Summer 2012 Archives - Wander Cyclist | A Bicycle Adventure in Asia

08 Jan 2016

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Summer 2012, Tajikistan With 4 Comments Permalink

Tajikistan, Part 4
(July 23, 2012)

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On January 8, 2016 With 4 Comments

A resolution for the year is to write at least an hour a day so I thought that an attempt at completing this travelogue would be a good warm up. Also, apologies for the quality of this post’s photos, since all my camera gear had been submerged in the river and I was still in shock throughout the day. (New visitors, you can scroll down to find “Tajikistan, Part 3 (July 23, 2012)”.

I stand there, wet up to my armpits but drying quickly in the +40C Pamir heat, in shock. Looking at my gear, looking at my bruises and scratches and trying to make sense of it all. I was an idiot. It could of all been prevented by just keeping the Ego on the shore.

When in the work truck with the two local men, we had passed a work station about 50 meters behind wear I am currently standing. Looking ahead, up a a very rocky path to the pass, I can hear them working behind me, sounds similar to any car mechanic shop in the West.

Two men approach me from the building. One a very petite blonde, blue eyed Russian man and a man that may be local but quite dapper and hip for being a Tajik stuck out in the middle of nowhere. The blonde man smiles at me and asks if I’m okay. I can barely make words of anything that makes sense. Nodding and point to my stuff strewn all about. I ask him if they had seen my friend that I had parted ways with the previous day. They had seen him in the morning, or at least that is what I made sense of the conversation. Both men seem friendly enough and the blonde man tells me they will help me because I am “a woman” and they “are men”. I guess chivalry is well and alive.

After walking away, talking to each other, an old white Land Rover pulls up within 15 minutes with the local man driving and the Russian in the passenger seat. We load all my gear onto the top of the truck, but I can barely move so they do most of the work and I handle some of the lighter bags. I had to quickly collect all my gear that had been drying in the sun and most everything had dried, although I saw condensation building up in camera lenses.

The road up to the pass is steep jeep path with large rocks, ranging from fist size to the size of a man’s head. It’s a very rough ride and I’m being thrown from side to side of the back of the truck as the speakers are very loud playing American pop songs. I distinctly remember The Cardigans and Aqua “Barbie Girl” being played at least a half dozen songs during the ride up to the pass. There were only about 6 songs on the tape so it looped a few times between making it to the pass. Of course I’m making small talk with the two gentlemen helping me. The basic questions of marriage, children, home country and the sort. I’ll never forget how blonde the Russian was with the most brilliant blue eyes. The Tajik man with a modern, and hipster, version of a faux hawk. He would of made every young woman in Williamsburg, Brooklyn swoon.

We get out at the top of the pass and they take turns taking photos with me. I regrettably did not take their photos; my mind wasn’t in the best position to be making any sort of decisions or thought processes.

I look down the pass and the road is still rough terrain of at least a half dozen switchbacks. It’s about 3 in the afternoon so I’m hoping to make it to the village at the end of the mountains before nightfall.

They help me load up the bike and they wave me off with smiles and cheers. I begin riding, very slowly, down the pass and every time I make a switch back, the sound of their cheers can be heard from the pass as they can see me. I look over my shoulder to see the sun setting, and the sounds of the cheers become fainter and fainter as I wave to them…only hoping they know how thankful I am for their time and effort. Those cheers and waves from the mountain top was probably morale I really needed to keep me going.

There is another water crossing further down and to not risk anything this time, I unload the entire bike and slowly and carefully carry everything across. I’ve learned a lesson for life.

The road is still pretty rough on the other side and the sun is setting fast. I begin riding down and since it’s beginning to get dark I start shouting “Chris”! every time I see a clearing or somewhere I may see my former riding partner from the last week. Hoping maybe I would of caught up with him and could find someone to cry to.

I finally make it the village at the base of the mountain pass at nightfall. Slowly I walk around with my bike looking for a “Kofe” or a hotel where I can find a safe warm place to sleep for the night. Without finding one I go to the edge of town, cross a bridge, and see a security officer in his little shipping container. Since I’m getting close to the Pamirs where I will need a permit, everyone is being stopped, IDs scrutinized, and asked where we are coming from and where we are going.

The officer invites me into his “office” and home with another security guard there. All daylight has now been lost and I explain where I’m going, where I’ve come from, and that I need to find a place to sleep. I’m hoping he’ll offer some floor space there but it’s not. Describing Chris-Alexandre to him, I ask him if he had seen him. The two guys that helped me over the pass said they had seen him that morning so it’s very possible he could be in the village so I want to make sure he hasn’t continued through. The officer opens his book from that day and I don’t see his name written on the log…I turn the page to the previous day and there is Chris’ name, written down from the previous morning. My heart sinks. There is no way I’ll catch up with him.

Disheartened, I leave the officer to try and find a place to sleep. He said there was an affordable hotel in the village so I go to look. After walking around until after 10pm, without finding one, I go to the covered pavilion that is used for an open air market or bazaar. The town is quiet for the most part and I lay out my sleeping bag on one of the tables used for selling produce. I’m in so much physical pain and absolutely exhausted. I know that I won’t be able to sleep in the next day for the fact I’ll be in plain sight and perhaps the bazaar will even be used in the morning. Hobbling up onto the table, I slide into my sleeping bag with the sound of dogs barking near by.

Letting out a deep breath, I almost didn’t survive the day. Laying out on that table, so uncomfortable in my body, I recount the day over and over and over…regretting every single decision. I also regret not having kept up with this writing as it’s very difficult to recount everything from 4 years ago.

———————————————————————————————-

Happy New Year to all of you.

Last week, I finally was able to see a doctor about my back pain. I don’t talk a lot about it but it’s near crippling at times and it disheartens me at times to think how this may prevent me from moving forward into other travel projects that may take a toll on me. The prognosis isn’t good but I knew it wouldn’t be good news. It seems that the car wreck, that I was a passenger in, from my early 20s really messed me up and then an extended 10 years of neglect and more injuries has exacerbated the problems. I refuse to allow this to slow me down and I’ll just have to be more conscious of what I do and to keep weight off my back.

So, here is my first writing exercise for the year and I hope to keep up to the task. Among this blog, I’ll also hopefully be writing the past two stories from my treks out into Eastern Tibet…including the part about my horse running away.

03 Feb 2015

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Summer 2012, Tajikistan With 2 Comments Permalink

Tajikistan, Part 3 (July 23, 2012)

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On February 3, 2015 With 2 Comments

Awaking the next day with heavy eyes as the cool dawn begins to break into the early morning heat. The aches and pains and are extremely acute as I roll off my sleeping mat, as an invisible force is nudging me to get out into the bright sunshine; onward through the beautiful and majestic valleys of Tajikistan. I’m more groggy than usual, as dogs barking throughout the night continually pulled me across the floor, careful not to disturb the old woman and small child sleeping, to the window to check on bicycle and the four bags attached at her sides and top.

The house begins to take upon life, as there are women’s voices break the silence, as I dress and prepare to depart. The old woman asks me to stay for breakfast but I kindly insist I must carry on. Generally breakfast will take a few hours and it’s never been a eat and run type of an affair. Using those early morning hours to cycle will make the difference of 50-70 km a day, to end with a full belly of traditional Muslim food and a long nap under an apricot tree.

Saying my thanks with “rexmet”, speaking in a native tongue based upon Turkish, I exit the mud packed home into the chilled morning light to continue on.

The sun gets intense, and heat unbearable where it sometimes reaches 48 degrees, so I need to make as much progress as possible.
Yesterday had been a short day and the remind myself that I must make up for lost time.

I traverse along a single lane, with deep crevasse jeep tracks, going slowly up a valley. I lost asphalt nearly two days ago as I had chosen to take a route that most people don’t ride. I had debated about the route as no one could give me an accurate description of the area and there is a missing section of road on the map. Like usual, I was not quite sure what to expect but knew I wouldn’t see dozens of cyclists. Spending over 20,000 km already through China where I can speak the language, I am notorious for pulling myself off well traveled routes to see what else the world has to offer…but…sometimes there is a reason a particular route is not taken by the masses.

Stopping about fifteen kilometers ahead from the community I had stayed in the previous night, I stop for breakfast and supplies. Far from a proper town, supplies are limited but I make do with sodas, naan, and sugar glazed cookies filled with an apricot jelly.

Thankful for the dark storm clouds rolling in and the cool breeze on my skin, I know this will cut down immensely on the heat. I will be able to cycle through the early afternoon without a break. The trees are disappearing and it’s becoming rock mines along a raging brown river. I had been warned of the rivers and glacier melts during the summers; later learning that they were higher than average this summer. The water is angry and completely out of control; hearing her beating against the stone banks and walls. Such a contrast to the cool breeze, gentle rolling clouds, and the steady and calm beat of my heart.

There have only been one or two Land Rovers driving in the opposite direction since leaving the last town about 4 hours earlier. It’s becoming lifeless except for the massive rusted mining machines and mounds of gray stones. The road is more difficult as the stones cause me to lose my balance at times…tipping me off balance a few times, causing my right foot to try and find traction among the broken stones.

Spotting a small pond where the water was flowing clear and shade provided by some short trees, I decide to push over to watch the direction of the storm and to repair a snapped bolt on the front rack. There is no one around and decide to wash my clothes, feeling guilty I had a clean body living in the filthy and salt marked cycling clothes. Although my hair had been washed yesterday with bar soap and seemed to make my oily hair even worse, so a proper shampooing was in order.

One man stops to speak with me, only to return to give me some strawberry cookies he had in his Land Rover. He begins to get a little closer and asks me more questions than I bargained for and realize I have to back him off. I’d had enough men make assumptions about a single American woman in Central Asia and knew I needed to ward off any preconceived ideas.

“Is he your friend?” The man asked me in Russian and points to a blonde Tajik boy with a knapsack and dog. It took me a second to figure out if this kid was another traveler, just choosing to walk but realized he was a local. Deciding that an innocent lie is order for this moment, “No, my friend is ahead.” Which always confuses them because they assume friends should always be together. The man drives off after putting some water in his radiator and the boy has gone up towards the cliff across the road from my trees.

After washing my clothes and hair, I put on some traditional Tajik Atlas printed pants that were made in Dushanbe and hang my wet clothes up in the trees, needing to secure them as the storm is making it’s way closer. My hair tied and wrapped up on my head, I attempt to fix the snapped bolt. The best I can do is to use pliers to tighten the headless screw into the eyelet threads.

The vivid blue sky has now been completely grayed out, and it begins to rain upon me and my damp clothes. I put on rain gear to cut down on my chills and to cover up my wet, yet clean hair. Thinking it’s probably best to stay under this three for a little bit of coverage, I begin to organize my panniers, as I had dumped everything out digging for soaps and tools.

