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15 Jun 2014

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Central Asia, Uzbekistan With 2 Comments Permalink

Uzbekistan, Part 4: Bukhara to Samarkand (June 21st – June 26 2012)

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On June 15, 2014 With 2 Comments

Arriving to Bukhara by ten o’clock am, as I had been on the road since 4 am because of the previous night’s assault.

I arrive into the city center and begin looking for hotels in the area. Roaming around and around and around in the heat, I feel myself coming to a near collapse. My cure for most ailments is ice cream and a cold soda.

Walking over to a market where I can refill my SIM card so I can access Google Maps and grab an ice cream.

Sitting on the curb in the shade, trying to regain my since of my direction, I notice how ill I’m beginning to feel.

A young Uzbek comes up to me and tries to speak with me in broken English. He offers me a cold Coca Cola in a glass bottle and we sit trying to communicate about the usual basics. I finish the soda and he offers me another with exclaiming I should wait as he wants to show me something.

He returns with a laptop that appears to have a bootleg video playing. I can hear the vague sound of English and realize he’s grinning at me as he’s showing me pornography. Setting the soda down, I say thanks and leave.

Very kind locals help me navigate through the historic part of Bukhara to find a hotel. The first one I try I notice it’s all women around and taking care of the business matters. After the past couple days this is exactly what I want and need. I pay the basic fee for at least three nights, load my belongings into a small and simple room and literally collapse. Physically exhausted. Something much more than fatigue and my body is not feeling right. It is reminiscent of the days of dysentery but my head feels messed up as well.

For the remaining of the day and into the night I’m drinking my emergency supply of drink supplements for dehydration. It’s the only thing I can think of since I’ve been in the desert for so long with the blazing heat down on me ever day.

Once it cools down a bit and think I can actually leave the room, with no appetite, I walk out to the center area of the old town to refill my water supply. Walking back to my room I see a young man with a touring bike talking to a local girl. It’s been ages since I’ve seen another cyclist and of course introduce myself and we begin chatting.

His name is Chris-Alexandre of www.allschoolproject.ch

He is stuck in Bukhara for about another week as he was bit by a dog and tending to his rabies shots. Both of us are ill, him from the rabies treatment and me from whatever I’m suffering from. (It turns out that many cyclists will get sick in Bukhara, and Uzbekistan in general, and we hear it may have something to do with the cooking in cotton oil and our bodies not being able to process it.)

A little site seeing in Bukhara as I don’t have plans for staying as it’s extremely touristy and I want to be back on the road. I have also been spoiled by kind strangers helping me and in Bukhara I’m scammed by a man who wants to show me around. This post is starting to sound like a lot of negative things so I’d like to not go into detail as Uzbekistan is still one of my favorite countries and the hospitality I was shown was some of the best.

It was great spending a few days with Chris-Alex and making plans to meet back up in Samarkand. He had befriended a wonderful young local woman that sold her paintings and her mother had another shop of porcelains and souvenirs. I would end up buying a few of her paintings for Christmas gifts.

I would leave Bukhara on the morning of the 24th of July, 2012.

…and OF COURSE, by now you’ve learned I do anything I possibly can to not take the beaten path.

It’s a little difficult to navigate to the small road I found on the map but locals help direct me at a busy intersection on the edge of town. Of course I’ve gotten a bit of a late start and the sun is beating down on me and I can feel my body weakening under the desert sun. As I approach the small road for the turn off after about an hour of riding, a car pulls up to me and pours out cold water from a thermos. Sitting here, writing this nearly two years later, this memory is still so vivid. I remember how amazing the cold water felt in my mouth and going down my throat, almost as if dropping my body temperature by a few degrees. Their smiles and waves will never be forgotten; they helping out a stranger and guest in their country and me being so thankful for such a gracious and simple act of kindness. Cold, clean water. That may have been one of the most memorable drinks of water of my life.

Before finding camp that evening, I had a nice man offer me to come watch a football (soccer) game with him. If my memory serves me correctly, it was the World Cup and is quite popular everywhere in the world. After being in a touristy city for a few days, I politely decline, and fantasize about being all alone once again in my tent.

I am now all alone on the golden road to Samarkand.

The Golden Road to Samarkand by James Elroy Flecker
HASSAN:
Sweet to ride forth at evening from the wells,
When shadows pass gigantic on the sand,
And softly through the silence beat the bells
Along the Golden Road to Samarkand.
ISHAK:
We travel not for trafficking alone;
By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned:
For lust of knowing what should not be known
We take the Golden Road to Samarkand.
MASTER OF THE CARAVAN:
Open the gate, O watchman of the night!
THE WATCHMAN:
Ho, travellers, I open. For what land
Leave you the dim-moon city of delight?
MERCHANTS (with a shout):
We take the Golden Road to Samarkand!
(The Caravan passes through the gate)
THE WATCHMAN (consoling the women):
What would ye, ladies? It was ever thus.
Men are unwise and curiously planned.
A WOMAN:
They have their dreams, and do not think of us.
VOICES OF THE CARAVAN (in the distance singing):
We take the Golden Road to Samarkand.

On the morning of the 25th I would wake up as the sun begins peaking above the horizon. The golden rays turning the sky from black to blue and there is complete silence and stillness of the air. I would sit on my hilltop looking into the countryside contemplating life, feelings; truly living in the present moment and being so thankful to be where I was. On my chosen hillside for camp, a shepherd would greet me as I finish packing up my gear and we make a little small talk. Waving goodbye, I’m on the road just as dawn breaks.

