Two vehicles appeared in the distance, parked across the road. I touched the brakes. There was still half a mile before I reached them. One was a black Subaru Outback, the other a UAZ minibus of the kind you see being used as dirt-cheap public transport. They’d seen me. There was nothing else around for miles.

They had radios and possible backup and would most likely be armed. I’d driven almost six hours and wasn’t inclined to turn around.

I advanced slowly, stopping 20 metres short of the checkpoint. The closer you were, the fewer options you had. I left the engine running. The signals on my phone indicated they were using radios, but not police band.

Three men climbed out of the Subaru. One of them, the oldest, was in a heavy ankle-length winter coat. The other two wore desert fatigues under fur-trimmed bomber jackets and carried Kalashnikovs. They moved with the stiff caution of men who are bored, cold but prepared to kill you if it comes to it. The older man was craggy, thick-featured, with an unpleasant stare. A black-handled pistol nestled in his holster.

He approached my window shaking his head and wagging a finger. Then he saw my face and peered closer. ‘No further,’ he said in Russian.

‘Why?’ I asked. His men stepped either side of my vehicle.

‘Papers, please.’

I handed over my papers, gave my story about the flight and showed the e-ticket on my phone.

‘I need to get to Pavlodar,’ I said.

‘The road’s closed.’

I offered money. The captain rejected it sullenly, like someone taunted. Which meant there was a big old chain of command beyond them. It had them scared. One of the younger men wore a ten-inch hunting knife on his hip. That wasn’t a style I’d seen in Kazakhstan. It would have looked more at home two or three countries further south.

I steered the car around, making a show of irritation, and wondered what I’d encountered. The mixed uniforms and weaponry suggested a militia. The younger men had the determined eyes of insurgents. I drove half a mile back until they were out of my rear-view then turned off-road. According to the map I could loop them. If I went a mile east I could rejoin the road beyond the block, unseen. I could also lose my bearings and never find another road again.

I marked my GPS position and set off. After twenty minutes of rough driving I found myself back at something approximating a path, but it was not the same road. I’d gone wrong somewhere. According to the GPS I was getting closer to my destination, but I wasn’t going to get there over raw desert. I had half a tank of petrol left. I swigged some water, got out and checked the tyres. There was a faint pall of smoke a mile or so away.