Bukhara, Uzbekistan. We wake up early at the Ambar with a mission - I have to go and plug into the matrix, to upload about 10 days of blogs; Steve and Jeff have to meet old boy from last night and take in the sights of Bukhara. Then, that box duly ticked, we can get back in the car and drive the 300km to Samarkand.
My story is fairly dull at this point, aside from jumping in a cab with a guy playing techno, and going to see his mate so I can change some cash. No idea about exchange rates, but it's funny to hit our first country that involves receiving Scarface-style wads of cash for a mere $20. Then I sit at a computer and press buttons.
Meanwhile Steve and Jeff are out with Shahkrat on a guided tour of the town. He's clearly done this before - he takes them round all the hidden gems - guys making book-stands that sit in eight different positions, all from one lump of wood; metal-workers and their kilns; and the inside of the ancient bathhouse. Jeff comes back with reports of naked men laughing at him slipping about in his flip-flops. It's good to hear laughter from naked men.
Steve asks his guide if he has a girlfriend. He does. But he can't marry her. She's Russian and not a virgin. He's going out with her now because she likes shagging a lot.
We grab some lunch among the locals at a restaurant down the road. We go for the noodle broth thing with the fried egg on the top. It's a beauty. Two old dudes next to us pass over a glass of cherry juice, and then start making gestures that say war is pointless and it's ace if we can all just chill out and have a laugh. I raise my cherry juice to that.
We say our goodbyes to the great staff at the hotel, and jump back in Mr Wazzboobleyoid, gunning her all the way to Samarkand. We stay in a place called _____, a lovely back-alley homestay built around an spacious courtyard complete with a loose-bowelled mulberry tree. It's beautiful. Host Jonny explains there's no rooms, but we can take the roof, which is sheltered. We take a look, it looks ace. Ideal.
Soon we're walking down a back alley, part of a procession of tourists going with a guy from the hotel to get food in an old house down the road. After a month of such freedom, it feels weird being led, but it soon turns ace when all the kids in the streets keep saying hello and asking to have their photos taken.
Dinner is ideal, with a couple of Belgian girls, some older French dudes, an Italian couple and some young film-makers from Paris. The house is beautiful too.
We head back. The others go to head up to bed, I figure I'll stay up with a beer and catch up with some blogs. Then I say hello to two Italian guys at the next table, they offer me some vodka, Steve and Jeff come down and join in, their other mate turns up and the sesh continues. They're a really good laugh, and we talk for ages. One has just had a whirlwind romance with a girl from the Ukraine. He seems a bit dazed. We talk about her for ages. What's her name? Barry, I suggest. It goes down far better than I'd have imagined.
Pretty soon we turn in, drunk, back in our RAF sleeping bags, on the roof. The stars are out and all is well with the world.
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