Later in the afternoon I would be sitting on the side of the road looking out into cotton fields.

A boy comes up to me and starts trying to speak to me in English. He leaves. He then returns with his mother and younger brother. I remember her being beautiful and she refused to let me take her photo. The three of us sat on the side of the road together for about an hour just staring out into the fields and talking on occasion. They would leave for the late afternoon nap, and I’m left alone again, but not for too long.

A car pulls up and 4 men exit. I’m asked if I’m French and I say “no”. Then the jokester puts his hands on his hips and starts thrusting his pelvis back and forth while saying “sex sex sex”. I’m utterly disgusted and get up and leave.

At night fall I would go into a cafe hoping they would let me sleep outside after I eat and pay for my dinner. The usual questions are asked but I’m not invited for a stay and see no women around anyhow. It probably wouldn’t be the best after this streak of luck I’ve been having.

I ride my bike into the night for about an hour until I see a cleared field. Pushing my bike down through a ditch and heaving it over dried grass, I walk about 2 kilometers from the street. I throw my tent up in just a matter of minutes and collapse.

The afternoon of June 26th 2012 I would arrive in Samarkand.

01 Apr 2014

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in North East South by Bike, North East South West by Bike, riding partner Permalink

Partners

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On April 1, 2014

I knew the day was coming upon me, for the second time. The last week has been fleeting memories of riding with the Belgian brothers, Matthieu and Lucas of NESW by Bike. Walking outside today with a short sleeve shirt on and remembering walking along snow and ice with frozen boots, over the Irkeshtam Pass…freezing.

There is something about cycling with someone, or a pair of brothers, that is very special and a bond that will last forever. I can even hear their voices echoing in my thoughts today. But there is something even more special of a bond when you work together as a team to make it through some of the toughest days I’ve seen. It was not the first risky place I’d been, and surely not the last, although my tour would only continue for about 5 months afterwards.

I’ve cycled with a total of 4 men, and each one of them has a special place in my heart. The first went on for 6 weeks and the last would be only 3 days, although we would spend a lot of time stuck in Dushanbe together. The word “partner” means something to me that most people can not define and I can’t with words. Even now, one years and 4 months from my temporary retirement, the idea of “relationship”, “partner”, “friend” take on a completely different meaning.

A partner is someone that encourages you to excel, encourages you to push beyond those barriers set only by yourself, encourages you to live your dream and passion even if it may mean they are absent during those times. Not just someone to help carry the water, the gear, or fix a puncture or set up camp. A partner is someone you can go an entire day without speaking and then under a star filled sky, you share your personal epiphanies that were dreamed up during the day. Excitement in each other’s voices, recognizing where these thoughts come from…deep within the wandering soul…searching for something more within themselves and the world. Respect for one another and appreciation of the differences that in all reality, make the team that much stronger.

There are a few men I encountered along my travels that I never cycled with or spent time with on the road…and these few are still very special to me. The ones I can write to when I’m bogged down with “reality”, when I am having a hard time finding my footing, a relationship between two people that remind one another of their strength’s. They are also the ones I can write to when I have exciting news or something happening in my life and they share my excitement. We share excitement through emails and Skype of our future plans, or map purchases, or just the simple act of discussing dinner plans.

Sure, if I were to sum up my trip I would say it’s when I learned to love myself. But, I also learned what it’s like to care about and love strangers, just for the simple fact we are all looking for something more in our life, in the universe. Whether we are on 2 wheels, in a bus, walking, hitch-hiking…we all know there is something more out there for us. We’ve chosen an unconventional path to find the answers in our life and as a group of dirtbags, misfits, hobos, gypsies…it’s our duty to help our partners when we see struggle.

Let’s put down that ego of who has cycled the furthest, the most countries, the highest peak, who has done it solo or with a girlfriend or boyfriend. Who cares if they take a bus, who cares if they fly somewhere, who cares if the bike is thrown on the back of a lorry for a day, who cares? Why should anyone care about how someone else wants to conduct their journey? Surely, we all know, there are those that are out for the records and the glory but that’s not my game nor for the company I keep. We do it because we all need answers…we all having a burning desire…a curiosity that MUST be answered within this lifetime.

One of my biggest pieces of advice, for solo travelers especially, is to keep these people you will meet on the road close to your heart. When you return home you will need these people and they will need you. The partnership will never end, the bond is tighter than any chain that my bicycle has ever had rotating around that steel drive train.

05 Mar 2014

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Brooks Saddle, Publication With 2 Comments Permalink

The Brooks Bugle 2014

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On March 5, 2014 With 2 Comments

I have a bit of exciting news for all of you.

During the first week in Dhaka, as I was preparing for the adventure over the next 3 weeks, Brooks England requested I write an essay for their annual publication The Brooks Bugle. At a coffee shop, under a dupatta and snuggled into a bright batik shalwar kameez, I pecked out a piece that felt as if I released a part of my soul into the universe. It felt good to write, like this, again. It felt great to relive those experiences but at the same time reminding myself who I am and what I stand for.

