Angren, Uzbekistan. A car pulls up alongside us as we're doing 60 down a dual carriageway. It's part of a wedding party - horns blaring, hazards on, weaving from lane to lane in drunken convoy. An insane carnival. A bloke in a suit leans out the window, waving his arms; he asks where we're from, says his name is Owez, and tells us to join in. Toot toot. On go our hazards, and lo - the madness begins.
Actually the madness began about 10 miles back. We'd just spent ages getting lost in the city of Tashkent, which conveniently has no road signs anywhere ('the Uzbek way' according to a guy at the petrol station), and I'd taken over the driving, ruing the start of yet another potholed B-road. Worse than that, I get pulled over by a policeman - I'm doing around 70, and this Lada overtakes, with its uniformed driver gesturing at me to slow down. He sticks his indicator on, so I pull over. We've never been stopped by cops before. This could be expensive.
He comes to the window.'English?'
'Yes.'
'Manchester United! Owen! Rooney! Riiiiiio Ferdinand! Sir Alex Ferguson!'
Ok, this won't be expensive.
We chat for a bit in our own languages, then he says he's off to drink tea. He doesn't even mention my driving. We follow him. I'm still a bit cautious - it wouldn't seem right bombing past a copper - but after a while I notice he's dropped down to about 55. He wants us to overtake. So I do. A minute later he comes hooning past us again with a massive grin on his face, pumping his fist, and clasping his hands together in a gesture of utter joy.
Just down the road, mountains now in view, we pull into a little town to buy water. Jeff and I are stunned by the girl in the shop. She's only about 17, and looks so sweet I actually have trouble looking at her. I feel too guilty. Jeff doesn't. I want to buy her. Bring her home, admit I fucked everything up, call it a crisis. Yes my friends, my life has gone awry, so I have married a woman half my age who speaks not a word of my own language, and money has changed hands.
(Given the clothes I'm wearing as I write this, it may actually have to happen. For reasons that will be explained, I have adopted the look of the traveller who has lost all sense of caring about appearances: a pair of bile-green suit trousers, a big ginger beard, and a little round ethnic hat perched on top of my head. Chicks dig it).
By now about 20 blokes have come out to look at the car, and ask what we're up to. We tell them we're driving into Kyrgyzstan through the mountains. One lad makes no sound, but manages to create a mime that perfectly conveys the sense that he deems such an idea absolutely ridiculous. Then he prays for us.
They want us to stay, to eat and drink vodka with them. It's such a shame to have to decline, but we have to drive on - we've only got a week to get to the far side of Kazakhstan before our visas expire, and that's still two countries away. But still it feels wrong to turn people down. They're disappointed but understanding, and there are loads of handshakes as we set off again. As we drive off I wonder whether that was a mistake. Maybe we should have stayed. Two minutes later our wheels are screetching as I skid to avoid a bull that's bolting across the road in front of us, chased by a desperate farmer.
Then we're off again, swept up into the middle of this mad motorcade - cars driving three-abreast, straddling lanes, driving with jubilation and a high risk of imminent death. Owez's car has a brilliant horn, it goes up and down a musical scale. A car pulls along our right side, and someone hands me a piece of purple cloth to trail out the window. Other drivers are forced to pick their way through this mess, some look very pissed off. We reach a red light and everyone just bombs through. 'Wedding mafia!' shouts Owez as he bombs past us. 'No red, no green, no problem!'
And this goes on for 30km. Everywhere you look there's someone hanging out of a window, things being passed between swerving cars as they pass bland and knackered concrete apartment blocks. It's nuts. Eventually we arrive at the party, greeted by a trio playing traditional Uzbek tunes, banging a hand-drum, and blowing on a huge horn. How the hell did we get ourselves into this?
I've got a bit of a wardrobe dilemma. I can go for what I'd normally wear, and stink, or go for a clean combo that looks ridiculous. I opt for the latter, figuring it the perfect time to rock my former editor's contribution to the trip - his vile 1984 Miami Vice bile-green suit. The trousers at least. I hope all at MT enjoy the pictures. Still, at least I changed. Steve just rolled in in his sweat-stained Finisterre top and boardies, shades still perched on his cap.
I feel like a bit of a pleb when we stride in to a vast room of about 200 people, all sitting down to eat, now staring at us. It's brilliant. We're quickly ushered to a table, introduced to the bride's dad, and fed - food and vodka. In fact the vodka doesn't stop. Everywhere we go it's another shot, necked straight and in one.
The bride and groom sit with Owez on a stage at one end of the room, a band down the other belting out banging music, Uzbek style. It's ace. A woman does some belly-dancing type stuff wearing a shiny silver hat. Pretty soon a woman is grabbing me and Steve, tying more coloured material to our arms and telling us to kick off the dancing. If someone likes your moves, they'll come up and give you money. I made 4,000 sum in five minutes. That's about £2.
We've been put in the care of the son of the family. He's 17. His latest task is to teach me traditional dancing styles. No problem - I've seen Turkmen karaoke videos, and it's all the same. Stick your arse out, wave your arms about, easy.
I go back for a rest, which means more vodka, then think it'd be a good idea to say hello to a table of old biddies. I shake hands with them all, and I think they appreciate it. Then the last one tells me to get my arse back on the dancefloor again.
Pretty soon we're on stage, and I've got a mic in my hand, delivering our goodwill message to the happpy couple, down the other end of this hall, past 200 baffled Uzbeks. A woman helps them by translating my rubbish. Very odd.