There is a sound in the bushes behind me…like the sound of something hard falling into dried grass. I stop, there is no one around…what was it, who is it? Another. Then another but it comes through the 2 meter high trees I’m standing under.

Rocks!? Why are there rocks falling from the sky. Walking out from under the trees to straighten up, I look around. My left arm is hit with a piece of gravel then “crash” and another “crash”, these are fist size stones if not bigger.

Across the gravel road and about 15 meters from me there is a cliff, approximately 50 meters high and I see the blonde boy and his dog. The sky is dark and I can barely make him out has he begins to launch another rock, then another.

“Hey! You, I see you!” in English. I had studied Russian for three weeks in Bishkek but when you begin to feel your blood boil it’s not so easy to squeeze out the translated words.

He launches another and begins to pick up another rock. The rocks are getting bigger; the heaved stones have less time between them. His aim is definitely improving too. I again repeat that I see him and he needs to stop while choosing a few four letter words that is understood throughout the world. The dog is barking and running back and forth along the edge of the cliff. Rocks continue to rain from the sky, overtaking the harmless precipitation that had previously been speckling my body.

During my first few months of tour I learned my “War Cry”, something I didn’t even know existed until it had to be used to remove a man’s body lying atop of me. It came to surface because it’s all I had to fight with, the shrill death cry coming from a woman that feels her existence being shattered from within. This moment isn’t so frightful as some of my previous battles so I knew it must be conjured up like a masterful magician, or rather resourceful sorceress.

Now intense feelings, deep buried memories, frustrations are brought to the surface; I allow myself to feel vulnerable and scared. Opening my mouth to inhale has much air as my lungs can take to push the call of anger from my cracked and sunburned lips. As my breathe moves from my guts, I keel over at the waist to make sure that all of these emotions have found their way out of my soul. I let out another and another. Sometimes it feels difficult to stop, releasing emotions that have been shoved deep within my mind for the simple act of survival.

The boy and the dog have now disappeared. I pack up my bike and know it’s time to get out of here as fast as possible. Slightly damp and clean clothes are put back on my shivering body and my clean hair braided, I assume I would be leaving danger behind.

I had rested my bicycle on her drive-train side, so I could manage repairs. I’m a bit uncomfortable pulling her from the other side so the tire slips down the damp soil. The sharp silver teeth from the triple crank puncture deeply in the front of my right ankle. Water nearby is turning bright red from the blood rushing from my body. There is nothing to do but remain calm.

All I can question at the moment is,“Did I puncture something important under the skin, deep into my body…I hope this stops…and I don’t bleed out here in the middle of nowhere Tajikistan.”

I’m splashing water on it from the stream, which I know isn’t the best antiseptic to be cleaning an open wound. Especially since I had been watching the cattle bathe and drink from the same water a few meters away, my little pond only separated by a few inches of mud. The bleeding continues…and it’s not letting up.

A Tajik woman is now watching me from the cliff. Too many people are aware of me, I’ve let out the crazy woman “war cry”, and the boy has also returned. I hate, and avoid, confrontation or really any uncomfortable situations in unknown territories. Especially when I can barely speak a few words of the language. In China, I’m more than willing to argue and reprimand as I can speak and understand the culture after living there for more than 4 years.

I push the bike to the road keeping my eyes on my foot, watching the blood stream down my leg and the dark red beads of blood stream down into my sandals. Another battle scar.

Deciding to walk the bike after the injury, the rocks, the scream, and the storm…just get the hell out of here and to allow myself to find calm physically and mentally. There had been days like this before and did not take notice of the omens.

Around the cliff and continuing up stream I am met by an older Uzbek man carrying a stack of newspapers. We communicate through broken sentences and some pantomiming. He has me write my name down on a notebook and invites me to stay at his home for the night, as it’s storming. I politely decline, as his home is about 3 kilometers downstream. Rarely do I backtrack and had made little progress over the past 24 hours. We parted with smiles and I continue to walk my bike over the road which had now become loose stones. Experience was telling me I was finding my way off the beaten path.

The next two hours I would be alternating between riding and pushing through loose gravel, slowly going up and some rocky and steep descents. Once passing a mining community where I saw a village inset up in the mountains about 10 kilometers away. I would be going over a pass and was hoping that was not it because of the infinite switch backs for endless miles, or so it seemed. I told the men banging away at new homes where I was headed and they directed me at the fork of the road.

Continuing upstream, I pass a man lounging a top a mound of stones nearly 5 meters high and he lazily assures me I’m headed in the correct direction. There are roads always branching off this mining road and doubt is beginning to grow within me, with a nagging hint of anxiety. Traversing through mounds of stones, old rusted mining machines and equipment, the road going up and down and crossing paths with a few massive trucks, assuming if I was going in the wrong direction, someone would alert me.

Around three o’clock I find myself looking across the raging river that was the source for the water I had been cycling along for the day. The water is coming from the mountains, my right side and snaking to my left and continuing down through the villages I traveled through earlier. There are some trucks to my right, so before deciding to cross the water, I ride the two kilometers up a hill to find someone to speak with or an alternative route.

Riding through a few switchbacks and pass a shepherd and his cattle, I arrive to a small work community where mining trucks and Land Rovers are in a parking lot with a few old aluminum sided buildings. Passing through the checkpoint before two men stop me and tell me it’s the wrong way. With arm movements and finger pointing, I must cross the water.

Backtracking to the bank of the water, gulping the hints of fear and anxiety down, I know that if I were to set up camp and wait until sunrise the water would perhaps be lower.

Standing on the edge of the riverbank, created out of massive stones and gravel, my thoughts and apprehension is drowned out by the water beating against the stones and cliffs. The opposite side of the bank is about 15 meters across and turns into a field of gravel and stones. No sight of a road or tracks. The miners told me this was it; I can’t doubt the directions of locals.

I apprehensively lay the bike on her side, briefly examining the dried blood all over my ankle and foot wile noticing the flies enjoy taking a brief rest on the wounds. The water is rough, muddy…it’s bad, nothing I’ve encountered before and look up into the mountains silently, yet innocently, cursing the summer ice melt.

My riding partner, Chris-Alexandre, is about 30 centimeters shorter and I reassure myself “if HE can do it, I CAN do it!” Heck, and I’ve been on the road longer and a well seasoned veteran. This isn’t a big deal.

“Moseman, you can do this…you’ve been through hell and back, this isn’t anything you can’t defeat.”
Taking a deep breath, standing with my bike to my right and holding the handlebars with a white knuckled grip, I give a good push into the water and the front wheel rolls forward. The front of the bike drops so far down that the water is nearly rushing over my front panniers. The tire doesn’t hit the bottom so I’m pulled further into the water than anticipated. My heart skips and stalls when I realize that I’m well over my head in this situation. Water is now brushing along the bottom of the rear panniers and up to my knees. I can feel the front of the bike wanting to be whipped down the river, giving no consideration to the woman between it and the wall of stone further down. The bicycle behaves like a buoy and I think if I can press the front down it will surely help stabilize. Taking all my might while trying to prevent my body from trembling with fear, this technique doesn’t work. The further the front goes down the greater pressure I feel from my bike, as mother nature’s force is not going to take mercy on me.

Two helicopters are above me, as I had noticed them circling the area all day. I thought maybe they were surveying the high waters. (I would learn the following day that the reason for the helicopters was because a Civil War had erupted in the Pamirs that morning.) I look up, now one is hovering over me. Do they see me, and are they worried for my safety?

The next few minutes would feel like hours, a lifetime, an eternity.
I trudge further into the water so I’m standing next to the left front pannier, pressing my body against the bag in hopes to steady the bike and push her back up the bank. Looking up into the sky, watching the helicopter hover above me, I realize my body isn’t going to be able to stand against this pressure for much longer. What do I need to do to survive this situation to the best of my possibility?

It’s very difficult to make a fast, drastic, life altering decision when fear has taken over your senses. Colors are more vivid, sounds more intense; your heartbeat is pounding in your head while your mind is sitting in the bottom of your guts. Your reality, and world, is spinning out of orbit and you have no idea where you will land or how you will fall. One is left, merciless, to the innate instinct; I can only hope that mere 30 year of existence in this lifetime have taught me a few things for survival.

Continually trying to push the bike up the bank, from the side, is not going to work. Gripping for life on the handlebars, knuckle bones, tendons, muscles wanting to break through my sun cured, leathered, skin from the desert sun. I move my body very slowly and carefully to the front of the bike. Attempting to awkwardly straddle the front wheel between my thighs, but still a bit lopsided to the left. The water is well up to my waist, as I stand at 6’ tall. Breathe, relax, concentrate, PUSH.

NO.

Looking up. Am I praying for the helicopter to drop a ladder like I’ve seen in rescue shows or for the Gods in the heavens to save me? Wanting to raise my arms to wave for help, I know this is impossible as I will lose the bike, my stance and will be swept away before my palms leave the handlebars.

Do I let go of the bike? Do I sacrifice all my gear and let her go? The only possessions in my life for years only to be swept away because of a complete ignorant and irrational decision.

Did Ego come to play with me by the river that afternoon?
The camera! Not just the camera…my digital files! A year of photos and files are in that back rack bag. The water is not over the rear bags, yet, but if I press my front wheel down the water is rushing against my bar bag that has my DSLR, passport, and cell phone.

I look downstream where the river crashes against stone cliffs and then turns left at a nearly 90 degree angle.

Turning my face to the sky and scream “Help” like I’ve never screamed in my entire life. I am going to die…my life is going to end, right here, NOW. There is no way my body will survive that abrupt bend in the river. I imagine my body hanging onto the floating bike until it crashes against the stones. How long would I go down the river with my bike…imagining my greatest possessions in life being bashed against stones, thrown around the river, until my lifeless body gives up and nothing would be recognizable?

Long, loud, and wailing screams of help are being released into the canyon, echoing and bouncing around the mountaintops. Finally I see three men watching from the mining area I had been earlier.

“Please, help me, I’m going to die!!!! Help me, PLEASE!!!”
They stand there and I know there is no way I can hold this up even if they do come to help.

“PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAASE!!! HELP ME!!!!!!” I had tried to bring up my Russian to clarify my meaning but I couldn’t grab the necessary words from the air spilling from my terrified body.

I begin to have images of my mother and father. There is a feeling rushing over me, almost like their presence is near. The images alternate between them; my childhood home and town. It’s more a feeling than imagery. I am going to die, this is the end. With another near death experience in my past because of a car wreck, I know this feeling and it’s growing stronger every moment.

