Out of Uzbekistan...

26/08/09

Glad to move on from Uzbekistan, I had one final hurdle to clear, this one more daunting than negotiation with any taxi touts or seedy hotel managers: Uzbek customs.

Getting through involves a great deal of passport checking and inspection. They looked through all the electric plugs and battery chargers in my luggage – apparently quite the novelty. They looked through the photographs on both my cameras twice making frequent inquiries if I had any porno. I did not.

When I finally got the luggage checked, customs officials insisted that I proceed to the departure lounge three hours before the flight. This involved more inquiries about porno and inspection of the $371 USD that I had declared on the form. One of the guys asked me for a bribe and as a result of repeated inquiries, I finally told him I could help him get a visa for the UK, before buying him a pack of Uzbek smokes at a cost of 1500 sum ($0.85 USD).

Bribe paid on the cheap, complete with empty (but necessary) promises, I was ready to make my way through immigration where the cameras were inspected again (porno?) and I tried to maintain my identity as a British Citizen contrary to every instinct to tell people I come from Canada. The police were getting a real kick out of my carry on items and were playing with my laptop and cameras. One of them was really screwing around and began playfighting with me. After a few punches to my stomach I pointed to him and said “Arnold Schwarzenegger” which provoked lots of positive acknowledgement and laughter. He then proceeded to “playfully” immobilize me by twisting my arm behind my back. I played along (having little choice), amazed at the ‘corrupt and jolly’ police state feel that the experience had thus far created. I finally said goodbye, pledged eternal friendship and moved through the metal detector without having my items x-rayed and found a seat in the empty departure lounge (with no porno).

This was a fitting end to the idiotic bureaucratic ineptitude that was my time in Uzbekistan. I was now through customs clutching the collected scraps of paper which constituted my registration certificates that I had collected for the last couple of weeks at every hotel that I stayed. It’s a good thing they were not checked because one incompetent girl had managed to put the wrong date on a slip. No doubt that discovery of this fact would have sent me back to the cigarette counter to purchase a full carton of bribes. I am sure I could have wriggled out of a fine again. Without prejudice to my generally honest personality, I have developed significant expertise in dealing with customs while avoiding most hassles without paying bribes to corrupt officials. On account of its bureaucracy, getting in or out of Uzbekistan is a Major League achievement in this department.

The trick is to always look really bored, as if customs is an unnecessary formality, so they don’t take any interest in you. This works 90% of the time. Uzbek customs is a good illustration of the exception to this rule. Though I was looking as bored and annoyed as possible at the senseless and repeated inspection of my documents and luggage, the officials engaged me on both the way in and the way out. I believe it is on accountof the remote points of entry and exit that I attracted so much interest. I don’t think many tourists turn up at Madanivat (Where?), and likely even fewer fly out of Karshi (Where?).

In any event, when official interest is aroused for this or other reasons, attempt to confirm that you are worthy of interest whilst diverting the subject from the customs inspection by any means necessary: compare the officials to Hollywood stars, boast about some characteristic of your home country, tell them that you really love theirs, explain that you are broke, tell them you don’t like a rival country, or tell them they should visit you back home. If dealing with a man, bring up either football or women, or in some cases discuss both. Don’t mention that you are a Canadian, travelling for the last year and that you are presently carrying two passports, thirteen different currencies, a computer full of scathing blog material relating to their country, and whatever you do, don’t bring porno.

Having successfully employed these techniques, I was through with minimal hassle to await the flight. The three hours passed relatively quickly on account of a good book, and the televised coverage of the “Uzbekistan International Dance Festival.” This was the very event that had prevented me from properly seeing the Registan in Samarqand, and let me say that it was totally worth it. From what I could see, the festivities were attended by about 500 spectators including the president of Uzbekistan.

It began with ten minutes of music, then a couple of minutes of dancing before the performers gave way to a litany of standard bearers holding poles with the names of various countries involved in the festival (in ways that completely escape my comprehension). Among them were Bangladesh, Belorussia, Bulgaria, Turkmenistan, and Tajikistan. It truly was an international affair.

The president then got up and gave a lengthy speech that did not generate any reaction from the crowd, save for some half-hearted clapping as if to an unheard musical beat. He took his glasses off twice during the speech and really spoke to the people, I think in an attempt to be funny. This did not result in laughs or applause so he put the glasses back on and kept talking. This was followed by another speech, something to do with UNESCO, maybe plans for more carpet shops in the monuments, more fluorescent lights on ancient buildings. Seeing the event

I didn’t get to see any dancing as the doors to the tarmac opened and this produced a massive scrum with people lurching toward the exit. I waited it out for a while and walked across the tarmac to the plane. A guard had taken the initiative to have the men line up so as to allow ladies to board first. Once the ladies were on board the line degenerated into yet another wild scrum, this one even more physical since it was only the men left. I stood back and watched, observing how competitive reserved seating really is.

Touched down in Moscow after a flight with my neighbour asserting himself all over the arm rest and spilling into my seat. I didn’t care, just glad to get out of Uzbekistan. I didn’t want to deal with the taxis, the touts, the agents, the hotel bookers, and of course, I arrived in the middle of the night. Solution: sleep in the lounge and head downtown on the subway in the morning.

I note that after writing this entry, I discovered that some Uzbek customs official had sticky fingers and swiped my cel phone and the charger. It was kind of nice that the Uzbek authorities decided to treat me to a final "Fuck You" on the way out...