We woke up on our grassy hobbitlike hill after a night of listening to a mixed concert or frogs, dogs, cows at the rain pelting on our tent. "Guys! Was I just dreaming or did I spot a kid pop up on top of that hill there?" Anton quizically asked Stef. "No Idea man, I don't..." but before he could finish his sentence a dozen Uzbek kids appeared and were soon standing scattered around our camping grounds, wide-eyed as we scratched our asses indifferently during our morning piss.
We had camped deliberately close to Qarshi because we only have to register every three days. There, we printed out our Tajik visa's, bought a new kite and booked a hotel before heading to the Tokyo 5D Game cafe for some shameless gaming. The internet was far from fast enough, so we relaxed in the rain instead.
We gathered a crowd in the street often, and decided that brushing our teeth with a crowd is a thing now.
people generally ask the same questions, so we start to make up fantasy stories for ourselves:
Stef became enlisted in spaceprogram, Anton had a giraffe farm in his appartement in London, we were hypnotists that crossed the borders by hynose, orphan world travelling writers, ...
Further, in Belgium (or Bulgaria, depending on the storyline and the quality of the audience's ears) everything is paid in watermelons, there are no escalators and it always, every hour of every day, rains.