Day 35: across Kazakhstan

Almaty, Kazakhstan. We're all itching like mad from inadvertently spending the night at that Soviet spuff parlour. We've probably got AIDS or something. I know you can catch AIDS off bed sheets, but does it itch? Turns out it's not AIDS - Steve's covered in bites, especially on his elbow, so it's probably just something harmless, like mosquitos or bed bugs or full-body crabs.

What a fine introduction to Kazakhstan. Corrupt officials, shopkeeper-whores, and now bed-borne disease. But after a quick walk round Almaty, it seems our experience is only representative for cheapskates who can't afford to splash out on the proper stuff. It's a really swanky place. We're soon hunting breakfast in a part of town full of tree-lined boulevards and posh hotels, where we feel uncomfortable about the prices and have to move ourselves on to find something more down-market. We need to work on finding our level.

We end up with barely-fried eggs on a bed of cheesy bread. It's amazing. And a few good old traditional cappuchinos, which feels like being licked by Jehova after three weeks of Nescafe. I'd never realised the extent of Nestle's grubby reach. We're just tucking into our eggy bread when Jeff lets out the tiniest groan. What's that? He laughs. 'I thought I could allow myself a cheeky trump. But I think I may have followed through.' He gets up silently to find the loo in the immaculate restaurant, revealing a perfect moist strip on the seat of his trousers.

Nothing much happens the rest of the day. We drive. The scenery is, of course, beautiful, and the sun's out again, and all is lovely. The trouble with such a long and varied trip is that it's easy to enjoy but hard to keep conveying in words how ace it is. The bar has been set high for scenery. This is perfect - rolling hills, vast plains, mountains in the distance, and a fairly decent stab at being green. It's ace, but it just doesn't make me fire words out my balls like the mountains of Kyrgyzstan.

I guess after a while you do get used to stuff. Take toilets. In the first week or two I must have dedicated at least 5,000 words to discussing the loos. And that was only in Europe, where a couple of high-tech towel dispensers and stool-inspection shelves were enough to get me excited. By the time we'd reached places where a restaurant's toilet is a half-mile hike up the road to an open concrete shed housing a faeces-flecked hepatitis hole, I'd lost interest in discussing it. Maybe deeper into Kazakhstan they have loos that involve squatting over the gaping jaws of a wolf and curling one down. Then I'll be back in the game.

Everyone's into karaoke into Kazakhstan. There are big karaoke halls all along the road into Almaty. Later we arrive in Taldyqorghan, a town 250km away, and after driving around the town about 20 times and enquiring of half the populace, we finally manage to find a hotel. It's a definite step up from the last one, even if there's no sex on sale. It is opposite a karaoke joint though, so we go in for some shashlik kebabs and beer.

An unseen woman is performing Elton John's Sacrifice (the song, not the long overdue wicker and fire ritual). 'Eeet's no sacariiifi-ii-iise...' The food is lovely, the local beer is ace, and in the middle of the meal three Kazakh b-boy kids run in and start doing loads of ridiculous breakdancing next to our table. Hadn't expected that. They're really young, and really good too, doing all kinds of impossibly nimble spins, and choreographed moves where one dude runs up his mate and does a backflip.

It's one of the many moments in my life I've wound up ruing the fact I can't breakdance. What a way to connect with the locals, shouting 'Manchester United!' while grabbing my bollocks and busting out a nifty windmill.

We give the b-boys about 500 quid for their efforts. Not least because they were infinitely more exciting than the shit Elton John track that played through the night practically on loop.
We have been in the country two days and seen not one person who looks even remotely like Borat. It's amazing what you can get away with if you pick the right stereotype to make your comedy out of. Take Almaty - everyone there is incredibly westernised in terms of dress, but with an overwhelmingly oriental look. Others look distinctly Russian. I see a grand total of no moustached Turkish-looking Jews in funny swimsuits.

Even in this small town, everyone is more old Soviet than anything else. Our hotel room has a shower that at one time must have been luxurious - it has jets coming out of every angle, and a radio, playing D.I.S.C.O as I stand there washing myself and half my wardrobe. After five weeks away, everything is getting pretty rank. And with the trip turning into a bit fo a mission - get out of Kazakhstan in four days - we've no time to fanny around. Hence sharing the shower with my smalls.

The upside is that talk is now turning to Mongolia. It's been such an abstract concept for most of the trip that it wasn't worth thinking about. Now we should be there in less than a week. Whereupon everything will duly turn properly strange.