Contraband

Once more I awaited my fate at the Uzbek border. Time stood still as I languished in the queue alongside the mass of other vagrants. We all stood there, shifting our weight from one foot to the other so as to enjoy some form of movement. Eventually I was summoned to my bike, where I was met by a man in fatigues with strong posture, a direct gaze, excellent English, and a friendly but professional, military manner. I would not be able to feign ignorance with him, the commander of the station. In fact, I felt sure that the punishment for my malfeasance, if discovered, would be all the more severe for the betrayal of his trust as much as the crime itself. He was nothing like Hans Landa, and yet that is how I feared him.

The first thing he did was look me straight in the eyes and ask, “Do you have a drone?” My sphinctometer redlined as I said no. I almost felt bad for lying to him. We proceeded as usual, and I opened my bags one at a time to reveal their contents. He told me to open the topcase, which I did nervously, the heat providing an alibi for the sweat on my brow. He immediately pointed his finger at my drone bag, which did not fit into the secret compartment under my seat. Nor did its battery charger, which I’d hidden among the jumble of electronics that I had moved into the bag for this very scenario. He placed his finger into the bag - “what’s this?”

His finger rested upon my Kindle, so I took it out. “And what’s this?” he repeated, moving his finger a centimeter to the side. So I showed him my spare phone. He was satisfied, and there was no need to lift up the bag with the DJI logo on the side.

I accompanied him to an office where I watched him process my documents for what felt like an eternity. “We have a problem,” he said, sliding his chair back and exiting the booth to meet me face to face outside.

He handed me a piece of paper with some text and a picture of my bike. A speeding ticket, praise the lord. I had earned it on the day I last left Uzbekistan, and would need to pay it to re-enter. It took another 30 minutes, and 30 dollars, to be on my way.

“In this country, we have rules,” he said as I walked back to my bike. I nodded and sped off.