The rest of the night is incredibly hazy. Steve has reminded me that at one point I was on the dancefloor whipping a man with my cloth. I have the vague sense that some degree of breakdancing may have occurred.
Steve has also reminded me that we got chattign to the singer, a dumpy middle-aged woman who's apparently famous in Uzbekistan.
'Do you want to fuck her?' asks a man.
'No,' says Steve. 'Do you?'
'No, I think she's a bitch.'
Ok. The bloke then proceeded to ask Steve, a man intensely dedicated to his wife, if there was anyone there he did want to fuck. The implication being it could be arranged. These countries are weird.
And that's it for me. Apparently we were bundled out of the place fairly hastily at the end - we've no idea why - and one of the guys drove Mr Wazzboobleyoid back for us, with Steve and I sharing the one seat we've still got in the back.
What an incredible evening. It's just a different level of hospitality, something I've never expereinced before. I thought Turkey had it. Then I went to Georgia, and they topped it. And Azerbaijan too. Then Turkmenistan. But the people of Uzbekistan have to be the friendliest people on this trip so far. If it gets any friendlier, we're going to be ODing on good vibes. Even before the insane joy of the wedding party I was already smiling more than a Downs syndrome kid on his 32nd birthday.
Just the concept of inviting three weird-looking blokes to your wedding party in the first place - especially when you only met them by overtaking them on the motorway. And then making them so involved in the celebration. It's amazing. I have made a vow to forget that and revert to my old selfish ways as soon as I get home.
But it wasn't just the wedding incident. All day everyone was stopping to chat to us. We pull up outside the bank, the guy outside chats to us for five minutes. We go in a shop, everyone starts chatting about the rally. Driving through Samarkand, a woman in a minibus is shouting out the window, asking if we're Italian. It's nuts. Everybody talks to us.
And they're big fans of the thumb up. I love the thumb up. How can a gesture that's so quintessentially Cornish be universally understood everywhere else too? A scaffolder from Rescorla could come to Uzbekistan and make friends just by sticking his thumb in the air. He doesn't even need to say 'right boy?'
Earlier...
It was ace sleeping on the roof at Antica, with a lovely cool breeze, and being woken up by the soothing sound of a cock crowing, and the blast of a huge sun rising right in your face.
I'm on the way back from the loo, and Jonny says to take a seat. He then proceeds to start bringing out the breakfast, plate by plate - pancakes, fresh mulberry jam, and what turns out to be officially the best bowl of meusli I've ever eaten. Not sure how they did it, but it was mental. Soft, yoghurty, and full of fresh fruit.
Meusli.
To recap: this was a particularly satisfying bowl of meusli.
By coffee number three I'm joined by a couple of Austrians, Steve and Jeff, the Italian boys from last night and the Belgian girls. It's an ace morning, and we really appreciate the beauty and mellowness of the courtyard. Everyone really seems to have bought into the rally story and are all asking for the blog details. So a big thanks to everyone at Antica - the staff and the guests - for making our stay there really memorable. And a great laugh.
We marvel over the effect of the Lonely Planet. This place has been recommended, so everyone comes here. It's why we came here. What about the place down the road? No different to word of mouth, I guess, but on a huge scale. You can really see the effect of a book channelling everyone down the same roads. One of the Italian dudes is gripping a copy. Soon his mate's girlfriend comes out - she's got one too. We've got one. I reckon much of the planet must be pretty fucking lonely, and possibly pleasantly so, if everyone's crowded into the few places that the book deems worthy.
We're in pretty high spirits when we leave, and they only get higher when we go to the bank. Steve goes in to enter what becomes a full-on scrum at the counter, while Jeff and I stand outside and get chatting to pretty much everyone who comes past. The bloke outside the bank tells us how he'd seen another team here a few days back. A couple of blokes and a girl in a Skoda. Hmm. I ask if it was black, with fire down the side, and he says it was. Sounds like the team we met in Bulgaria. Apparently their transmission went, and this guy's mate tried to sort out a replacement. There were no Skoda garages in the area, so they tried fitting Lada kit instead. It worked, so I guess they're on their merry way. Ideal.
A French guy and his girlfriend stop to chat, saying how they went to Mongolia last year and that it was the nicest place they've ever been. Ace.
Back on the road. Drive on. The sun's out (again), and the rock is loud. Soldiers keep waving us through checkpoints. Everyone's selling watermelons. 'Diversify, you retards,' says Steve. It's becoming a motto.
The roads are generally good, so you can get a steady 60 or 70. But every now and again there's a pothole, or a bump, or a foot-high ridge where the heat and wear has pushed the road up to an arse-scraping point. Sitting here in the back writing my head regularly finds itself mingling gloriously with the ceiling.
There are police checkpoints everywhere. Each time involves the same routine: slow down, turn the rock down, and crawl past fearing the worst. But each time it's a smile when they see the car, and returning our waves. It's mental.
Lunch in roadside kafe. We have a bowl of these noodle things - lagman. It's lovely. It comes to 8,000 sum, or $5 for three, including tea. This is the life. As we're leaving a dude in a France football shirt stops us. He tells us it's his place, then heads inside to get us a bottle of cold drink, on the house.
Soon it's more madness, with sheep caning across the road...
... and then we join the wedding flock, with some bloke whipping us into drinking stupid amounts of vodka. Baa. Ozzie Ideales.
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