Lordy, what I would have given to escape this day. It began badly. I got up early, hoping to be able to get a clean phone line to send my replies to the previous night’s e-mail, but managed to get connected only twice, and then abruptly disconnected just as the mail began going out. I tried for hours, but finally had to give up when my car came for the drive to Bishkek.

It turned out that Volodya was to be my driver again, and he and Michael showed up late. We needed to get some supplies for the trip, Michael saying that there were no good food stops along the way, so we stopped at the bazaar on the way out of town and picked up six bottles of water, and some fruit, bread, beer and vodka. Much of this we packed into a big electric cooler that Michael had brought along, and which took up half the back seat. About an hour later, we finally were heading out of town.

Almost immediately I started feeling a little queasy. Whether it was the runny eggs and tomatoes I had for breakfast, or the greasy plov from the previous night’s dinner, or the overwhelming exhaust stench from the trucks and buses in the city, I couldn’t say. But I knew that I was feeling bad.

I thought that it would pass, and tried to put it out of my mind as we crossed the border into Kazakstan about 15 minutes after leaving Tashkent. The border formalities were pretty painless, and soon we were bouncing across the Kazak countryside. Rolling hills of dried grass had replaced the flat farm country of Uzbekistan, and were it not for the road signs, I could have imagined myself in the Sierra foothills.

By now my stomach was churning, and I began to wonder if Volodya’s Lada had sprung a tailpipe leak, because the smell of automobile exhaust permeated the car, even with the windows open. The heat had returned as well, with my thermometer reading 102 degrees. The car bounced wildly on the uneven pavement, with Volodya driving in his customary manner, drifting and lurching from side to side. I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes, hoping to settle my stomach, but it continued to gurgle and complain.

We stopped for a break in a tree-shaded turnout, so that Michael and Volodya could have a smoke, but I stayed in the car, hoping to overcome this growing nausea. When we started back up again, I kicked myself for not getting into my pack and taking a swig of Pepto-Bismol.

So we continued rocking and barreling across Kazakstan, and my belly continued to groan and burble. I tried to get comfortable in the back seat, but the huge cooler took up too much room to allow me to stretch out, no matter how I tried. I started to sweat and my head was swimming in the heat. I knew by then that I was really sick, this was not going to pass easily.

At the next smoking break, I got the Pepto-Bismol out of my pack and had a swallow, and informed Michael I was feeling bad, and that he should tell Volodya to be ready in case I was going to be sick. He suggested I drink some water, but I told him that I had been sipping water since we left, and that I was feeling progressively worse.

When we started up again. I managed to find a position which was almost lying down, and the Pepto-Bismol seemed to have a beneficial effect. I hoped that I had headed off the worst. But it was not to be.

About ten minutes later, I knew what was coming. I tapped Volodya on the shoulder and shouted, “Stop, Mashina!” and he swerved over toward the curb. But before we came to a stop, I had the door open and was spraying the contents of my stomach all over Kazakstan. I retched and retched, and continued to retch even after I was empty. Whatever was in there wanted out really bad.

Volodya and Michael stood at the front of the car and smoked while I washed my face and swished out my mouth. Fortunately, I had avoided hitting the car or myself so after a couple minutes of sitting down, I told Michael that we should get going again. He assured me that I’d feel better now, but I didn’t. I felt just as bad, and now my stomach was flopping around empty with every bounce of the Lada. And bounce is all the Lada did.

I asked Michael how much farther we had to go, and he guessed about three hours. Then I heard Volodya tell him four. I groaned. Four hours, all twisted up in the back seat, sweating and aching, was more than I thought I could bear. To make things worse, Michael evidently told Volodya to drive slower, in order to smooth the ride. But the only way that this ride would ever be smooth is if we were stopped, and I wanted nothing more than to get to my hotel in Bishkek as soon as possible.

Hour after hour passed, and night fell with me writhing around in the back seat. I was in awful pain, and nauseous. I drank water, but had to take it in small sips so as to not lose it right away. We were stopped innumerable times by the roadside militsia, who demanded their little bribes and then let us go. I wanted to scream insults at those greedy little extortionists, or at least vomit on their neatly pressed slacks, but I couldn’t even sit up in the back seat.

After dark, it became clear that Volodya had almost no night vision, as he peered forward into the dark through his thick glasses, trying to make out the obstacles ahead. For a long time he ran behind a smoke-belching truck, because at least he could see it clearly. But the exhaust fumes only sickened me further, and I wanted to beg him to please pass it. But whenever he tried to, and I could see that the road was clear ahead in the opposite lane, he chickened out and merged us back behind the truck. God, would this day never end?

Finally, five hours later, we entered the outskirts of Bishkek, and we headed down the main drag into the city center. Michael pulled some papers out of his briefcase and began to have an intense exchange with Volodya. What became clear, as we drove past the city center and out toward the other side of town, was that neither of them had any idea where my hotel was. They stopped to ask directions from a roadside militiaman, but Volodya got back in with no better idea than he had before.

I was unable to keep quiet anymore, and asked what was going on. Michael told me that they were going to try to find the office of the agency that was going to drive me across the mountains into China. But I had no more faith in that approach than what we were already doing. So I told them that my guidebook had a map of the city which indicated where my hotel was, and if they could read the street signs for me, which seemed to be carefully concealed, I could get us there. Volodya seemed especially skeptical about this, but Michael agreed to try it my way. And five minutes later, we parked in front of the hotel.

I moaned good-bye to Volodya before Michael and I walked inside, only find no one behind the reception desk. I sat down in one of the lobby chairs while Michael tried to scare up someone to check me in. It took ages to track down the receptionist, and she gave Michael and earful for disturbing her at this hour (9:50 p.m.). But eventually we managed to get me into a room, and Michael promised to contact the agency and let them know where (and how) I was, and that I would appreciate getting a later start in the morning. Then he left, and I made a beeline for the bathroom, where I quickly emptied the contents of the other end of my intestinal tract. Two cockroaches crawled across the floor, but I didn’t even care anymore.

I pulled the Pepto-Bismol out of my pack again and took a swig, which helped after a few minutes, and lay down on the bed. Mercifully, sleep came quickly.