day tomorrow. I am tired.