My personal fears are overtaken with the realization my parents will NEVER see me again. They will never be able to say goodbye; not one last hug or kiss. The crashing water will dismantle my undernourished body and they will never see the physical presence of what they had created. I am not fearing my disappearance but the pain I will cause my dear mother and father. Losing my life WILL kill them. I must figure this out, not for my own livelihood but for the sake of those that made the sacrifice of their own lives for mine.

It’s guilt that overwhelms my consciousnesses during those last moments of life. I’ve been selfish. Leaving my friends years ago, ending a long love affair, and not being closer to my parents. Not being a better daughter, sister, friend, girlfriend…a better person. This would be the ultimate of selfishness, to let my life be taken away and leave those behind to suffer.

What’s the most important thing on my bike? I’m going to have to try and remove the bags and throw them up on the bank and hopefully lighten the pressure of nature beating against me.

The bar bag: it holds my passport, camera, cell phone, and money. How am I going to manage this balancing act and release the bag to toss onto the river bank? Am I even going to be able to get enough force behind the launch of these essential items. I’m no longer even thinking about the hard drive and year’s worth of files in the back bag. Thousands of photographic images of the persecuted Uyghur minority of Xinjiang, would now be lost and destroyed forever.

In a split moment after I release my hand to reach for the bar bag release, the bike is thrown on top of me and I’m pinned under with the top tube against my collarbones. All my gear is completely submerged and visualize all my photo gear and files being flooded by the brown silt filled water. The current turns me counterclockwise and I’m facing my death, straight to bend of the river and against the unforgiving stone wall.

My parents are now standing before me in a grayish and hazy cloud, arm and arm as I remember them from my childhood. This is the end, you will never see me again. It’s over. This is going to kill you both, so much more pain for you two and I will realize none of it. I can’t…it just can’t happen this way.

Two meters down the river I’m pulling myself out on my back,with my eyes finally opening, onto the bank with my face to the sky and bike still on top of me.
The plastic bin that holds my food, cooking supplies, and a book had been pushed out from a tight bungee cord and are now moving swiftly down the river.

Within a second the bike is clearly out of the water and I’m examining myself for serious wounds and see the water line on my shirt nearly hitting my shoulders.

There is no time to cry, no time to panic, not even a chance for recovery and to smack myself to see if I’m actually still ALIVE because the bags have been flooded and I have to get my gear out to dry. Unloading the bags trembling, shaking, teeth chattering, absolutely exhausted. This shouldn’t be happening, but it has and it’s my fault. I should have known better, I’m an idiot. Beginning to cry, the first in years…not heavy and heaving because I’m too exhausted…but silently with big crocodile tears rolling down my sunburned cheeks.

A coal mining truck eventually comes to my rescue and takes me across the water explaining to me they saw my friend earlier. They would leave me at the base of the pass that was a meter wide stone path. Pointing up, telling me that’s the direction I must go.

We unload and they leave, after plenty of “rexmet” and my right hand over my heart. The first friends, a meeting of souls, I would have for this second chance at living. Or, were they simply angels that had descended that mountain in a steel chariot on massive wheels to only escort me safely over Sytx to the “other side”? These days, dreams and reality intermingle too much for me to ever make sense of the dividing lines.

Dumping all my bags next to a pile of rusted mining equipment for the hot Tajikistan sun to dry, I let it out. The tears are running down my face, all over my shirt, losing my breath because of exhaustion of nearly drowning and now the emotional melt down.

There is no longer a fear of death, was there ever? Perhaps my fear has been more directed at living? What do I fear? Fear prevents movement, progress, growth…this is not me. Maybe I don’t define and experience fear as many do.

I’ve pushed the limits, and beyond, more than most will ever in an entire lifetime. My fear is of the torment I would cause others; I nearly lost my life to only cause others a lifelong mental and emotional death. Near-death stories often tell how the hero sees fleeting images of his lover, his children, and his close friends and feels grief stricken that he will never see them again. This was not the case. I saw the only two people who gave me life out of love, lose one of the greatest things that they’ve created and nurtured in their lifetimes.

Momma and Pops raised me to believe that I must live life for myself but I learned that one of my responsibilities is to hold onto this life for those that love and need me. This simple existence and lifetime isn’t for my benefit, but for those that my soul has intermingled with. To continue to travel within this life, full of passion, conviction and using my personal power and inner strengths to overcome whatever obstacle may stand in my way. Whether man, beast, machine, or my own inner demons…I must go on for there are those that are counting on me, and my many safe returns.

22 Jan 2015

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Summer 2012, Tajikistan With No Comments Permalink

Tajikistan, Part 2 (July 22, 2012)

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On January 22, 2015 With No Comments

Descending into a valley together, Chris-Alexandre and I would part ways around 10:00 am in the morning. In Central Asia, I had noticed that when accompanied by a man I don’t have opportunities to talk with locals as all conversation is directed to the man. Chris-Alex would wish me luck and make plans to stay in touch and meet up ahead, then I was off on my own, as I know so well.

Spending the day riding through a hot and arid valley, but where the small villages are tree lined, I pull over to rest under some trees on the western edge of a village in the late afternoon. It’s currently Ramadan, which explains the quiet and calm through the days. At sunset, Muslims will quit fasting and have a meal together. It’s considered rude to eat and drink in front of fasting Muslims and I take consideration in hiding myself a bit when eating on the side of the road. At this resting point, I’m not eating but rather just sipping my water and trying to figure out what my plan will be for the night as it’s nearing 6pm.

There is a fence separating me from a front yard with trees and between the house and trees is a small garden. An older woman wearing a traditional Tajik dress and pants, similar to a shalwar kameez, as vivid green as the short trees surround me walks up to me with a young blonde boy holding her hand. Exchanging smiles, her mouth of gold glistening in the Pamiri sun as she says “aleikum asalaam” after my greeting of “asalaam alkeium”. She looks at me and my bicycle and directs me to bring my bike and to return to her home down the dirt road that leads behind the garden.

I would be greeted with children and one of the most beautiful Tajik girls I would ever meet with her perfectly henna died eyebrow. She is all smiles and I can feel the love among the women while the children are still apprehensive about the lonesome traveling woman. Many villages through Tajikistan have few men, as I was informed that many men work in Russia where they have a family there and one here in Tajikistan. Images of hippie communes flood my imagination here in Tajikistan, happy and beautiful women and children living off the land. Children running around playing in the dirt, a toddler in a crib made of crudely welded steel you would see about construction sites, and the young woman chopping fresh vegetables from their garden. This might just be “the life”…

The gold toothed older woman in green, the most elegant camouflage I’ve ever witnessed, begins to pantomime to be about taking a shower and washing my clothes. It has been awhile and I’m wondering if she can smell the odor of travel, woman, and just the scent of a foreigner. It’s a hot afternoon, where temperatures can get close to 50C in the sunshine during midday, and I’m not going to deny a cool bath and after a few minutes trying to communicate she let’s me know she will heat up some water for the bath. Then I’m led to a corner of a mud packed building, where my bike leans against.

Following her out of the shade and into the cooling Tajikistan air, I’m led into a dark room with light entering from a single window and she directs me to undress and get into the tub. I remove all my clothing except for my delicates. She looks at me, not even flinching and somewhat serious with no concern, directing me to remove EVERYTHING. I look into her eyes and I know in my heart she’s a good woman and mother just seeking to help and accommodate the strange traveler that has fallen into her life. Taking a deep breathe, I drop all my clothing along with my modesty and I step naked into the tub. She pours water over me that is the perfect temperature for this hot July afternoon and she uses the bar of soap that’s splitting to wash my back and hair. I have gone years without affectionate, and innocent, human touch and I feel my body slump over in ease and enjoy the gentle and intimate touch of her hands running through my hair and over my shoulders.

Stepping out refreshed, I follow her into the garden where more women are arriving and I’m handed fresh vegetables such as cucumbers from the garden to eat. Cooled down, clean, snacking on vegetables and being served a never ending supply of chai.

There is a woman that appears that seems to be around my age, and she is. It turns out she used to be a teacher and she can speak a little English along with some Russian so we can communicate a little bit. She explains her husband lives in Dushanbe and she is childless…I can’t imagine what that must be like in an area where child bearing and raising is of the utmost importance in the culture. I take an immediate liking to her, her warm and comforting brown eyes, and I watch her tend to the children as they are her own.

Shortly after her brief explanation to the other women about me, we go inside the main house, passing a teenage boy sitting near the entrance. We enter a room directly off the side where I’m accompanied by a few young male toddlers and about a half a dozen women. The woman with the henna eyebrows is in the room, with about 5-6 more, and is accompanied by another younger woman carrying the brunette baby from the yard. It’s explained that they are married to the same man and using wash cloths, those two women along with the gold tooth matriarch, invite me to become the third. Hysterical laughter breaks out when I smile and nod my head “no”. But after months in Central Asia, and my first time among a commune of women, the thought of sister wives doesn’t seem like such a horrible idea.

After the joking and the conversation, as women slouch against the wall pulling up their pants and dresses to cool down, the matriarch shouts to the teen in the other room to turn up the music. She shuts the door and begins dancing as any beautiful Tajik woman does. I’m pulled up off the floor and it feels as if I’ve returned to a dance party from my university years. Talking, dancing, laughter…the children are enjoying themselves as well.

There is an advantage being a woman traveling alone, I have been allowed to see and experience moments that are usually behind closed doors or in the kitchen. We have jokes in the West about women being barefoot in the kitchen. Well, as a feminist, I’ll tell you I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else besides behind those doors or kitchens…it’s where all the fun happens…and gossip…and just behaving like all women around the world.

The matriarch, blonde boy, and I take a nap in the room after the dance party and neighbors leave.

Around 7pm we get up and she takes me for a walk around her land, showing me a new storage building that’s being built out of stones and through the gardens. The children play and we go to a fence dividing the neighbors where I meet a young girl. The adults shout back and forth to one another, along with explanations of who the visitor is.

The sun is setting and we return to the woman’s home where the two sister wives are preparing food and the teenage boy is still listening to music acting indifferent to the entire situation. The matriarch serves me food separately from the family unit and then they begin to share a large platter of polo/plov, eating with their hands which is the traditional and standard way. The daily fast has ended and they will eat and then pray. The teacher that I warmed up to returns, the television is on and we all lazily lounge around having a very gentle conversation.

They will see my exhaustion and offer me to my sleeping mat as they will stay up later to continue eating and praying. I’m led back to the room where the dancing happened earlier in the day and directed on the mat next to the wall, furthest from the door. I will be sharing it with the matriarch and the small blonde boy that never leaves her side.

Little would I know what the next day would bring…some of you do…and perhaps it’s one reason I have been stalled to finally write this story out for you.

