KEY POINTS:
Something was wrong. Emerging from unconsciousness, my vodka-poisoned mind slowly formed a picture. I had a raging headache. Nausea swelled in my stomach. The room, although not spinning anymore, was a foul mess of beer bottles, cigarettes and dirty clothes.
But I barely noticed any of it. Engaging my attention instead were the two large, dirty feet only feet inches away from my face. Attached to the feet were two hairy legs and a near naked torso. They belonged to Chris, my team mate on the Mongol Rally. He was tenderly hugging my legs.
The room began to spin again. What had happened? Where had Team M3 gone so wrong? Suppressing a wave of nausea, I went over the previous day's events in my head.
It began much like the thirty before it.
"Slow down," Chris said under his breath, as I bounced over another pothole. It was the fact that he said it quietly that annoyed me more than anything.
"I'm driving at 85 kilometres an hour," I replied, not as quietly. "We're already coming last. There's a 1970s mini ahead of us. It has a telephone box on its roof. A 1970's mini with a telephone box on its roof is beating us. How does that..."
"I'd rather come last than not arrive at all," said Marta from the back seat.
"Who asked you?" I snapped.
"Go back to sleep."
I preferred it when Chris and Marta were fighting. Then, at least, they weren't ganging up on me.
As a team, M3 works well together most of the time. Chris and I are adept at smiling and talking in English, while Marta is good at things like navigation, haggling over prices, car maintenance and understanding the languages that people around here speak. We have our roles within the team and get along well.
Confinement in a small, hot car for weeks on end with the same two people is not easy, however. Add the stress of car breakdowns, long waits at borders, travel related health problems, sleep deprivation and the lack of any tourist infrastructure and clearly there will be the odd heated argument every hour or so.
We were driving along a potholed road into Samarkand, Uzbekistan. We were lost, and about to run out of petrol. It wasn't that we couldn't find a petrol station - there were hundreds of them - on every corner was another rusted pump covered in Cyrillic writing. The problem was that none of them had any petrol.
I felt like I was trapped in an Alanis Morissette song, only it didn't feel ironic so much as deeply frustrating. When we did finally find a station with petrol - and the long queue tailing out of it - we were only allowed to buy ten litres.
Even more frustating were the series of bribes we were forced to pay the day before by ridiculous officials at the Turkmenistan - Uzbekistan border.
Unlike in Hollywood, there is nothing glamorous or exciting about bribery in my experience. It's just an incredibly annoying choice between waiting around on a dusty road in stifling heat until the sweaty official in his silly oversize hat lets you pass, or allowing him to rob you.
In Uzbekistan we were additionally wary of such officials. Apparently, evidence that you are a journalist - such as a notebook for writing blogs in - is enough to get you expelled from the country.
The upside to frustating situations like this is that when things go well, it is a great excuse to celebrate.
Things went well in once we arrived in Samarkand. We found good place to sleep, a safe place to park Oddy and then spent the rest of day gasping at enormous turquoise domes and intricate medieval head-dresses.
When we weren't staring at the architecture, there was the Uzbeks themselves.
Emerging from behind the dark Persian hijab were beautiful slim, smiley women with Asian features, all wearing colourful silk dresses. As if this wasn't irresistible enough, some even displayed the traditional Uzbek monobrow and stylish gold teeth.
So, after a tasty dinner - our first decent meal in two days - Team M3 felt obliged to sample some Uzbek nightlife.
Soon we were in a local club, sitting with gold-toothed, middle-aged Uzbek men, celebrating with the new father of twin boys.
They had called me over for a shot of Uzbek vodka. (We found out later that Uzbek vodka is good for curing stomach bugs, but is not something that a healthy person should willingly imbibe.)
We toasted the twins, then we toasted the new father. We toasted Uzbekistan and with the new bottle of vodka I had ordered we toasted New Zealand and Uzbekistan's great new friendship. When we ran out of things to toast we simply said "hooray!" and clinked our glasses. There was little else we could do, as between them the men did not speak a word of English.
After the toasting there was a walk and a taxi. There might have been food.
I stared at the feet, trying to remember getting home, trying to explain why my cousin was in my bed. The images were blurry and fleeting, and made my head hurt.
But it was unecessary. Chris, suddenly aware that my legs were not quite as comfortable as Marta's waist, had picked himself up, and with no explanation, climbed into bed with Marta.
I smiled to myself. We had a long drive to Kazakhstan ahead, and I had some great ammunition for the road.
- Matt Kennedy-Good
Pictured above: Our new friends at Samarkand, Uzbekistan.
Click here to see photos of the team in Uzbekistan.
Click here to see photos of the team in Turkmenistan.
Click here for the team's website and donate to their charities.
