10 days later at the Uzbek/Turkmenistan border, in response to a request I showed my medicine kit, which included some tablets of Diazepam. The officers stated that this medicine was a class B psychotropic drug in Uzbekistan and they could not let me through until they had informed their superiors. At this point I was told that I would need to sign a form to permit the medicines to be destroyed, before being able to leave in a couple of hours. I was shown the hand-written letters of other people who had been in the same situation. I started reading the only English book that I had managed to swap in the previous hostel – Conan Doyle’s the White Company, which I had the opportunity to know by heart by the time I passed it on. And waited.

At 6pm the border closed, and I was told I had to fill in some forms declaring the incident in the regional town, Nukus. I was there from 6.30 to 10.30pm filling out forms surrounded by eight uniformed men and with a drunk translator provided by customs. He couldn’t get over the fact that I wasn’t married, thought a big smile would make up for the fumes and missing out every other word, and kept humming ‘don’t worry, be happy’. First test of fortitude. I was told that I would be able to leave the next day, but that by law the tablets needed to be tested by an official laboratory.

That was Thursday.  After a few pleasant days spent in seclusion at the President’s palace (where the occasional Uzbek government official looked quizzically in my direction wondering what I was doing there), I was informed that a case had been submitted from customs to the police. In the meantime, I had had to stay in the very nice residence (my only experience with air conditioning the whole trip) and was fed and watered by the two nice customs officers who were in charge of my case – Mahmoud and Sergei – who were genuinely super nice.

We hung around a couple of times at the police and the prosecutor’s office and then the Chief says to me that things are more complicated than they though – I was two tablets over a limit that means they couldn’t waive it. I was told I would have to see a judge on Monday to decide whether I should pay a fine, before I could cross the border on the Tuesday.

This happened over the weekend, so on Monday I found a great female lawyer, Raushan Isembayova, with the help of Askar, a fabulous gentleman who was my saviour and fix-it man here in Nukus. A Tashkent-based lawyer on the FCO list put me in touch with him.

Raushan explained that in fact, a criminal investigation had been opened under article 264 part (1) of the Uzbek criminal code, the accusation being trafficking of drugs purchased in Uzbekistan to Turkmenistan and with a penalty of 5-20 years.  Oh dear…

Nukus President’s residence, my home for three days

Our total inability to communicate, the lack of vocabulary and language, and a 15 year age difference were but minor obstacles to two hormonal boys in their teens.  Once we got out of the taxi at Chimbulak, with remarkable dramatic – and explicit – flair, the two boys managed to communicate ‘how about a three-some then?’ and ‘oh, go on’.  Their various attempts at miming this (amplified by my studied look of total incomprehension) took on farcical qualities as they enacted everything from a wedding (husband and wife) to jumping on a bed, to snogging their own arms.  They took the ‘niet’ in good nature and rolled on down the road, showing that boys are boys everywhere, huh?

Twenties: In a shared train compartment, from Tashkent to Bukhara, Uzbekistan   A somewhat more sophisticated offer was made – though only marginally so, given it involved the offer of a massage and vodka in the train cabin. I politely decline and we spend the rest of the journey talking about religion. Great, the complexities of youth.

Thirties: In a pharmacy in Samarkand, Uzbekistan  Reflecting a more prosaic and cool-blooded approach to romance that comes with age, a pharmacist asks me in front of his wife to marry me so he can go to the UK to earn lots of money. This is someone who I have just consulted – requiring a lot of hand gestures, scene re-enactment, and crowd participation – on a personal intestinal issue. No matter – economic concerns preside over his dignity and the state of my guts. Wife number 1 and prospective wife number 2 exchange glances – sometimes no words are needed between women, regardless of culture. I get the feeling I’m welcome to him, but escape clutching my pills.

Forties: In a restaurant, eating with a female friend, Nukus, Uzbekistan  The combination of honesty-inducing vodka with attitudes to women that consider you on the shelf past the age of 22, can provide for entertaining if what potentially ego-bruising experiences. Mirgut and I are having a business chat over dinner. A pissed biznessman sways up to us, estimates my age at a decade older than I really am, sits himself down, letches over the table at me while groping my friend, and tells me he will come and visit me in London in 2012 to save me from spinsterhood. With one meaningful last watery look he leaves, knowing he has made two old maids very happy.

Fifties: In a taxi on the dusty road between Turkistan and the ruined city of Sauran, Kazakhstan  Perhaps older men regain the romance factor – I was certainly the recipient of a rather fabulous Julio Iglesias-style seduction on the way to Sauran. The Uzbek taxi driver, not speaking a word of English, puts on the most wonderfully overblown romantic music on the radio of his fifty-year-old-strong-as-an-ox-Lada. As we’re driving down the road, he looks deeply into my eyes, singing along to the music, placing his hand on his heart as he shakes his head with emotion – stretching out his hand to me at the more heart-felt bits of the lyrics. But don’t knock the power of Karaoke romance – it got me through 30 kms of appalling road in a car the size of a phone directory, where any sane man would have refused to take anything other than a 4×4.

Sixties: In Mubinjon’s Hostel, Bukhara, Uzbekistan  This was my favourite place in Uzbekistan – run by Mr Mubinjon, a total charmer, former famous USSR champion runner in the 60s-70s, only son of a famous Bukharan mother and who preserved the house in her honour. His 17^th century house had space for about 10 backpackers, no shower, a crazy white cat that ate bread, and a peach tree in the courtyard. It was $7/night, and Mr Mubinjon was the most lovely guy you could hope for – with his courteous kisses on the back of hands, calling all women ‘magnificent’, and just generally managing to communicate despite not having any language in common, he was the most gentlemanly and fun host you could hope for.

Ashgabat: in the City of Love