Central Asia

16 Dec 2022
Sticky Post By Posted in Brooks Saddle, Kyrgyzstan, Silk Road Mountain Race With No Comments Permalink

Silk Road Mountain Race 2022: The Preparation

Sticky Post By On December 16, 2022 With No Comments

THE WHY

From 2010 to 2012, I rode my bike around China and Central Asia as a solo cyclist. I had ridden on a Brooks saddle, and since that initial adventure, Brooks England has reached out to me regarding writing for their publications and audience. These writings were about bike riding, fear, or empowerment as a woman. It’s challenging to find a single label for how I travel or what I do, as my endeavors involve adventure, human rights, women’s issues, and photography. I like to consider myself just a very curious troublemaker. The good kind, of course.

Self-portrait on the southern shores of Namucuo, the second-highest lake in the world. September 1, 2011 Tibetan Autonomous Region

Brooks England asked me to be the photographer for the inaugural Silk Road Mountain Race in Kyrgyzstan. As Bikepacking.com stated: “The Silk Road Mountain Race is a fixed route, unsupported, single-stage cycling race through the Tian Shan mountains of Kyrgyzstan. It will follow gravel, single and double track, and old soviet roads that have long been forgotten and fallen into disrepair.” It would be a 1000-mile race with 85,000 feet of climbing.

Irkeshtam Pass Kyrgyzstan April 1, 2012. A horrible blizzard would sweep through in just a few hours after this photo.

I toured through Central Asia in 2012, as I was ending that two-year-long bicycle tour. Kyrgyzstan, I knew NOTHING about bike races let alone ultra-endurance races. Besides needing my photography skills, I had a lot of experience with the people, culture, and lands of Central Asia. Therefore, I was given the task of dealing with logistics and supporting our expedition team which would consist of three other people.

Tajikistan 2012
Tajikistan 2012

When arriving at Shanghai Pudong airport to make the flight to Bishkek via Urumqi, I saw a couple of guys with bike bags. What are the chances that these guys are going to the race, I made an awkward introduction. One of the guys would end up being Jeff Liu of Factory Five and assisted in the route and race creation that year. Jeff would end up designing my titanium frame which would be a three-year-long build until I raced it last summer in Kyrgyzstan.

It had been six years since my last visit to Kyrgyzstan and felt like it had remained in a time capsule, especially compared to the rapid pace of life in China. It felt great to be back in Central Asia and in the cycling world. There was a part of me that felt like I was missing something, and that was my bike. But I had my crew. Cyril Chermin, Jay, and Nurjamal as our translator and fixer.

The four of us were given a Russian buhanka (van) to document the race while also serving as a support vehicle. “What happens stays in the van”. I could write up this story for pages but I’m here to tell you about my race experience last year. There were a few moments in 2018 that did motivate me to race one day.

There was the initial interview with Jay Petervary. I heard a hum and excitement about “JP”. I feigned that I knew, but really had no idea of the legend. As I was interviewing him, with off-the-cuff questions, I felt my mood mirror his and couldn’t quit matching his smile and enthusiasm. I understood his passion, drive, and wanderlust. “Wait, I’m kind of like this guy too. The good kind of “crazy”. You can see that film and interview here!

During the entire race, the Brooks England crew pondered over who would race in the future. From the start line, I saw that I belonged out there. As a long-distance touring cyclist, my brain is wired to find a pace and hold it. Also, my outdoor skills and years of adventuring around China as a solo woman had prepared me for nearly anything. I knew how to take care of myself in the most remote areas, acclimate to extreme temperatures and weather, and protect myself from the most unpredictable animal out there. The human.

Maybe it was because it was the first Silk Road Mountain Race, but I witnessed a lot of mistakes that could have been prevented by experience or just understanding the region. I’m not fast or strong, but my skills in remote regions and my ability to remain calm is my strong suit. Determined, resilient, tenacious, and highly competitive with myself.

