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surprisingly , the explosion never came .
A police officer and young soldier approached , as I ’ d been reminded that this region was recently involved in ethnic conflict , a tribal feud that has lasted centuries , the Kyrgyz , Uzbeks and Tajiks are not too fond of the fact that they have been forced to live together with what is considered false borders inflicted by the Soviets .
Had I got that close to the border with Uzbekistan ? Had I inadvertently crossed over ?
A smile and a handshake seemed to relieve any tension on both sides of the greeting . The officer and soldier both assumed I was Russian , thanks partly to the said number plate on my bike , and immediately started conversation .
“ Nyet ,” an attempt was made to explain that English was my only conversational language . The soldier fiddled with his menacing looking rifle as I tried to explain English was my language , Australia was my country . He didn ’ t understand , but I understood what fiddling with a gun often meant .
Phone in hand I fumbled to explain that it was out of power , and I was looking for the main road . The
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