Saturday April 19
The alarm clock is set and a quarter past three we cycle in the dead of the night to the station. A shop is actually open and we buy 5 litres of water (14 kg of water is hanging on my bike) and bread as a precaution, as we have no Uzbek money and the first villages just over the border are tiny and probably with no possibility of paying by card. At the station, they tell us that wagon 10 is ours and that the bikes have to be at the very front, in the first wagon. When the bikes and luggage are loaded and we get into wagon 10, we are accosted by a full wagon load of Uzbeks. There is a border guard with a mobile device in front of him who calls all passengers one by one, passes passport through the device, checks papers and puts a stamp. Last to go is our turn. 'Touristi' says the man. He doesn't trust Wen's passport, which is new, with a device he goes over it and asks some questions that Google translate has trouble with. But eventually Wen gets a stamp 'Kazakhstan out' in the passport. A little relieved. With me, he spends less time on it. The official leaves. We have two upper beds and, just like on an aeroplane, are given a plastic-wrapped sheet, pillowcase and towel. And then the train departs. It rocks and shakes, lying hard on the too-short mattresses, but what a delight to hear the train's horn. In the dark, I see a horde of horses running away in the dust. Two men in our wagon are taking care of things and after a while they come shouting down the aisle that the toilet is open again. So half the wagon goes to use it. Through the window I watch the sun coming up. At the border, we stand still. Someone comes to collect the passports, taking a penetrating look at whether the photo is correct. The passports disappear from the train. A good number of customs officers are inspecting the train. I am accosted, have to come with them, through all the carriages to our bikes in the first one. I am watched by everyone on the way. The bikes have to move aside to retrieve a large duffel bag from under our bags, which is inspected and found to be good. The bags and bikes go back in place and I can leave. And not much later I am called up again. Now it's our bags' turn. The bag with sleeping bags and the bag with the tent have to be opened and finally the kitchen bag. He sees the water filter and asks what it is. He asks if I have a gun with me. Then all is well and I can go through all the wagons for the fourth time. The inspection is thorough. One passenger's jam jar has to be opened and smelled. All hatches on the train have to be opened and they check with mirrors and torches. When the inspection is complete, the customs officers leave and the stack of passports returns. We have a stamp for Uzbekistan!  Waiting on the platform is a group of eight women with large bags. These may now enter the train. One of those women walks through our carriage, able to change money. We are saved. She changes our Kazakh notes and 10 euros for Uzbek money. And sim cards are sold and bread. We buy two fresh sandwiches with our new money. The woman cannot change money and just gives us another sandwich. Drinks, socks, jewellery, you can get it. Meanwhile, the train has left for Jasliq. At the front of our carriage is a boiler with hot water that passengers fill their teapots with for breakfast. If only we had known this. Then we would have brought our mugs and instant coffee. We doze off some more. At 11.00 am we get off at Jasliq, a desert village with stone and mud houses, a scorched impression. The train stands for 20 minutes, so we have some onlookers as we prep our bikes. The train leaves, so do we. After a kilometre, a car pulls up beside us. We get a bottle of cola. We immediately cycle the wrong way, cleverly, within two kilometres and end up going along a dirt track to the main road. Since the border is closed to passenger cars, it is crowded on the train but quiet on the road, just some trucks. The emptiness here is even emptier than in Kazakhstan, no camels and horses. Every now and then the pungent smell of a cadaver. As I am about to throw away our waste at a petrol station, a boy from the hostel comes running up, coffee, water, sleep? They lack income. The wind is favourable and we cruise a good 100 kilometres until we come to a drilling rig standing right by the side of the road. We stop and two men walk up. If we want to eat and sleep. We accept the invitation and end up in the dining shack, tables with chairs and in the back the kitchen. If we want eggs? Yes. With pulled pork, sausage and bread. And tea, of course. When the food is finished, we are taken to our sleeping quarters in another container, we have six beds to ourselves. And we get to shower in the laundry container. Toilets are at the back of the site, as is common here a corrugated iron shack with a hole in the ground. And this in the middle of the desert. For cosiness, they have three dogs and a kitten. They have tapped a gas bubble at 3350 metres. The rig now has to be moved to another location. It's 14 days on, 14 days off. 'Where are you from, how old are you, married, children, how much do you earn,' a young boy handy with his mobile asks questions. In Uzbekistan, questions like these always the same, there is not much depth of conversation. This is partly due to Google Translate's poor translations, but it is also a bit of the Uzbek character. Four men playing cards. Half past nine, dark, time to sleep. The window in our container is blinded with a sleeping bag, nice and dark. We lie under our own down duvet and pillows and sleep a wonderful night.