11 Jan 2015

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Summer 2012, Tajikistan With 2 Comments Permalink

Tajikistan, Part 1 (July 9-22, 2012)

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On January 11, 2015 With 2 Comments

I had arrived in Dushanbe, the capital of Tajikistan that translates to “Monday”, on the late afternoon of July 9th 2012. It wasn’t until Uzbekistan, a month earlier, that I had began to meet other travelers and long distance cyclists. You must realize how this can be somewhat of a shock to someone that has lived on the road for 2 years and would go months without a real conversation in English…and at times catching oneself thinking in Mandarin.

Witnessing generosity, kindness, sympatico, ego, and jealousy…I would’ve preferred to be back out on the high plateaus or desert basins of China. What is “exploring” when you pass a dozen other cyclists on the road and Land Rover’s loaded down with backpackers, spinning up dirt in your face. Not to mention the public thermometers reading a 48C in the sun.

Through a contact, I met with a French girl Christine, and we looked over maps and routes. Another strong willed, independent woman that had been living as an expat for awhile. I was determined to find somewhere to go where I would be off the beaten path…and I found a little route that no one seemed to know much about. I had received a message from Chris-Alexander from Uzbekistan and I would await his arrival…as I sit out the sun and heat under apricot trees or roam through the maze of mud packed homes or visit the local bazaars and watch the people and common day happenings. Also, I would arrange for my permit for the Pamirs which I should of taken care of in Kazakhstan.

The Dushanbe heat is nearly unbearable, awaking at sunrise and feeling the heat take over your body leaving you with the inability to move and sometimes think.

Chris-Alex would arrive around July 16th 2012 and we would prepare to ride together for a bit. I had originally planned on awaiting for his arrival and then would set off on my own but thought why not give it another try…cycling with company. It had been awhile and maybe I needed other thoughts entering my head. Showing him what route I had planned on trying to take, he agreed to give it a try with a smile and reassurance it would be great.

We would set out on the road together on July 18th 2012. The heat is unbearable and the city is grey and hazed. On the edge of the city limits we would stop for some water and a snack and sit in the shade of an abandoned building on the side of the highway. We would get our strength to carry on and within 30km of the city Chris-Alex’s bike would give us some problems and we pulled under an covered area so he could try to fix his bike as I took a nap on the cold concrete with brief moments of relief when a breeze brushed along my sweaty and steaming body.

(You can read Chris-Alexandre’s post at: http://www.allschoolproject.ch/?p=2106)

After Chris fixes his bike we both settle in for an early afternoon nap and as soon as the weather begins to cool we drag our lethargic bodies to our bicycles and carry on.

Photo by Chris-Alexandre:

Photo by Dhieu (https://www.facebook.com/dheiumading1)

Dhieu wouldn’t have a map of Central Asia so I passed along mine to him…as I hadn’t any plans to continue through any other ‘stans this go around.

July 19th, the sun rises early and we head out as soon as we can.

We would head up over a pass after a tunnel and Chris-Alex was leading the way. An old Russian van would pull up to the side of me and offer me a hitch. Looking at the few tourists inside, I notice one is Chinese, looks like a good opportunity for a chat and I haven’t been cycling for so long that my body is just not wanting to move. The door is slid wide open and two sets of hands easily pulls my loaded bike inside the truck and I take a seat next to the Chinese man. He’s here in Tajikistan for business, specifically working with the roads. We pass Chris-Alex and I shout to him I’ll meet him at the top.

Finally, that evening we would turn off the main highway and head directly East towards the Pamirs. The legendary Pamirs…one of the most famous roadways in the world…the far Western edges of the Himalayas…it must be magical, of course.

I distinctly remember setting up our camp that night stripped down to our undergarments because of the sweltering heat and the sweat soaked clothing we had. The water running through our camp was not fit for drinking, nor boiling.

July 20th, 5:47 am
Camp:

We would be on the road by 6:30 am and the tarmac, like many roads of Central Asia, have melted deep crevices in them so you have 2 lines going along the road way. (See video at the end of Tajikistan posting to see examples.) Passing shepherds, goats, and small villages through the day. We would stop for your basic Central Asian style lunches of naan and mutton and perhaps some salad. We would search out water “nyet gas”…no gas. I was noticing how I was treated, or not, by locals when accompanied by a man. I was ignored. No eye contact. Everyone talked to Chris and I was his shadow. Experiencing this before, I knew it’s because I am the lesser sex and culturally you’re just expected to speak to the man only. I felt that I was beginning to miss out on experiences because I had a man with me.

Besides this, the landscape is getting more beautiful, the weather cooler, and the people more amazing.

Chris and I had decided to meet at a point ahead later in the day to set up camp. The road was pleasant with little to no traffic. A man had driven by in a construction vehicle and passed me a 1 liter bottle of water. There were boys climbing trees picking fruit while elders sat on the ground on cloths. It was peaceful, very quiet, and had plenty of time to think and wander off into my head. It begins to get dark and wonder when I would see stone markings I directed Chris to make to let me know where camp was to be set up.

Around sunset, a Russian pulls up to me in an old Soviet era 4×4 and tries to talk to me. I can’t understand much except about bees, honey, and a place to sleep. I continually explain, and apologize, as I can’t because my friend is up ahead. I must hurry as it’s turning dark very fast. I don’t like to be out after dark in Central Asia just for the simple fact I’m not accustomed to it and my Russian is extremely poor. At least in China I can usually talk my way out of trouble or into safety. I can begin to make out the beginning of the Pamirs in the distance.

I’m riding, then walking my bike, well past sunset. It’s been dark for about an hour and I am scanning the landscape for a sign of Chris, whether camp or a light from his headlamp. I see nothing and know I must continue on. Hearing dogs barking, the humming of farm vehicles making their way home, and the blackest of nights…I push my bike further in hopes of finding Chris.

Headlights appear behind me and within a few minutes I have Chris-Alexandre looking at me with a smile, being driven by the Russian man I had met earlier. I had missed the markings Chris laid out and the Russian had found Chris’ camp and somehow was able to work out the confusion and lost friend. Chris explained to me to set up camp around the bend and he would return with his bike and gear, after packing up camp, to find me. Luck.

July 21st 2012

Awakened by the shepherds and animals we pack up our camp as neither of used a tent the previous night and just lied in the open field. We were able to sleep a little later than usual as the hills blocked the rising sun from hitting us at sunrise.

Past those hills we would break off the small road and hit a main thoroughfare.

We would ride until lunch time where we would feast and then nap under a big tree.

Over the past few days we had cycled through some amazing villages. I would see groups of women collecting water at wells, men sitting around chatting, children playing everywhere. Chris and I had a good time together, sitting on the sides of roads, looking, talking…taking it all in. Chris had explained to me his understanding donkeys and was fortunate enough to watch him get on one and nearly break the poor thing, which I couldn’t help but tease him about that. All I can do is kiss them.

Fortunately, that evening I would not miss Chris’ road marking for camp.

A beautiful sunset yet extremely windy at the top of this pass.

July 22

Morning and one of the most amazing sunrises I’ve ever witnessed…we are nearing the Pamirs.

Chris and I would descend down the pass and into the valley. We would pass farmers waving us over from their snacks in the work fields.

We had encountered a part of the route that had been broken down by the river and the locals at a cafe (kofe) had told us there was no way to go on…but we did. The road had been completely demolished and we both struggled with one bike at a time. As our reward we jumped in the river and had a bit of a bath, with soap and all. Then afterwards we napped in the heat under a tree, only to cool off again after our naps.

There was a time at a cafe in a town where Chris caught the boys pretending to beat me with a pool stick behind my back. I watched him as he reprimanded them for their behavior. Chris-Alex was great company but I still felt like something was missing having a man around and I was also holding Chris back because I was simply becoming exhausted and felt I was missing photography opportunities.

After catching up with Chris in the late afternoon and see his face, I could read he was getting disappointed in my lag and I explained I wanted to stick behind for a little while and see what I could discover photographically. I am always so reserved about this speech as I never want to hurt anyone’s feelings. He takes it well and we decided to meet up ahead, after we see how it goes.

I’m falling in love with the Tajik peoples and the small villages speckled along the route. I want to discover more…so we carry on solo and I would face one of my most scariest moments of my life ahead, alone.

22 Jul 2014

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Central Asia, Summer 2012, The Silk Road, Uzbekistan With No Comments Permalink

Uzbekistan, Part 5: Samarkand to Dushanbe, Tajikistan (July 4 – July 9 2012)

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On July 22, 2014 With No Comments

I would arrive to Samarkand with very little clue where to find a place to stay. It’s actually a lot easier than I made it out to be but either way I spent 3 hours in the heat trying to find a hostel. At one point when I was sitting on a stoop in a labyrinth of old homes in the “old town” an ambulance pulled up to check on me for heat exhaustion. I explained to them I was okay and what I was trying to find. The guesthouse was only a few minutes away.

I’m going to apologize now for rushing through a lot of these posts. I’ve grown a bit weary of blogging and sometimes I just don’t feel like pulling out stories, feelings, emotions, and deep thoughts from two years ago when I’m developing and following a different train of path right now. What I’m currently chewing on is basically based on these thoughts and feelings but bringing them to maturity and some coherence. In all reality, I really hate writing about facts and history and am in this mode of digging deeper.

Entering the guesthouse with a beautiful garden, it’s a bit quiet at the moment but see one bicycle in the garden. Over the next week I would make some wonderful new friends, people I still stay in contact with. Samarkand made me a bit lazy but it was great meeting so many like minded travelers. You all know who you are, so I don’t have to go over the roster. There were some great times in that guest house and I would run into some of them again in Dushanbe. Chris-Alex would arrive eventually and we had made plans to meet up again in Dushanbe as he was in Tashkent arranging his Visas. I had also made plans to perhaps run into another cyclist, Jacques, in the Pamirs…but he would carry on but would see each other again in Kashgar over a month later.

Leaving July 4th, as it just seemed like the date to move on, I would head towards Dushanbe and predicting I would arrive in less than a week. I bid goodbye to the few that were at the guesthouse after 3 in attempts to beat the nearly unbearable heat of Central Asia. Towards sunset I would begin to climb some hills and few little descents. There would be moments of a few slight descents down a hill.

A not so friendly couple I met in Samarkand would pass me as I was finishing my dinner at a cafe and they asked me if I was okay. I was actually fairly proud of myself considering they left Samarkand before me yet I sped past them.

I would pull over to a little market in hopes to buy water. Before I knew the entire mud packed shop was filled with children women and men offering me fresh, cold well water to drink from. I sat and drank, and talked, and refilled my bottles. This is one of those moments that still sits so vividly with me 2 years later. I remember walking away back to the road and turning around and seeing them all out front waving goodbye with smiles. There are times I regret taking photographs of all these moments but I sometimes wonder if the memories wouldn’t sit with me the way they do after so much time has passed.