The Brooks Bugle is a publication of 150,000 and distributed through shops, subscribers, and each saddle and bag sold throughout 2014 will include one. I’m so humbled by the response to this piece. It was almost 4 years ago I embarked on this physical journey, and it’s been an emotional one since.

I am not sponsored by Brooks and it was a delight and honor to be asked because of my previous accomplishments. I’ve added the text below this blog post to make it easier to read.

Currently going through these files from last month, I have a couple of stories that I feel are just incomplete. This is why I’m not sharing them publicly. Sitting here in awe of the people I shared life with in one of the most horrible conditions I’ve ever seen. I’m using all my possible resources to try and find funding to continue this very important work. I’ll be privately emailing folks soon, with a few limited edition prints available in hopes to raise funds to continue this work. This really gives me a punch in the pride, but I have limited options right now. There were so many of you that donated generously to my Kickstarter because you believed in the work I was doing, and this current body of work is equally important. There were so many of you that didn’t want a reward, you just wanted to see me succeed, you wanted to see the faces that meant something to me. My eye and technique has developed so much over the past few years and I feel like that the stories I am trying to tell need to be told. Humbly yours, forever – Moseman.

(Now we read the news about supposed terrorists looming through Xinjiang. There is no proof yet that Uyghurs were responsible but it’s already been publicized that they are at fault. You can bet I won’t be wearing headscarves around China any time soon.)

Meet Shabana. She’s an adolescent living in the slums of Dhaka. I went with her to her home where she showed me a photo of her future husband. When leaving Dhaka, I did not get to say goodbye to her because she now works in the garment industry. Her mother was a cook and cleaner where I was staying, so the message has been passed along that I will return and hopefully get to see her again. Shabana was my Bengali teacher for the first week in Bangladesh.

When talking to with young women, and recent brides, it’s not the arranged marriage that sits wrong with me. It’s not my place as a white Western woman to try and change the culture and tradition. What saddens me is that there is no support or therapy for these young women when they fall into depression and confusion after being put into a strange household, a young husband, and strange parent in laws.

There are nearly 3999 other images I want to share, but I chose this one because she’s a young lady I saw over a course of a few days and I have a bit of an emotional attachment to. She braided/plaited my hair horribly a few times, with me nearly falling asleep in her sweet arms when combing her fingers through my dry, ratty hair.

If you’d like to be taken off the mailing list as well, please don’t hesitate to email me at [email protected]. I’m a thick skinned gal and can handle it. Also I know how these days we are bombarded with emails.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————–

Text from The Brooks Bugle:

A horizon of 360 degrees, the most vivid and rich blue skies you only dream of and at times standing on my tippy toes thinking I might actually be able to pluck a cloud from the heavens. Days would pass with seeing exactly 2 buses and if I were lucky a few lorries and a half a dozen motorbikes pimped out with neon colors and a speaker loaded on the back pumping American hip hop. Washboard roads and sometimes jeep tracks that cut through the plateau in the general direction I think I want to traverse. Locals have lined stones along the edge of the roads in hopes to prevent the tourism industry loaded into Land Rovers from ruining this desolate, dry, arid, and vacant space.

My feet sore from walking, inspecting the soles being worn down in the heels and at times catching my feet dragging. The sun is boiling my skin and I have every millimeter covered except my face and the two top knuckles of my fingers. If I get out of the sun I freeze.

I have no detailed maps, just some crap tourist map of China, as I never had intent of crossing into the Tibetan Autonomous Region. My riding partner of six weeks, that I had randomly met in Litang, and I had a very heated, abrupt, and emotional break up in a the middle of a yak field days after crossing over. Along with the absence of maps there was also no fuel for my alcohol stove as we had come to rely on his gas burner. I would NEVER find myself to not be self sufficient again.

Every night in my camp, marking the weeks since I had a shower, I would examine my feet noticing they are turning more and more blueish. My fingernails are pulling away from the bed, my ears are constantly ringing along with the constant “thud” of my heartbeat felt within my ear canal and all over my head. Lying down in my tent with the inability to sleep, hungry, I wonder if this is what it feels to be buried alive. At times I genuinely feel like I am going insane and even avoid nomads because I do not want to alert them of the mad woman on a bicycle.

This was the time of my life. These weeks and the months leading up to it would mark a major transformation of who I was and who I am today. Realizing how damn insignificant I am in this world, as Eleanor, as a human, and how we all are at the complete mercy of nature. There is no fresh water on the plateau, hail storms can give you a twenty minute warning and beat the hell out of you. Snapping tent poles because of the cold wind blasting at you and there is no wind shield at 5400 meters. Pouring cold water into your instant noodles while you set up your bed for the night hoping they will be soft for consumption in a few minutes. I had to eat as my 6′ frame was already down to 53 kgs a few weeks before and I know it was probably much lower at this point. Looking at my hands I could see the veins, tendons, and bones protruding more than ever before. Catching a glimpse of my hip bones in the tent at night, sometimes I wondered how I even had any strength to carry on during the days. There was NO option.

I have never felt so free in my entire life. People ask if I was lonely these days and I honestly can say the fullness I carried in my heart kept me company every second. If I looked hard enough along the horizon I could spot a nomad and a young child…or a shepherd woman perched on a cliff watching over her flock of sheep. Finding a nomad gypsy camp and witnessing an outrageous Shaman ritual or spending the morning helping a family of 10 children prepare for a journey to a local market. Life is full of richness and fleeting moments of pure bliss, but you have to keep moving forward, keep taking risks, keep placing yourself out of your comfort zone to encounter these seconds that make up an entire journey…of life.

