For the first time in our Turkmen history, it did stop raining men today and we greeted the sun with a decent set of sun salutations. Some hundred meters before the border we made ourselves a last dumpling soup and enjoyed the first and last bottle of Turkmen cognac of our lives. We were not looking forward to this border crossing, which would cost us more than three hours. At the Turkmen side they once more went through all our stuff and we had to open up some bags, which the female customs offical quickly regretted. Using her index finger and her thumb she lifted all of our dirty laundry, greasy pots and pans and dusty repair gear out of our bags. When a condom fell out of Oli's bags they asked about the purpose of this item, and we couldn't stop ourselves from bursting into a roaring laughter. Although these customs officials take their jobs very seriously, we are convinced that, if we wanted, we each could have smuggled at least ten kilo's of cocaine across. We decided not to take the risk and enjoy the laugh with the officials, when Oli used his best body language to explain the purpose of a condom.
In Uzbekistan we called it a day after ten kilometers in the country, when we concluded that the Uzbek roads aren't any better and maybe even worse than the roads in the previous country. We checked out an abandonned looking restobar/train station/mini-market to set up camp, only to find out it was inhabited by four local old Uzbeks with golf hats and moustaches. They invited us in for dinner and wodka, which we happily accepted. Stef treated them to a harmonica concert, and afterwards we took out our speakers and turned the evening in to a Belgian/Uzbek musical dance party. The old guys gave their best, and we almost had to throw the towel in the dance ring, but luckily we had one last trick up our sleeves. Good old Belgian jumpstyle. They couldn't keep up with us anymore, and after a last shot of wodka the Uzbeks said goodbye and we tucked ourselves in.