I’m nearing mountains towards dusk and there are men on the sides of the street offering me that delicious cold milk beverage I had given to me by that beautiful Uzbek woman in the Nurata mountains. Passing the bowl to me, I drink. I never assume anything is for free and it cost me close to a USA dollar…I look at as supporting the local economy.

Sun is setting and I find myself riding up a gorge of sorts. There is nowhere to really set up a tent so I wait until near nightfall and push my bike off the side of the road and precariously down to the water. It’s one of the most perfect places I’ve slept, ever. I remember lying there, listening to the water stream by and staring into the night sky…nearly falling into a trance state. What I would do to go back to that evening to hear the thoughts running through my head.

A view in the morning. July 5th 2012

It’s hot and I have a pass to climb. As I’m climbing I have a young man on a donkey keep asking me to ride the bike. He’s getting close to me while on his donkey. I can sense the donkey not feeling comfortable and I’m surely not. After this for about 10 minutes I pull over and stop. I instruct in English and hand signals he needs to go on. I’m getting flustered and I’m hot. It’s not even 10am yet. I can sense a day of frustration looming ahead…

At the top of the pass, I pull over to use the well water to clean my face, brush my teeth, and have a little sponge bath. There is a van pulled over and there is a small group of men watching me. As I’m sitting in the shade resting and looking off into the distance from the summit, they start fondling my bike and one even trying to get on it. So…what do I do…I run over to his van, open the door, get in, and begin to try to turn the truck on. Yeah…they got the jist. I’m just not into dealing with men today and I can feel it all coming to a point.

As I ride away, I now notice my bike has a puncture. Great. (I can feel myself getting stressed again just as I write this.) I pull over and begin to pull out my tools. Before I can even blink I have over a dozen men and boys shoving their hands into the gears, drive train, and grabbing my tools from my hand. Yeah, I get it, I get it…I’m a woman and you’re trying to be men and take care of this and me. I’ve had absolutely enough and start shouting as I’m being suffocated next to my bike by the men surrounding me and even pressing up against me to get a better view. The lady loony has everyone evacuated within a couple of minutes. Finally, let me breathe and work.

I begin the descent and pass a stretch of cafes where I pull over to cool off with more water. In the concrete basin at the base of the mountain that the public uses to wash off, I look for the puncture in my tube and I can’t find it. I have a very kind boy help me try to find it. We exchange smiles and a few words, he can’t seem to find it either. I thank him and I move along.

A couple hours from dusk, as I’ve now returned to a flat stretch of barren desert landscape I ride through a very small community lining the road. I go slowly and two teen boys wave me over with a gate open into a home. I stop and look over. They are definitely waving to me so I head over, thinking this could be my safe sleeping space for the evening.

I would stay 2 nights here.

Upon entering the courtyard, I’m instructed to sit down on the blanket and finishing having something to eat with the family. There is an older couple present and teenage girls and younger boys. Within 30 minutes, I have had my fingernails painted and now I’m being dragged into the living room inside the house and a dance party has begun with me and all the women and girls. They are playing Bollywood videos and the song “Jimmy” (Archer) comes on and I’m familiar with this one. Again, dance has brought smiles, laughter, and women together across language and culture divides.

The sun has set and now three of the teen girls and I are arranging our sleeping mats in the garden and courtyard. It’s an open space with grapevines lining the edges. The night desert air is now cool and my mind has become calm being with women and girls. I feel safe, this will be a good nights rest under the star sprinkled sky with young girls talking quietly next me…with the conclusion that I will stay tomorrow.

I spend the morning with the younger girls and boys having tea in the neighbors garden.

We go for a walk to visit neighbors and I see a magical site. This taxi pulls over and I see a child get out of the right side door of this Lada. Then the woman…then the donkey!

Spending some time in the kitchen and baking naan in the tandoor.

I would spend the remaining of the day with this young woman. There was such an intense feeling of trust with her, she could of probably directed me to do anything and I would followed suit.

From what I was told by her she is the daughter in law of the family and is responsible for all of the household chores. She told me how she missed her family a lot but kind of just shrugged it off and it accepted it as fact. We went to the market together, milked cows…after finding her, feeding the goats, and she washed and braided my hair. Since cycling, it’s been the first time in a very long time I’ve had hair past my shoulders…over the past 4 years I’ve had so many women and girls fingers run through it. I can’t bare to cut it these days, either.

At one point we were sitting in a garden and I was talking with a group of women and children and there questions about my family and America. I’ll never forget their faces when I explained it was night time at that current moment and that my parents were sleeping.

I would be dragged away from her by this one man and his children…his daughter had been spending the day with me earlier. We rode in his car for about 1/4 of kilometer to his neighbors. I knew exactly what was going on, I was being shown off. He then asks me in front of a group of men and a few women why I don’t have babies. Then looks at me and says, “Diseased?!” I’ve had enough with you mister but I play nicely as I know that my safety could be at risk. He shows me around and I try to express my indifference and irritation with him. I just want to go back to the women and girls.

Dinner would be prepared this evening in a different family’s house and I would sleep with two of the girls from the previous night under the grapevines and stars. My favorite gal had left earlier to be with her in laws. Again, as I state over and over…I have some return visits that must be made to Uzbekistan to see some of the most wonderful women I’ve ever met.

July 7th 2012

A view of the dry and barren landscape. If my memory serves me correctly, I saw a fox of sorts at some time out there. Because of the heat I had to stop as often as possible to get out of the sun and heat. There were a couple of times I really didn’t think I was going to make it through this heat as I was getting physically ill and sick. At one point there was a short stretch of homes with refridgerated coolers along the street. I pulled over to buy cold water and a man behind me got mad at the kid for trying to rip me off. After thanking the man, I bought two.

I spent a lot of time in bus stops in Uzbekistan…a lot. Sometimes with company, human or animals, and others alone. I’ve had cold beverages and even ice cream delivered to me. To all the wanderers going through Central Asia, sit down for a little while and enjoy those bus stops. It was definitely one of the highlights of Central Asia.

After an absolutely exhausting and draining day of heat and riding I catch myself getting caught on a pass at dusk. So the genius I am decided to sleep here. Let me just state that I slept horribly and I woke up with a fine layer of dirt over everything. It’s all part of the adventure and experience…and I would of regretted not taking this opportunity.

July 8th morning:

View from the road.

Today would mark the first and last time I attempted to truck surf up a mountain. The road was in awful condition and I hung onto the back of a dumptruck. It was just too precarious and unsafe so I let go after a little while. I remember seeing a train engine on top of the mountain cliff…it really perplexed me and no I didn’t take a photo. I was absolutely drained.

I would ride through some sand dunes on the side of the road that kids were playing in. I pulled over for a little while to spend some time with them but then carried on and would end up being invited into a garden to sleep for the evening. The people were beyond wonderful and they could tell how exhausted I was as I was nearly falling asleep as I was eating. They gave me a platform to sleep and I remembering falling asleep listening to them talk, watching the sun set through a crop field. Another image in my memory I can’t seem to wipe clean. There is no way a photograph could of captured what my eyes saw at that moment and no way would these words come close to conveying the emotions I had.

July 9th morning I would wake up well before everyone and be on my way and hopefully arrive in Dushanbe by the day’s end.

The view of where I lived the previous evening:

The last 15 kilometers of Uzbekistan was not enjoyable, besides watching women shake the fruit trees and the children popping birds out of the sky with sling shots. It was so hot.

Then there was this boy on a bicycle. He wouldn’t leave me alone. After about 5 minutes of him harassing me I stop, get off my bike and starting chasing him screaming. A car pulls up to me asking me what the problem was and I try to explain that the boy wouldn’t leave me alone. I’m hot, tired, and I don’t know how much more of men I can deal with. I can’t recount the exact day but I had a beer can thrown at me from a car window going up a hill that was under construction and riding in loose gravel. Cars were riding so close behind me that if I were to spill I would of been immediately run over. The constant sexual harassment from men and if they weren’t harassing me I could see in their eyes what they were thinking. I wanted to get to Tajikistan without any more problems.

There were also some really great men, the majority were very kind to me. Like everywhere, the countryside and common man is generally harmless.

I get to the border and the Russian speaking Uzbek border guard demands to go through all my bags including my netbook. I had been warned of this and played by her rules and continually explaining to her repeated question, “what is this”, “what is this”?

Going through the Tajik border control I get to the other side and go into a cafe to eat and rest…and debate on hitching a ride with one of the dozens of taxis on the border.

After a couple of hours of sitting in the shade mulling over my decision I decided to talk to a taxi with a station wagon. We await for more people going to Dushanbe and when they arrive, we leave. I was extremely happy with my decision as the road was under construction and would of easily taken me another day.

Being let off at the only guest house in Dushanbe, I open the door to see a yard of over a dozen tents and an overwhelming amount of people. The not so nice cyclists from Samarkand arrive almost right after me and I admit to hitching a ride for the last stretch. Of course I get shit for this but you know what…don’t judge me. I know they had only been on the road for 3 months at this time and knew nothing about me nor knew what it was like to travel as a solo woman. A man with Ural would hassle me a bit about it too…but after my shower he and I would spend a few hours chatting. Interestingly enough, our chatting has continued for 2 years and I just Skyped with him this morning. You can read about his adventures here: http://advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=923656

To be continued…

It’s now mid July and I’m planning on doing a month adventure in the next few months. I’m awaiting to hear back about a bid on a job that will arrange my schedule accordingly.

Also, I’m looking to do another Kickstarter to continue some projects in Bangladesh.

Again, thanks to all of you, old and new fans, for following along and all the support over the years. I’m not sure where I would be without all of you.

LOVE!

20 Jun 2013

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Assey Plateau, Kazakhstan, Landscape Photography, Photography, Photos, Photos of Bike, Photos of Eleanor, Solitude, Soma Saga, Summer 2012, video With 8 Comments Permalink

Assey Plateau – Kazakhstan June 6 2012 (Part III) Final

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On June 20, 2013 With 8 Comments

I woke up sore and hungry…and not to mention thirsty. I slept okay for the most part, as there were no storms but still had a bit of panic sitting in my gut.

It’s one of those mornings where I pull myself out of my bag and climb out of the tent apprehensively…wondering what the hell am I doing with my life.

Standing outside barefoot knowing the heat is about to start pounding down, I debate of what choice to make. I use my camera lenses to attempt to see into the mountains ahead. There are no signs of a road going down the plateau and there actually seems to be something going over the range and ridges. According to the map I should NOT be doing this. I was given directions that I should be passing a home, the only home on the plateau, and was given a DVD from the cyclist to deliver. The DVD had films of previous cyclists that had done this route. This house has not been spotted yet and I’m pretty sure I’ve veered off route – again.