With no maps, fear of water supply, I must trust myself because I have no one to help me through this. When you stand on a slight rolling hill on the plateau and you can see hundreds of kilometers ahead with no site of human life, you have to convince yourself there is no other option but to go forward. I’m not going to lie. It was tough. It was one of the most emotionally demanding experiences of my life but I managed to enjoy every second of it too.

This part of my tour of 26,000 kilometers is one of a few where it was more than just cycling. It was about self discovery, learning lessons of life, and becoming an emotionally and mentally stronger person. Moments that are brought to mind to get me through the days, where I find myself back in society a little over a year after pausing my tour. I say “pause” because I will never feel that it has concluded.

I watch our society want, and at times, expect immediate gratification and results. Summiting passes sometimes takes days and a whole lot of patience. One reason I cycle alone is because I really enjoy the ride up. I probably take a lot more breaks on the roadside than most and where I can stare out into the beauty of the world and time seems to lose all meaning. There is nowhere to be, no one to meet, no agenda. I’ll get to the top when I’m ready…there is no rush for me and the hours spent on the side of the road thinking and having revelations about life that I will not remember to the next day is what a lot of my tour was about.

Now it’s very evident this is also how I approach life. At 34 my photography career is just beginning to be something I can call a profession and rely on it completely for income. I received my first camera at 14 and was accepted into a program at 19. As you can see, I’m not a kind of person that gives up and I remind myself it’s about developing a stable and reliable grounding. What person can summit a 5040meter pass without weeks of training leading up to it?

There are too often times we can’t foresee or predict the outcome from our actions. We must have faith that something ahead will peak out and our hopes and dreams will be exceeded. Holding a steady pace and carrying on while remaining to have hope will take us far. Expectations? I carry none. Adding that to a load varying between 60-80kgs at time could be very very hefty. I’d prefer to be surprised when I summit that mountain that lies distant within my site.

When I feel like life is just spiraling out of hand and the switchbacks never seem to cease I put myself back on the saddle and return to the mindset that got me through those years navigating around Asia. I continue to take risks, while trusting myself and knowing there are also millions of people in this world that would be more than happy to help you if they can. Reminding myself I am at the mercy of nature but it will be left up to my own strength and will power to survive, or rather, excel.

Life sure is like a very very long bicycle ride. I have no idea what the destination is but I sure am enjoying the journey…wherever it leads.

04 Jan 2014

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Central Asia, Heartbreak and Lonliness, Photos, Scary Moments, Sex Pests With 16 Comments Permalink

Uzbekistan, Part 3: Nurata to Bukhara (June 19th-June 20th 2012)

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On January 4, 2014 With 16 Comments

I wake up before everyone, on the porch with the three young girls I had giggled into the night with.

The sun is just beginning to light the sky to a saturated navy blue. Heat is all I can think about at this point, even with the cool desert breeze going over my dry and burned skin. The few moments before pulling myself up from the sleeping mat, I take a few slow deep breaths and give myself my morning pep talk. It will be okay, today will be good, I will not suffer too much, I will stay alive and find a safe place to stay for this evening. I will listen to music and think about things that need to be thought about. I will work through some of my inner demons and acknowledge my insecurities. I miss my family. I miss my friends. I feel good, I feel strong…I am strong.

Yesterday, the eldest sister had braided/plaited my hair. It hadn’t been washed in a few days and needed a comb run through it. When we had been sitting on the patio, about a dozen of us. She grabbed her comb and came and sat close next to me, letting me know what she wanted to do. I smiled gratefully and nodded yes and took my rubberband out of my braid. I begin to finger comb the braid/plait out and I then feel her hands run through my hair, finger tips gently brushing against my scalp…

…my eyes begin to water and I hold back tears. My eyes are leaking, there is something I’m feeling that I’ve never felt before. An emotion that seems recognizable yet so distant and strange. I have been extremely emotionally neglected, I have gone more than a year without human interaction or intimacy. I’m not talking to a sexual sense, I’m talking when you share a moment with another soul when you let your guard down, you allow them in, you share a connection. I have to hold back from sobbing as she runs her hands through my hair, then the comb, but as she plaits/braids my hair I feel as I almost want to fall back into her and be held. This seem so out of character, so strange for a woman that goes days, weeks, months thinking…and more importantly convincing herself, that she doesn’t need so much human interaction. That she is a loner. You know, as I type this a year and a half later…I’ve only had about 3 fleeting moments since then…of intimacy. Hugs, kisses, and quality conversation is so under-rated. When you haven’t had something for so long you truly cherish the moments of someone embracing you. (A few weeks from this day I will notice another change in me. Since I’ve been “home” I’ve really made an attempt to hug and touch people, because I became too “hard” and scared.)

I wake the younger sister as I put my bag on my bike and she leads me to the road where her sister and mother escort me. It’s been an emotional 12 hours and as I hug the sisters and then the mother, I again hold back tears. There is something in their eyes, something that their soul speaks…it seems we all have some sort of suffering and past words and language barriers, we are all speaking to one another. I call her “mother” and the two “sisters” in Uzbek and thank them. Holding back the tears I ride off towards the bright orange sunrise. I can’t look back…I can’t bear to see their faces. There is a part of me that wants to stay, to live a simple life, to have company, to feel a connection, love, and tenderness.

