Emerging from the Kyrgyz immigration post I took a few steps across wet pavement to the Uzbek side of the border. The morning rain had just let up and the day was beginning to look nice. It was looking nice, that is, until I handed my passport to an Uzbek official. Moments earlier I had spoken with a Kyrgyz officer who had been kind — unexpectedly, he had even walked me to the border and wished me a good journey. But with the man now thumbing through my passport there was no greeting, no eye contact, no interest. It was as if his uniform had devoured his humanity.