I plop my heavy bum down on the ground, alternating my view from my feet to the mountains. Slowly turning my head around the terrain…this is usually when I give a big exhale of air and tell myself to get my lazy self up and get my shit together. Slipping on my new sandals that I’ve already begin to tear because of walking through the broken terrain, I take a walk to the road to see what lies up ahead.

Within just a couple of yards it begins a descent and even without the bike I begin to slip in the tiny rocks on the red clay earth. It’s dry, it’s broken, and I have no idea how I’m going to make it but it’s what I should do. My gut tells me to carry on…the road must lead SOMEWHERE. Or whatever this is, it’s hard to describe it as a road at all, but rather some poor excuse for jeep tracks. I’m going to have to go slow and push the bike for the most part. Most importantly I have to get going because the summer heat is going to boil me alive.

I begin the day around 11:00 and ride for a short bit, with a bit of walking and slipping, and within 15 minutes I spot the small house. It’s leveled out terrain with some trees and flowing water around it. Lying my bike down, I deliver the disc with a smile…hoping for an invite in, at least for some water and breakfast. I haven’t had a bite to eat and I’m running low on water. He looks at me in confusion, with my horrible explanation in Russian. It’s not worth it and I continue on.

As I’m leaving his home and yard area, there is water flowing under some trees. I see some animals around and I question the cleanliness of it. It seems stagnant in areas and I pass it.

The terrain is still holding it’s level but the trees immediately disappeared and I’m surrounding by red clay and cliffs…and it’s getting HOT.

This route confirms that it’s much more difficult going down than going up. There are spots I have to get off the bike because braking doesn’t work and all it does is slide me down the road with the back wheel trying to go faster than the front, causing minor spin outs. Either I’m sliding on my bike or I’m holding onto my bike walking her down and slipping nearly the entire way down. Of course I remain calm, not a peep from my mouth, cool as a cucumber…knowing I have to do this and there is no point in throwing tantrums or cursing.

Traveling solo teaches you, and you come to realize, that outward expression of emotions is only for the benefit? of others that surround you. There is no reason to curse, or scream, or even laugh…when you area all A L O N E…AND NO ONE KNOWS WHERE YOU ARE…let alone hear a peep that comes out of your mouth. Don’t get me wrong, I still get a mad woman cackle of laughter every now and again, and of course a few tears here and there, but I see it as more of a release of emotions for stability.

I’m able to ride a whopping 2-3 kilometers up a slight incline to find myself on another type of road conditions. Things are beginning to look a bit more hopeful. I see a small abandoned house and an old sign signifying a resort or hotel. It’s obviously no longer used, or no one is home. I take a break to take a look at from where I’ve come from. There are storms clouds that are beginning to roll in and I’m so thankful as the overcast will cut down on the heat.

After years on the road and in the sun, I’ve started to become very aware of how much of my skin is exposed. You’ll probably notice through images from the beginning to the end that I begin to wear more clothes, even in hotter climates. It was in Tibet that I learned that I actually stay cooler with clothes covering my skin. I also prefer not to show much skin to locals, as a single woman. I’m of the camp where when it comes to covering, the more the better. You can’t ever go wrong with that choice.

After a brief rest looking at the past I begin to carry on to the future. What I ride into becomes glorious. I can’t believe my eyes…so much that I have to sit and stare into whats to come. A descending plateau, a lake ahead, and amazing road conditions for me to pick up great speed. Knowing that I’m going to be riding with a shit eating grin down the entire way, I take my time to have a little snack and breathe.

And a little bicycle and girl pin-up photo for you folks.

I descend fast, hard, and with a smile the entire time. It’s less than 5km then it levels out and I’ve encountered some of the worst terrain to get through…even worse than Tibet. It’s rough, it’s tough, and I even tumble a few times. I bust my bottom at least a few times from my feet slipping out from under me and the bike nearly coming down upon me.

The most fearful moment is when I’m walking the bike along the “road” that is breaking off and there is a 2 meter drop off. I debate how to walk her by as I think I’ll have more control on her right side. As I’m right handed I usually always walk the bike on the left side. So I move over to the right, very precariously, and begin to walk past the ledge. The bike slips because of the incline and before I know it the bike is on top of me with the wheels just a few cm from the edge.

Holding onto the bike I crawl out from under her and drag her on the side to get enough space to lift her back up to safety. The problem is my feet are slipping in the fine gravel and can’t find my footing. This goes on for nearly five minutes knowing that the bike CAN NOT slip off the road. With a few huffs and puffs and a heave and a ho…we are both up. Although I’m sweating much more profusely than her.

It’s the moments after these moments where I smile…sometimes just from within. It’s these treacherous and challenging moments that I can say, “look what I did…on my own”. It’s the challenges throughout this entire tour that has brought joy to me, made my heart fuller, and a reminder that I am a “warrior”. (A name Chris Alexandre would give me). Yes, I cried for a few seconds yesterday when I thought I may be lost, just 24 hours earlier…but then pull my self up and my bike to say, “Look at what I can do!!!”

It must be at least 10km of this terrain before I can begin the final descent to the lake.

Well folks, that’s it. In retrospect, this was the last great ride of my tour. The last great few days of solitude, thinking, feeling, and looking at myself and finally realizing what I’ve accomplished. There was something about this route that embedded who I’ve become and who I finally am. It was a pivotal point in my tour, my exploration, and the finalization of seeing the love for myself.

It was a moment to make peace of an ended relationship; to realize I’m strong enough to carry on alone.

It was a moment to be thankful for the people in my life that have helped make this whole thing possible.

It was a moment to let go of so much of the past and know what ever the future carries for me, I can overcome it…anything.

It took me over a year to write this entry because it carries such strong emotions, many that I still have difficulty expressing. It’s strange what a few days alone, with a bike, can do for the soul.

If you haven’t seen it, this is a short film I put together of my time out there, featuring a song from Cat Power. The music I was listening to during this ride was the Kings of Leon…I had enough albums to keep quite entertained for the few days. I would enter Uzbekistan on June 9th 2012.

Assey Plateau, Kazakhstan June 2012 from Moseman on Vimeo.

09 Jun 2013

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Kazakh Minority, Kazakhstan, Landscape Photography, Photography, Photos, Photos of Bike, Photos of Eleanor, Solitude, Summer 2012 With 2 Comments Permalink

Assey Plateau – Kazakhstan June 3-4 2012 (Part I)

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On June 9, 2013 With 2 Comments

I had left off the story after cycling to Lake Balkhash…and then took a bus back to Almaty because I decided to not try and die on the desert steppe next to a salt lake. In Almaty, I stayed with a fellow American that had lived there for quite awhile. Through “warmshowers”, I had met another fellow that helped me find a nice bike shop for repairs and plan for a little trip to the Assey Plateau. On the “Media” page you can watch the video entitled “Assey Plateau” of footage I took during these few days.

The first attempt (May 31), I had ridden for a day from Almaty. While riding around the city I had been having difficulties with punctures. From what I could see, it looked like the spokes were coming through and tearing open the tubes from the bottom. What was even unfortunate was the patches didn’t seem to hold.

Puncture #1 was right at a turnoff to head towards the plateau. This little guy INSISTED on helping me. No, I do not promote child labor.

I make pretty good time after this puncture; a bit of rolling hills and then a little bit of down. Did make an ice cream stop and purchased some naan and other miscellany snacks to take to the plateau.

Puncture #2. Well, I couldn’t repair it and blew off 4 patches before deciding to throw everything in the back of a car and pay $30 to get back to Almaty. It was very evident my spokes were eating my tubes. I now only had 1 tube left…and the sun is setting.

After fussing with the bike and adding two cheap rubber rim strip tape and lining the rim with electrical tape x2, I head back out on June 3rd. Two days before my 33rd birthday. I had promised myself to spend my birthday the way I enjoy the most, alone in some amazing place.

June 3 2012
I take the bus about 20km before I had turned back the previous time. The weather is ominous…no rain, yet.

There is about 30km from the bus station until the unmarked turnoff to the plateau. I only knew where it was by the mileage and the landmarks that were given to me by one of the Almaty pilots, Taz, that lives in the capital.

I am now on a nearly single land country road with minimal homes and some shepherds. By the looks of the road and the direction, I may be at the base of the mountains by nightfall. I collect water from a fresh spring and try to find a place to sleep for the night before the rain comes down.

You’ll notice I am only carrying two panniers, as I had left a lot of my gear back in Almaty. There is no reason to carry double the weight for only a few days.

The route at this point seems very similar to a National Park in the States. The trees begin to enclose around the road; the road begins to incline and become more narrow. It begins to sprinkle and because of the weather it’s getting dark much earlier than I had expected. To my surprise, I find a campsite next to large stream and a rock cliff. It will be my only campsite of my entire tour. I am usually very apprehensive about camping next to water because of the noise. Not so much about flash flooding, but because I can’t hear visitors over the sound of the rapidly moving water. But I take it anyhow. It’s beginning to thunder and lightening and decided I’d rather be dry for the night. This was actually one of the first lighting storms I camped in. It lit up the entire sky and the thunder bounced around the mountains.

June 4 2012
Morning, when everything is beginning to dry.

A view of the water I camped next to. I slept to the left of it. It’s a morning of spotty rain mixed with warm sunshine when the clouds part. I have faith it will clear up.

A look ahead.

There is only about 15km of broken tarmac before I hit loose gravel and rocks. I was warned that the condition of the road would become pretty tough. Unfortunately the incline on the loose gravel caused me to get off and push. Little would I know that because of the lack of roads, I would be doing a lot of pushing. Descending the plateau, it would be more like slipping and crawling out from under my bike as it slips off trails. This would become one of the toughest terrains yet, but one of my most memorable experiences. It’s really one of the last times I felt so damn free and alive. There is something about being alone on a plateau, anywhere in the world, that really makes you realize how fortunate you are to be there, and living.

One of the most common questions I get when giving public talks or even discussing this trip, is “What do you do when you get bored?” Like I’ve stated before, I’m not really sure if I know what “bored” feels like. I can do almost anything to keep myself entertained. As a child I used to get in so much trouble for day dreaming in school. Well, I’ve kept up the habit and if I could become a professional at sitting and dreaming, well…you get it. The plateau is a short ride and I took extra time to just really enjoy being out there alone, with less of a load than I usually carry.

Right before noon, I am higher than the tree line and everything opens up. The ascent up to the plateau really begins, the clouds part, and the warm sun is beating down on me. I see pastures, rolling hills, yurts, shepherds, livestock, and the tops of snow topped peaks. I am getting anxious of what waits for me at the top…it brings back memories of the previous summer that I spent in Kham, Tibet.