The day is uneventful as I’m back on a main route to Bukhara. I notice the traffic begins to pick up and the heat gets nearly unbearable again. Stopping for water and shade as much as I can but the shade is becoming minimal.

At sunset I begin looking for a place to camp. It’s all open desert with occasional petrol stations. The traffic slows down and I ride later into the night than I should, it’s not smart to night ride especially on a highway.

About 80km away from Bukhara I see a petrol station. It’s brightly lit and I could see it a few kilometers away. To the left of it is an abandoned building, I am still in the middle of the desert. There is nothing out here except some desert shrubbery and barely trees. I’m tired. I’m exhausted. I just want to lie down and sleep. I’ve been going for over 12 hours now.

I ride past the petrol station and see there is a mechanic working on a truck outside and no one else. Stopping, I look out into the landscape towards the abandoned building. Do I dare explore it and stay inside. There is always a fear in me of camping too far off from a main road. Because it’s a main road, there is a likely possibility of having night visitors. If it weren’t a main road, I usually have less concern. My rationale is if I’m close to the road, if I have problems, it’s easier for me to get help from possible traffic.

Standing on the side of the road, taking a moment to stare into the skies above and noticing how black it is, everywhere. Except for the stars, the moon, and the petrol lights.

I find a place to take my bike off the road and into the sand. Pushing my bike just to the edge of where the petrol lights hit…it lights a triangle out to each side. Probably the length of a half a football field. I had waited to see the attendant go inside or to not be visible.

Pushing the bike through the sand, there is no way I can make it to the abandoned building. Deciding I’ll just lean the bike against a bush and roll out my sleeping mat. *Let me just state NEVER do this in the desert. After what I saw in the early mornings, it’s very very unwise to sleep in the open desert without protection from spiders. When you’re exhausted, sometimes the brain isn’t up to par.

After lying down for about 15 minutes I noticed a flash light. The attendant has spotted me and he’s walking towards me. He then turns back, I assume I will be okay…he’s given up. No. Now he drives a jeep over to me.

He’s a very large man. Asks me what I am doing and he tells me I can sleep in the petrol station. I don’t want to. I’d rather stay out here. He’s insistent on it. So, with very little light I try to pack up my stuff without too much of a hassle and push the bike to the petrol station.

I follow him and roll my bike inside the garage and he directs me to a couch in an interior room next to the garage. I sit down and he explains he will be outside working. It’s around 10pm. I lie down, the room is boiling…I wish I was outside where it’s cooler.

He pays another visit shortly and puts a blanket over me. You’ve got to be kidding me…I’m like a roasting piggy now. What’s worse, the blanket is making my skin crawl. It feels as if my skin is moving and being bit. This is horrendous. As I hear him banging and working on the truck outside, I throw off the blanket and mutter some words about him being an idiot and this filth and go to the garage. I grab my my tent ground cover and go outside. We make eye contact and I explain with hand motions that I’m going to sleep outside next to the garage. I find a place that is shielded by the bright lights.

The skin is no longer crawling and the cool desert breeze dries the sweat off my body within just a couple of minutes. I couldn’t ask for anything better, minus the lights and the constant mechanic’s sounds. There are also brief moments of conversation. My senses being on full alert, I awaken often but not for too long. I figure if I can just get a few hours I’ll be okay for the following day. Only 80km.

Although, every time I wake up I notice my body clenching up more and more from the cold. The temperature is dropping fast and the desert wind picking up. At first it felt good but now it’s beginning to get cold. The shivering begins and I apprehensively get up and grab my ground cover. Going back through the garage, I put my ground cover back in my bag…my bike is packed and I’m ready to leave at a moment’s notice.

All I smell is oil, gas, and dirty human…you know that smell of unwashed linens. I lie down on the couch.

I wake up, it’s around 3:30 am, and I notice the noise has stopped. The lights outside have dimmed. Finally, I can rest my head a little and get some sleep.

No. Someone is walking outside. There is the man’s silhouette in the doorway. He had been checking on me throughout the night but at this moment I knew something was different. He walks slowly into the room and sits on the couch, next to me. I can hear him breathing and see him looking at me. He leans in and grabs my chest with both hands.

I grab his hands and push them away from me. In my head, I distinctly remember thinking, “Here we go again, how am I going to get out of this one?!” Previously, there had been people within shouting distance but this time, there was no one else around. “Moseman, you’ve been here before, stay calm, cool, don’t alert him…you’ll get through this.”

Standing up and going towards my bike he stands clumsily and gets in front of me and grabs my chest again. I place both hands on his chest and push him away from me, shaking and trembling but trying not to show the fear. He’s at least 5″ taller than I and large…all I can imagine is a terrible situation, being crushed under his gigantic body smelling of oil, gas, grease, and unwashed hair. “No, get away, I’m leaving”, all said in English. I haven’t got time or patience to deal with fumbling over Russian with another pervert.

Grabbing my bike, I ride a kilometer away from the station. It’s pitch dark and I wait on the side of the road and I know I have at least two hours before I have any possibility of light.

It’s unsafe to try and hitch at this time of the night, anyhow there is no traffic.

I sit on the side of the road, eat a little naan and peanut butter and relive the past 48 hours. How things can change.