Photograph: Cyril Chermin 2018

At one of the checkpoints along the shores of Issy-Kul, Jeff Liu let me ride his bike around and holy shit, that was it. That was the moment I knew that one day I was going to race. The cold against my face, the heartbeat rising to deal with the altitude and freedom. The intense feeling of freedom.

Photograph: Jennifer Doohan

The community was also a reason I wanted to race. I witnessed racers creating lifelong friendships with comradery and understanding that’s hard to find. Having lived in China, up to that point, for 10 years and all my solo travels, I longed for that. I wanted community. I wanted friends that “get it”. It seemed this exposure to ultra-racing would change my life like it has so many others. Even though I didn’t race, I still made friendships during that adventure I still have today.

Photo: Cyril Chermin
Photo: Cyril Chermin

I would take the titanium frame home from Shanghai just a few months before Covid changed all of our lives and trajectory. During January and February of 2020, I was in east Tibet working on a long-term photography project and would have to leave because the country was being shut down and I was getting stuck.

At a loss, again. I felt lost, again. A similar feeling to what instigated that two-year-long bicycle tour. I had lost my reasons, or at least I couldn’t return to the regions where they were. Everything I had worked towards and planned on was taken away while the entire trajectory of my life changed. I had planned to spend my future in Tibet.

Bike rides can fix that!

Because of delivering photographs, I had “met” a lot of racers from the first Silk Road. One amazing human was Jesse Blough. After communicating via Instagram about bike stuff, I would arrive in October of 2021 to participate in my first ultra, the Big Lonely. The race took place from Bend, Oregon, and would total around 300 miles.

Photo: Erich Weidenkeller
Photo: Erich Weidenkeller

I survived and finished. Including riding and hiking through the snow over the last mountain pass to pull up on the position. The woman I had passed during the night was Alissa. We spent some time riding together and got to chatting. We had a lot in common and it was super cool to meet someone from a similar background of riding, and age.

Of the 38 riders, 12 finished and 8 were women. An astonishing statistic along with 90% of the women that started, would finish.

That was another step to seeing if I wanted to pursue SRMR (Silk Road Mountain Race). The community is stellar and remains in contact with Jesse, fellow racers, and even Erich the event photographer. That race in Bend opened up more connections in the area, and when I struggled with my brakes a few days before SRMR 2022, Julia with Chariot Bike Shop in Bend and Erich sent a video helping me swap out my brake pads. I mean, seriously?! Bikes bring amazing people into my life.

The Big Lonely race 2021 Photo: Erich Weidenkeller

THE HOW

Training started in November before the application even went live for SRMR 2022. I trained until June when I would have to pack up the bike and make the final decision on gear. Training included A LOT of weightlifting and strengthening. I have a long list of injuries and for the first time, my back pain ceased. That one was picked up when trying to cross a river with my bike in Tajikistan. A daily reminder not to be stupid and be careful of water crossings.

There were also two weeks in Seattle during the middle of the winter where I was getting my NOLS Wilderness First Responder. I was determined not to be a liability while also being able to help others should they need it.

In January, I took a short bike trip out to Arizona with my partner, Nick. I tackled the Hangover bike trail in Sedona for the second time and left my ego at the top. Those Arizona double black diamonds will surely knock someone’s confidence off a ledge. That trip ended with me crying and swearing I was giving up bicycles forever.

The Hangover

During June I would spend a few weeks in Utah and Colorado riding singletrack on my full-suspension mountain bike with my brother.

Mt. Elbert

“Lord of the Rings Shit”- Christopher Moseman

Chris and I tried to summit Mt. Elbert, a 14’er in Leadville Colorado but we hit snow so close to the top. It would have been both of the first 14’ers with a bike. I really wanted that first to be shared with him. We went to Camp Hale, where the Tibetans were trained in the early 1950s to fight against the People’s Liberation Army. Again, more snow but it was so special to be there and go up to the Kokomo Pass.