I’m greeted by a nice shepherd and a young boy. They must of seen me coming as they rode down the hillside to say, “Hello”. They were quite happy to hear I was an American, and not a Russian.

From the looks of the map I only go up this one pass and I’ve arrived to the plateau. The map is an old Russian map and the “roads” are questionable once I get to the top of the pass.

During the ride up the pass I come by a herd of horses. I walk over to not spook any of them and snap a few photos. They begin to move but a few actually approach me and start checking me out. I have a couple get closer than a meter to me. At the top of the pass I spot some pretty adorable cows and horses; awarding them with the “cutest cows of tour”. They approach me like the horses but even more odd they FOLLOW ME on my bike! Over the past couple of months I’ve noticed I am having less problems with animals. I’m wondering if they sense something about me…perhaps I am becoming more like them than I can imagine. I no longer spook animals and they look and approach out of curiosity. Wondering what has changed that allows animals to feel safe and comfortable around me. I feel no different but obviously something has changed that animals and I have some sort of connection.

Making it to the top of the pass and now it’s just full, luscious, green plateau that lies ahead. Of course doing what I love to do, and do best, sit and enjoy the moment. Realize how fortunate I am to be seeing and living such a gorgeous moment. A moment that I could never describe in words on a blog. Perhaps that is why I haven’t written about this ride yet; it was just such a great few days that writing it down could never do it justice.

I hit a point where I have to make a choice on route. To my right, East-Southeast, there is a weather station that heads towards the mountain ridge. My map is questionable with this and I never heard anything on directions with the weather station. It is marked on the map. If I were to head towards the weather station, I would probably have to go over the ridge and head a little South.

To the the left, or rather, directly in front of me facing East-Northeast is an open plateau with jeep tracks. The route to the weather station does have a road so I choose the road.

There is a road that leads up to the weather station but then disappears. I am then left with a deep jeep tracks in the rich black soil up towards the ridge. I’m really not sure if I’m going the right direction but continue on. It’s beautiful up here and what a place to spend the eve of my birthday. I’m feeling so amazing, refreshed, and really back to me…I take some time to celebrate the past year.

The road and tracks disappear and I look back. I can see a half a dozen motorbikes followed by a jeep take a different route from the weather station. Up over some hills, with great speed, and then back down in the valley I had already passed. I will push on.

I push my bike for 3 kilometers through pasture, with occasional stones that may have been a driveway. Arriving to the base of the ridge I now know there is no passing it. There are remnants of a yurt camp, and it looks like people bring their Land Rovers up here to wash them in the ice melt. Leaving my bike behind, and camera, I climb half way up the ridge to take a look around. Take a deep breath, after catching it, and reassure myself it’s okay and I need to head back. There is no way going over the ridge and it’s been awhile since any Land Rover or motorbike has attempted over the ridge.

Walk down, pick up the bike, and backtrack. I usually HATE THIS…but this time it was down and had quite a beautiful world to look out at. There is a storm blowing in so I decide to set up camp and call it an early night. At the altitude, I know it’s going to be chilly and I want to be sure everything is set, and put away, before the storm comes in. I cook some pasta and add some delicious taco flavouring sent all the way in from Mom. It’s a fine fine meal.

The sunset is breathtaking…perhaps the best I’ve seen since being in Tibet. Actually, the whole experience reminds me of Tibet. Maybe this is what is causing all these feelings and happiness. Guessing which routes to take, dodging storms, a little hail here and there, occasional nomads…simple life. It’s places like these that I always say, “I could die here and be happy.” Perhaps that sounds a bit macabre…but until you’ve been somewhere physically, mentally, and emotionally where you can sit down and say, “Wow…this is…”. There are no words to describe it. I can’t type anything here to explain what it’s like.

It’s been a hell of a way to say farewell to 33 and beginning 34.

20 Sep 2012

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Kyrgyzstan, Summer 2012, video With 10 Comments Permalink

Descent of the Irkeshtam Pass

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On September 20, 2012 With 10 Comments

Wanna ride with me?

It fell really good to go down this pass after spending 4 days going up during the snow last Spring.

16 Sep 2012

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Kashgar, Summer 2012, The Silk Road, Uyghur Portraits, Western China, Xinjiang With No Comments Permalink

While you were sleeping…

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On September 16, 2012 With No Comments

…dinner was being prepared in Kashgar.

20 Aug 2012

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Sex Pests, Summer 2012 With 22 Comments Permalink

Welcome to the ‘Boys Club’…or rather, no welcome at all.

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On August 20, 2012 With 22 Comments

“I’m more woman than you could handle.”

7km off course to camp next to Lenin Peak, Kyrgyzstan.

This summer was the first time since beginning this tour that I had the chance to encounter so many other travellers. Ranging from backpackers, motorbike riders, cyclos, and other miscellany.

I began this summer by riding with my favorite brothers, Matt and Lucas. It was stressful, downright frightening…at times I wanted to murder them for keeping me from my beauty sleep with their tent talk. I miss the chatter and that SMELL…THAT SMELL…from the tent. Although, at this current moment, I think both of these would offer great comfort to me. I do miss them dearly, especially that I’ve returned to Kashgar where we met.

There was Nathan in Bishkek and from there I would go onto Kazakhstan. I would not encounter another traveller until Tashkent, nearly 5 weeks later.

It was only the budding of the tourist season…where I met 2 Italians that had just completed the Pamirs on motorbikes. And a wonderful backpacker from the States that shared delightful stories of Africa, and a cyclist he met. Tashkent would be just the beginning.

From Tashkent, I would ride a small road through the mountains of Nurata. What a beautiful experience…except…that “eco-tourism” listed in the “Lonely Liar”. Stay away…they even received a lengthy complaint email.

The Uzbeks on this route…were…amazing. The homestays…the love. I had already broken the law after not registering for 3 days so I just threw my shit to the wind and didn’t worry so much about it.
Usually sleeping in cafes or with locals, kept me safe, rested, and well fed. The one time I camped in the desert, I got invited in by a petrol station attendant who grabbed my breasts twice in the late night. Nothing like starting to ride at 3:30 am along the desert highway, after only a couple hours of sleep. Luckily, I was planned to arrive in Bukhara that afternoon. I would do 80km before 10am that day.

Bukhara…I would become fast friends with Chris-Alex, a Swiss cyclist. We hit it off splendidly. A gentleman and a fellow solo cyclist who has been on the road for nearly a year. Besides our language barrier and his accusation that my English is “horrible”, we spent our days talking and recovering. We had both fallen ill and he was getting his shots for a dog bite.

We made plans to meet in Samarkand and away I went…through the deserts of Uzbekistan…taking a small road to Samarkand. I thought a route with little traffic would offer an authentic experience of the Silk Road. Everything DID turn into a beautiful golden color.

Samarkand must be the meeting point of the Peloton. All couples or solo male cyclists. Here I would have the honor of meeting the famous Jacques Sirat, who sends me lovely electronic correspondence.

The guesthouse is filled with all kinds. I would meet Robin and Keely (my favorite motorbike couple), Max and Mariya (who would see me crying on the side of the road in the Pamirs and donate their food supply), Richard (a British boy I would spend a half day with in Sary-Tash), Angelica and her new love (what an inspiring story, and the only girl to love my southern accent), this boy who had ridden a horse across Mongolia that was now carrying a pair of rollerblades (having given up his tuxedo a few months earlier)…and I would see the return of Chris-Alex…the boy that sleeps and showers more than anyone I know.

One night we enjoyed the fine vodka of Central Asia. Robin began to tell us all how women are better than men. We would also have a guest there that was completely insane. She kept us all entertained for a couple of days.

Towards the end of Samarkand, new couples arrived. Then it became couples/cyclists time. Chris-Alex had told one pair to talk to me about China as I “know everything about China”. I don’t…but more than the majority.

When I over heard them discussing the usual…maps/visas/roads…the stuff that bores me…I tried to add some insight and advice. I was looked at like I was speaking Chinese and they would rather not hear. Oh, excuse me…I’m sorry…did I talk outloud…shame on me…I’ll go sit in my room by myself. All my friends had left and I had these pompous cyclists left in the shadow of pleasant memories.

I’d been in Samarkand for 8 days…it was time to move on. My mood suffers drastically if I stay more than 5. Especially having to hear the same conversations over and over and over and over. Hey cyclos…lets make a deal…Visa talk for 5 minutes max. Let’s talk about other pleasantries…or funny stuff. Routes…mileage count…what job you quit…*yawn. Okay, so it was the first time I was obviously shunned from cyclists. Love me or leave me.

Onto Dushanbe. What?!

A dozen tents in the guesthouse. Bicycles and motorbikes everywhere!

I’ll run into some of the folks from Samarkand…hear rumors of those ahead of me leaving for the Highway a week earlier. Here, in ol’Dushanbe…I would learn that boys on motorbikes and I get along real well. I acquired a nice short list of emails…some handed to me…Alick being the first.

Again, the usual run of couples and a few solo men…with the eventual return of Chris-Alex and a posse of 2 other solo cyclos. Men, of course. A few pairs of girls show up (the second time in Dushanbe)…which surprises me.

The couples from Uzbekistan had been there earlier…and left with 2 other couples. Hey, ain’t nothing wrong with being a cycling couple…ain’t my thing, probably never will be…nor is riding in a group of 6.

While in Dushanbe, I got to meet a wonderful cyclist gal that lives and works there. It was such a pleasure spending some time with another woman that spends hours pouring over maps and can “do it all” herself.

Pamirs…well…we all know that one. FAIL.

I returned to Dushanbe with Chris-Alex and 3 AMAZING Swiss couples, all returning from Kalaikumb. So wonderful that I was invited to their National Day Dinner…the only non Swiss, out of 9! Sheeesh, I felt like the guest of honor although I couldn’t understand a word. Eight were German speakers while Chris-Alex is a French speaking Swiss. Remo, the solo guy on a single speed Swiss Army Bike, impressed me not only by his bike of choice but also his beard. The wonderful couples, Janine & Dominik and Ruedi and Fabienne – see the Sponsors page to visit their blogs.

If you all have found this blog…you made the return to Dushanbe enjoyable. As enjoyable pouring our tears and misery into bottles of beer can be. Perhaps we will have a reunion in Dushanbe before the next Civil War…as Matt Woodward would joke to me tonight about. A fine fella on a motorbike that is currently in Mongolia.

The great thing about being alone, is when other travellers cook, you more than likely, get invited. THANK YOU TO ALL…IT WAS GREAT!!! And never ever under appreciated.