Around 4:30 I begin walking my bike and riding when I can. I’ve let my eyes adjust and it’s not too bad.

By 6:30 I’m pedaling away and at 10am I arrive in Bukhara, exhausted, dirty, and hungry. All I can smell is that man’s garage…the thought of oil and gas making me sick to my stomach.

Trying to find a place to stay in Bukhara, I stop by a little shop to refill my SIM card so I can view maps and buy an ice cream. I feel awfully sick. Maybe it’s the heat. I’m lightheaded and feel on the verge of diarrhea. After I buy my second ice cream and sitting on the stoop, I’m emailing a long distance cyclist and friend that I’ve been in contact with for years. I’ve been telling him a little about the previous days and how I feel so sick.

A young Uzbek shop keeper comes out to talk to me. He brings me an ice cold Coca Cola in a glass bottle. I thank him and put down the phone. We make small talk, his poor English and my poor Russian. When he notices I don’t have any more cola, he asks if I would like another. Surely. He brings out another and he learns I’m American. As I’m finishing up the second he explains he wants to show me something. He grabs his laptop from the cell phone shop, as that’s where I bought my SIM refill from, and sits next to me. Within 30 seconds of staring at a very dark and scrambling laptop screen, he is showing me porn. I look up at him and he’s smiling.

It’s time to go. I find a decent place in the old town of Bukhara for a fair price with air conditioning. It’s quiet and pleasant and I fall onto the bed with exhaustion after a shower. For the remainder of the day I would be running to the toilet and drinking water mixed with packets of electrolyte mix. I’m ill…I’m sick…after all of this.

03 Dec 2013

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Central Asia, Kazakhstan, Photos, Uzbekistan With 4 Comments Permalink

Uzbekistan, Part 1 (June 8th-June 13th 2012)

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On December 3, 2013 With 4 Comments

June 8^th 2012 I would leave Kazakhstan and take a bus to the border of Uzbekistan. I had spent a month obtaining 3 Visas: Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, and the Kyrgyzstan to return to China (which I wouldn’t have to use because of new Visa regulations).

The previous night I had dinner with a cyclist I had befriend via Warmshowers who was a pilot with Astana and a few of his friends and co-pilots. Something strange happened that evening that would just add onto to the drama dealing with the opposite sex.

It was a dinner party and although it was in a “safe” area I still stick to my rules of drinking alcohol. Before I continue that I will share a few things that I stick to while traveling. I NEVER drink in public. I specifically NEVER drink around locals…unless it’s a watered down beer in China at lunch time when I’m trying to get a calorie consumption up. Hostels may be a different occasion, and that is far and few between. I’ve been known to lock myself up in a room to enjoy a bottle of a wine but I do not frequent watering holes and I never take up any offers of social drinking. The first few months of my tour I had a HORRIBLE event because I went to dinner with 3 guys that got extremely intoxicated and my sober self was locked in a truck stop room and threatened for 4 hours until he finally made his move.

Anyhow. I was tired and had a long day of travel ahead of me so I left the dinner table as people were leaving and others way to too intoxicated to deal with. After lying down on the couch, going to sleep…a little while I wake up with the lights off and someone sucking on my ear. Being woken from a slumber and groggy, I push the head away from me and roll over and shove my head in the couch cushions. At this point, nothing surprises me anymore and it’s just better to be firm and continue on.

The next morning I’m so ready to get the hell out of there. The cyclist host escorts me to the bus station where his Kazakh/Mongolian roomate and wife are meeting us at the station to help me buy the ticket and load up my gear. Of course there are difficulties because it being a bike but thankfully I have a local to help me.

Being rushed for time, I wasn’t able to stop by the 1 ATM in Kazakhstan that accepted my China Bank card. I stopped by a half dozen on the way to the station trying to find an ATM to withdrawl cash. I knew I should of done it earlier and my host is hassling me with his machismo. I finally put my foot down, especially after the previous night, and demand he quit speaking to me the way he does. No tolerance today for this stuff.

I load up my bike and gear, never mention the incident of the previous night, give hugs goodbye and get on that bus.

There is a vivid memory of the movie on the bus. It was a TV Drama in Kazakh and I remember there was a domestic disturbance. A man eventually killed his wife because he beat her so badly. The entire bus was drawn to the show. I couldn’t even stand to look. Welcome to Central Asia…in a month I would say, “Uzbekistan…where they treat their donkies better than their wives.” Have you ever seen a man reprimand his donkey on the roads in Uzbekistan?

I would get to the border crossing and get off the bus. It’s hot, dry, sandy, yet not as hectic as I had anticipated.

Pushing my bike up to the Exit building, I would leave my bike outside and go in to get my Exit. Stamp…and through no man’s land. Deep breath…about to enter a new country that I know very little about but know the Exit/Entry inspections can be a real hassle.

I go through the first inspection, precariously getting my bike through the little closets the inspectors sit in. Then through a parking lot and into another line with about 50 Uzbeks in line. I’m waved ahead of all of them and helped into the next building with my loaded bike.

The form is in Russian and Kazakh…um….what? Luckily a young man approaches me and helps me fill out all my forms and gets me to the next inspection.

So, six months earlier when I returned to Shanghai for 6 weeks after Tibet I had accidentally washed my passport in hot water in the washing machine. Of all places, Uzbekistan is the place they caught onto the “damaged” passport. Come on, I’m on a bike, of course it’s going to be damaged, right? Flashing my smile and working my lady like demeanor I get my stamp and move on.

I’ve removed and replaced my panniers about a dozen times within the entire Exit/Entry process and this final one the entire room of security and police are all smiles asking me about myself. I’ve got my stamp and I can calm my nerves a little bit. I load up my bags for the final time for the day with a smile and even enjoy the chit chat.

The fellow that assisted me with my form walks out with me and we are speaking. As we are exiting, coming from the opposite direction is an officer with a semi-automatic mega gun pulling a woman by her hand. She’s screaming at him. In her other hand is a small child crying, being dragged along. She breaks free and the officer grabs her again. I see this happen a few times and we cross paths he’s got his arm gripped onto her as she tries to break free, screaming at him at the top of her lungs with the child continuing to cry in fear. Where the hell am I…

Women selling wares and foods all along the small town road I avoid the children asking for money. I go into a small cafe and get a basic lunch. There is a woman there, that has been living in New York, that is originally from this town. She’s confused why anyone would want to visit Uzbekistan. Why any woman would want to ride her bike around the world. It was nice to have some moments of English and a bit of grounding conversation. She’s able to translate to the cafe.

I get up to pay my bill and the cafe owner waves his hand as if to say “no”. I’m confused. The woman translates to me that the lunch is free. I smile humbly and thank him, thank his wife, thank their children and thank the woman I had just met. Now on to Tashkent.

I cycle from the border to arrive in Tashken later in the afternoonand I had an idea of two guesthouses. I stop to drink an ice cold Coca Cola on the edge of town. In the city center I stop again for another Coca Cola…they taste too delicious. I’m never a soda drinker but there is something about the sugar and salts that give me a little of what I need to keep going. Besides this, I need to stop and think about the next move. Cities always throw a wrench in plans and I can always expect a few hours to find a place to stay.

The first internet cafe I spot, I stop to look up guesthouses. Finding them on Google Maps, I write down the location and ask the attendents how to get there. Also just a few emails are sent out.

I’ll arrive to the guest house that is nearly empty and still the only cyclist. This would be the LAST major city in Central Asia that I would be the only cyclist. All up to this point I rarely stayed in proper hostels or guesthouses. I had only crossed the paths of about 6 foreign cyclists since May of 2010. Rarely even seeing other foreigners at all.

While in Tashkent I would spend a week working out some financial issues and also my Kickstarter campaign had been successful which, thanks to all of you, I was able to continue on. Also planning my route through Uzbekistan while picking up some supplies for the next week or so.

My rear brakes would be replaced. The first set of brake replacements, and the only, for the entire tour.

I would spend time in the bazaars and just meandering around the city, avoiding the heat as much as I could during the day.

Naan seller…how I love naan. All the carbs a lady could ask for.

About 25 USD…yeah, its a total pain to carry Uzbek money and you MUST buy it on the “black market”. It’s actually the easiest just to use USD as everything is quoted in American currency anyhow. Oh the power of the US Dollar.

Towards the last days there, I would meet two Italians on motorbikes that had just completed the Pamirs. They were quite kind to me and we chatted for a few hours. One even let me sit on his bike after I had admitted I was ready to pick up the power between my legs. A lot of cyclists complain about the attitude of folks on motorbikes but it seems they love a doe eyed young lady that wants to know as much about the bikes and techniques they have mastered.

I would leave Tashkent on Jun13^th and head towards the Nurata mountains.

Yes, the last place I left you all, dear readers was in Kazakhstan. I’m currently working on my new Chinese Work Visa…as I was in Shanghai for the last month, and even have a new quaint bungalow, so I thought I’d try to catch you all up. Keep your eyes open for an announcement of a project I have planned for late winter.

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.

18 Jun 2013

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Gettin' Lost, Kazakhstan, Landscape Photography, Scary Moments, Solitude, video With No Comments Permalink

Assey Plateau – Kazakhstan June 5 2012 (Part II)

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On June 18, 2013 With No Comments

The previous night, there was another thunderstorm including strong winds and lightning. There was minimal hail and would of slept outside of the tent but could see the weather changing before sunset. Lightning frightens me just a smidgen, just hoping not to get hit as I’m next to the biggest chunk of steel within 5 kilometers and higher than the weather station heading back down into the plateau. Considering the weather, and a bit of cold nipping at my toes, I sleep fairly well. It was the eve of my 33rd birthday. Sleeping in, as I can hear a bit of rain speckle against my tent.

I step out from my tent and this is my view back down into the valley that I’m supposed to be on. Honestly I couldn’t have asked for a better campsite, a better place to recognize another year passing and the place to start with new.

As I stand looking down into the glorious plateau I see an Eagle flying overhead. He hovers above me for what seems like minutes and then swoops down. It’s as if he dancing for me. Watching him swoop and swing and flow through the sky, I see the similarities in the two of us. Two lonesome souls, enjoying the beauty of the mountains, the warmth of the sun, the emotion that comes when you really REALLY acknowledgement of living life the way you WANT to. There have been moments like these that I wish I had someone to share it with but today…the depth it sat with me, it would of been pointless to have someone around. I soaked in the moment, tracing the bird in the sky and knowing we are both lonesome hunters. Chasing while never having a predictable path; onlookers may see us as confused or lost at times but we are very aware of what we are searching for. (You can see a film on the Media page that includes footage from the Eagle.)