So, I’ve only met a few assholes…honestly. It’s been a fine fine summer…so many new friends…a lot of faces I won’t ever forget. Although its caused my Chinese to go to the shitters, I’m thankful for a few of lifelong friendships I look forward to. And just imagine…when I finally tour Europe I’ll have Switzerland, France, UK, Belgium, and the Netherlands covered.

What the hell happened on the border of China?!

Ok, I’m not going to act completely naive. I’ve seen a little of the “Hey I’m on a bike…I’m extraordinary…lady you should talk to me.” But very very very little of it. Most of us know there is nothing special about it…we are just like you, backpackers…just like you motorbike folks. We are all living the way we want to. We are not extraordinary…we may just be more masochistic…and for the solo folks, socially inept, emotionally stunted, or running away/towards something.

On the border, yes, I did the Irkeshtam Pass – again, I met 5 other cyclists, 1 married couple, 1 2dude couple, and 1 recently solo dude.

I know the ropes. I help them all with the border crossing bullshit. Getting into the truck and all that garbage.

My stuff is loaded with “Doofus” and Christian…the boys from Germany. I would camp with them that night, it’s nice to have the laughter…but I do notice “Doofus” is a bit in love with himself and NEVER quits talking. Well, when he’s asleep, I suppose.

We make it to Kashgar the following day, early afternoon. The solo Frenchie caught up with us and the 3 of us got here just a few hours before the Dutch couple.

After 7 beers a piece…and a lack of water and food…we all crash out. “Doofus” had been making his moves on me all night. I was quite turned off by his technique for passing gas in peoples faces…and his beatboxing was not something that makes a lady swoon.

Then the most awful pickup line…”You inspire me”. Gross. Shut up.

He keeps trying to cuddle with me outside and I tell him, “no, I don’t want anyone to see me”. First, I’m not 15…I do not like PDA…especially from an A1 Doofus. He tells me he has always wanted to be a clown…”Really, are you retarded?” was my drunken response.

Yes, I’m difficult.

He continues to try and convince me to cuddle…”Oh, it’s been too long…you just need to be close to another person”. Haha, that’s a new one. I deny and fall off the platform pulling away.

I’m lying down next to him and Frenchie comes back. The two start wrestling and then Doofus turns to me and gets extremely aggressive and starts trying to bite my butt? I pull away telling him to stop/quit and he refuses…he gets a big ol’slap across the face. I don’t stand for that shit…when I say stop…you better STOP.

Earlier that night, Doofus had strutted around the courtyard about riding a bike to a few locals here. At 4000km, a few months, and a plane ride…yeah, homeboy…strut your shit to someone else ‘cus your shit to my face, stinks!

He gets the nickname Doofus from me this night.

So we go to the dorm room. He lies down in the bunk next to me and he’s silent. Oh my god…you do shut up. Okay, readers…I’m going to be completely honest about what I do next. Jason, quit reading now…or anyone that thinks I’m a nice girl.

I lie down next to him for an hour. There is NO hugging, NO cuddling, NO kissing. It’s nothing. Honestly, I just needed to lie down next to a SILENT human being (after 18 months) for an hour. His hand would only lie on my thigh. Completely innocent. Yes…I used him. Blatant admittance…I used a doofus for emotional comfort, slipping back into my bed an hour later and awake with my dignity – or so I would think.

Through the next 2 days I would go insane listening to him in the courtyard. Even his friend and I would exchange a couple of eye rollings of the “kids” behavior. Oh, I never told you how he claimed to be a filmmaker and wanted to work on my project with me. WHATTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT?!!?!?!?!!?!?!?! You think I’m some stupid girl that’s going to give away years and years of work for you. You have got to be out of your obnoxious, self obsessed, mind! (This is the same filmmaker that didn’t get to film the Buzkashi match because he had a dead battery. No excuse.)

(I would explain to Doofus what the “drivetrain” is. He also told me how he will change his chain when he changes the cassette…wait a minute buddy. You’ve missed something here. You keep on dreaming of your clown career and your ukulele/beatboxing performances in the courtyard.)

Okay, I know I’m loud at times. Yeah. But I do have an “Off” button. I was really hoping this guy would find his. But, nope. Does not exist.

About 6 other cyclists show up. All guys…no solo. I’m really left out in this situation, ain’t I?

I begin to pick up on something. I watch from the corner…my face buried in my laptop dreaming up my next Expedition with Miss Chappell…laughing at my Doofus stories.

Hearing his stories over and over and over and over again. The same…over and over and over…He’s a braggart and a performer. I begin to catch onto the other male cyclists. There is a pattern. It’s somewhere along these lines.

“Where are you from?”
“xxxx”
“Oh yea…”
….
….
…..
…
…
“You came here on bikes, that is sooOOOooOOOoo cool, I would sooOOooOOOoo love to do that.” (Responses similar from men and women).”

Of course, I’m a woman, I’m a cyclist…of course I sit in the corner by myself wondering why they don’t talk to me. What’s wrong with me. I walk around with a smile and try to make small talk. Oh, like this classic one.

“Hey guys…where ya headed, where ya going”
“We are going to India.”
“You didn’t come from the Pamirs by any chance.”
“No.”
“Oh…just wondering because a lot of cyclists are coming from there and there was trouble because of the war.”
“War…KnoW nothing of it…that’s what happens when you are on a bike. Where are you coming from.” (Catch that?…letting me know THEY ARE CYCLISTS!…my bike is not in hand and there is nothing to show I have a bike.)
“I started in Shanghai and just did a loop through Central Asia and am returning home.”
“Oh, Shanghai?”
“Yeah, I live there.”
“Ahhh…teaching English…obviously.”
(Wait a minute!)
“No, I’m a photographer.”
“Oh.”

Great intro, eh?

So, I get it. Maybe it all stems from the fact that these boys that think what they are doing is the greatest thing since sliced bread or ice cream know they can’t use their silly “I’m cycling around the world” charm on me. Hey homeboy…I see through ALL YOUR SHIT.

I’m leaving Kashgar for a nice visit with a local Uyghur family. I’m so tired of listening to the whole “why you should bike tour” speeches. Why can’t people just enjoy what they are doing now…without regrets or thoughts of what they should/could be doing.
Cyclos…quit selling the idea so hard…it’s tacky. Let these people enjoy what they are doing NOW…they can think about the bikes later.

5 Seconds after we had arrived in Kashgar some girl just started up about cycling…to the BOYS. On and on and on and on…maybe I smell bad? Is there a reason to think Doofus has more experience and knowledge than me…oh YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH…THAT’S RIGHT…THEY HAVE PENISES…I FORGOT…TOTALLY SLIPPED MY MIND. Of course…they must know more than me and give more accurate information.

Everything Doofus said about cycling China was a repeat of me…but inaccuracies added. I would sit and listen to the bullshit being spread around the only hostel in Kashgar. I even shared a quote from Genochio – giving him full credit and I heard doofus use it at least 10 times out of context. The third time (in a few hours), I screamed from inside, “Hey, you know that’s not YOUR line!”

I may go absolutely insane if I have to hear his voice…

…oh, wait, I nearly forgot…the conclusion of Doofus and Co.

So, Doofus and Frenchie go out for KTV their last night here. Well, it will be the second to last after all the drunkeness.

I wake up at 6:30 to the awful word: Pu$$y…being dropped like the word “bike” over the past few days. What is going on…I’m sleeping. Of course it’s Doofus…eyes barely parted I realize he is TALKING ABOUT ME!?!?! It continues…on and on…a debate on if it’s shaved or not. WHO THE HELL DOES THIS A METER AWAY FROM THE GIRL?!?!

Then…THEN…THEN…I hear: “I probably know but don’t remember…huh huh huh.”

EXCUSE ME…EXCUSE ME…EXCUSE ME…

I throw a pillow at them and go into the room. Leaving behind, “I don’t know what I did wrong…she’s so beautiful.” Yeah right buddy…try to make up for that vulgar talk. You didn’t do anything wrong besides being the biggest creep, one celled organism, self obsessed, moron I’ve ever met. I’m just NOT into you.

Christian tries to have me come back and feels bad about it. I whisper, “this is bullshit, no.”

The next day, Doofus comes up to me with his arms spread…going in for a hug and says, “Darlin’ (Aussie accent), I’m sorry if we hurt your feelings.”

I pull away, flip my hand in his face and say, “Whatever, DUDE!” and walk past him.

Frenchie calls me a Princess. Sorry homeboys…if thats the only insult you can fish for…well, Thanks.

Bon Voyage ASSHOLES! They had been planning a route through T1b3t and with Doofus as their Captain…and already 2 days late because of his shenanigans…it’s not going to happen. There are some logistics I didn’t share, nor did they ask for. You will not get your Visa renewed after the police escort you back to legal land. 3 Weeks will not get you across the Northern part.

I don’t wish ill on anyone…he’ll be sure to find it on his own.

Days earlier, whispering with Christian at 4 am…I would tell him that the biggest problem they will have in T1b3t is teamwork. The stress levels will be high, you’ll be hungry, rushing against a clock, dealing with altitude…relationships will fail. i.e. Brandon/Ellen.

Being a woman…alone I have had to deal with a lot of shit.

I had one cyclist make fun of me in Dushanbe accusing me of using a “poor little girl” technique to get taken in and fed. Let me tell you one thing…I would give up all these perks if it guaranteed no rape attempts, no boob grabs, no pelvic thrusts on the side of the road, no harassment about not having a husband, no secret massages late at night. Bring on the equality!!!! I’ll take it with open arms.

YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT ITS LIKE. You wonder why I lock myself in a hotel room every now and again. It’s exhausting…it’s painful, having these reminders that I am inferior in so many eyes.

Then, western boys do similar, if not worse shit to me. Who am I run to for comfort? To another dude on a bike that uses his “riding around the world” to get attention from girls, and guys. I don’t think so. I try talking to the Dutch couple about it, but they have a bit of starry eyes for the triplets.

Two French boys, that had ridden with Doofus and Christian a month earlier invited me to come along. So…why would I? Is it because I’m a girl and I need company? You don’t know me? How do you know we would get along? I’ve learned that most people have ulterior intentions. Even like the Uyghur “friend” I have here…that made me promise to bring him back an iPhone.

If Chris-Alex was here…there’d be none of it. Or if darling Jacques…or even Brandon who behaved as a gentleman for 2 months. There are a lot of good, really good men out there. But at the present moment…there are too many boys stuck here in Kashgar.

Hey lady…wanna ride a bike….? I’m SPECTACULAR!!!!! I really hope my bike turns you on because my conversation is DULL DULL DULL.

Welcome to the Boys Club, Darlin’…too bad I’m into MEN!

I type this, silently, alone…because…I don’t need to strut, nor did I ever. This journey has been about me…not you. It only matters that I proved it to myself…every kilometer since the very first.