I ride down from the ridges to the weather station. The rain begins to blow in so I sit out under an awning for about an hour waiting out the wind and hail. Hail hurts, by the way. It hurts a lot when riding and I did it in Tibet and I avoid it if I can.

When I get down to the plateau and the route I was supposed to take, there is a valley of fresh streams and rolling hills. I don’t get very far until I hit the edge of storm clouds.

The storm passes and I move on…taking my time to not catch up with it again. The day turns into a gorgeous cool day with bright blue skies. The terrain switches up every now and again, and I continue having to cross streams and ice melt. Nothing major and keeps it exciting. There is a brief moment where I have some stones and rocks along some water but for the most part I have nice packed down jeep tracks. At times I can go nearly 35km/hour and it feels great. I watch my shirt flapping in the breeze by the looks of my shadow to my front right.

I pass a few groups of yurts, some wave and others just come out to hold down their dog. It’s been one of the best day of riding since the Tibetan plateau. At one point I pick up so much speed down a single track, I come to a dip in the track and slam my crotch up against the head tube when braking. I collapse to the ground moaning and groaning. If I had been a man I may have lost the whole unit; I can feel immediate swelling and know it’s going to be black and blue in just a few hours. No tears, just a lot of rolling around on my back with my hands holding onto my crotch.

I pass an abandoned shop and two dogs come out to greet me. Two big dogs…big hairy, shaggy shepherd type of dogs. They come right up to me, wagging their tails, and sniff all around me. There is no one around. We talk for a little while and I even bend over to pet them. This is the first! Dogs that want to hang out. With both dogs standing in front of me of the tracks, they turn around to look at me as if they are waiting to lead me. The two dogs lead me for a half a kilometer, one stops and the other leads me for another kilometer. He stops and goes to the side and I see that he watches me as I move along on my own.

Coming to a river crossing, that I don’t remember hearing about in my directions, I come to a dead standstill. The road on the other side is nearly non-existent with a steep incline and now questioning the entire route. It’s as if the tracks just stop to the water.

There is a yurt on my side with a woman gathering water from the river. I’m not sure if it’s even a river…but it’s high. I walk with the bike a quarter of a kilometer downstream in hopes to find a crossable area. I’m able to get across with the water skimming along the bottom of my panniers. If it had been much higher it wouldn’t have been possible. Most notable was the speed – nothing in comparison to what I would find in Tajikistan.

After crossing and getting to the other side, I push my bike up the steep bank and find one of the worst conditions of roads I have ever seen. It’s turned into loose gravel and nearly no trace of human travel. For the next 2 hours I have to push my bike up and up and up with more than often the road crumbling off ledges. I slip under the bike at least twice. I continue to take out my map and check because there is a river running to my left, to the North and it doesn’t seem to be following the road according to the map.

I’m really beginning to feel like I’m lost. Really. Honestly. The road continues to get higher, the sky darker, and the road is nearly nothing. I’m tired of slipping in the gravel and if there isn’t gravel the road has deep crevices where it’s beginning to erode and within a few years will be in the river rushing 40 meters below me.

There is the sense of panic beginning to take over me. I only have enough water for the evening and early morning. I pull over…I should just stop. I drop my bike down and look ahead, then behind, and I begin to cry hard with “Where the FUCK AM I?!?!?!?! WHAT THE FUCK AM I GOING TO DO?!?!” After 15 seconds I shake myself and remind myself, “Ellen, you are wasting valuable water, there is nothing you can do right now…get a grip, quit wasting water and energy…eat, go to bed, figure it out tomorrow.” This would be the first, and last time, I would weep for fear of being lost. Even when I was traversing through Tibet without a real map, I never had this feeling. There is something about mountains that freak me out a bit more than open plains and plateaus. Also, there is something very different between Tibetans and Kazakhs.

I would make camp here, as the photo is looking back from where I came from. The pasta I would make would end up being too salty and most of it chucked because of being inedible. Definitely one of the worst meals I have prepared myself during tour. Debating on drinking my water supply, I took most of it down except for a small liter. Hopefully, I would find something tomorrow and if not, I guess I could go back to the river crossing and collect more water.

Today was one hell of a day, a whole mixed bag of emotions. Welcome to the first day of 33, Moseman.

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.

06 Jun 2013

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Uncategorized With 3 Comments Permalink

Survived Another

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On June 6, 2013 With 3 Comments

Some people really enjoyed the birthday chronology photos on Facebook so I thought I’d share them here.

Birthday #30 (Gramma’s backyard)

Birthday #31 (Inner Mongolia with a toll gate operator I had met the day earlier)

Birthday #32 (On the roads in Yunnan)

Birthday #33 (On the Assey Plateau – damn amazing!!!)

Birthday #34 (Back at Gramma’s with my Momma)

What did I get for my birthday? Well a little cash to help afford this baby…
She’s a bit sick…haven’t really gotten to ride.

But the view looks a whole lot different down there…first oil change…for both of us.

She will be my sanity this summer, as I’m sticking around to teach some photography courses and hear if I’ve been accepted to a very prestigious photography workshop.

01 Jun 2013

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Tajikistan, video With 5 Comments Permalink

Tajikistan

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On June 1, 2013 With 5 Comments

July-August 2012