Kokomo Pass and praying for Tibetans all over the world.

Kokomo Pass

Later I would venture down to southern Utah alone, climb and descend the Spinal Tap trail, and felt like my bike handling skills, and speed had drastically improved. Just a few months before I was going to sell all my bikes and just turn away. But mountain biking becomes more fun the more you shred and less hammer.

Spinal Tap

While out west, I was able to summit my first North American 14’er with my bike and plenty of pushing my bike through snow and up rocks. I also got to finally meet Lauren Brownlee for dinner. Although we both raced in the Big Lonely, we didn’t get to meet in person until last summer.

Mt. Sherman
Mt. Sherman
Mt. Sherman

Leading up to then, I had done some shorter gravel rides, including a few days on the Rock Star gravel route in Virginia and sections of Sheltowee single-track trails with my partner. The Sheltowee is one of the gorgeous areas in the region, but the trails don’t see a lot of traffic. So, there were plenty of moments of hike a bike or wanting to sit down and sob out of frustration.

Sheltowee Trace

Cranberry area of West Virginia
Sheltowee area

Brooks England had contacted me regarding gear sponsorship and as their SRMR ambassador. They had enjoyed my endeavors over the last decade and how I pursued a fulfilling life of adventure as a solo woman in Asia while balancing life and the mission of helping. They hadn’t had a female ambassador during one of their races and this would be the year. Because this would be my third time in the country, most people figured I would at least finish.

Rockstar Gravel Route

It felt like it was an excellent opportunity to give a different “voice” to the world of cycling and said, “yes”. For someone who has a career and mission not connected to bikes while being transparent with struggles that many of us can relate to, it felt like a good opportunity. “Bicycles saved my life” but also was the tool for me to find a more meaningful life with immense purpose. To find a route of servitude to others.

I’ve been around long enough to know that sponsorship will not make me rich and famous. I saw it as a potential platform to talk about important things to me and should be to any traveler. Especially those traveling slowly across foreign borders and living within different cultures and religions.

There had been plans to get out to Kyrgyzstan at least a month before the race, with the hope of finally riding the Pamir Highway in Tajikistan. In 2012, during my two yearlong tour, I arrived in the capital of Dushanbe with hopes of returning to China by the Pamir Highway. A few days into my route, and while I was close to dying in a river crossing, a civil war had broken out in the eastern regions, and the country closed its borders and the roads that would get me close to the China border.

Headed for the Pamirs. Tajikistan 2012 Photo: Chris-Alexandre

Yet again, the borders were closed because of unrest. Nothing new or surprising, and I would make do with routes through Kyrgyzstan.

After fine-tuning my “Baby Yak” for months with Jubal in Chillicothe, I arrived in Bishkek with my bike around 4 am on July 11th. I returned to the Sakura Guesthouse, where I had stayed in 2012. I sat outside and waited about 2 hours for sunrise not to disrupt the hosts. 

Jubal and Baby Yak
Arrival to Sakura

THE ARRIVAL

Once in the guesthouse jet lagged, I began tearing apart my luggage and putting my bike together. The excitement was real, and I couldn’t wait to ride my bike in Kyrgyzstan again after ten years!

It was also planned to meet with Nurjamal and her production team to do some videos for Brooks England. We were to start at 4:30 am the following day. We had stayed in touch since working together on the Brooks Media team in 2018 and when they requested some video footage, I couldn’t think of a better place and crew.

Back in Kyrgyzstan

Introducing Baby Yak

My bike is called “Baby Yak” or pronounced “Yak chook” in Tibetan because it was initially built and developed for this SRMR and to ride around eastern Tibet, where I had traversed for the last decade. Both Tibetan and Central Asian, as well as Native American shamanistic beliefs, are strong on animal symbols that are referred to as totem animals or “power animals.”  In Tibetan legend, wild yak is said to be “stars” living in heaven, and the yak is always imagined to be a safeguarding god.

If you enjoyed this, please consider buying me a moment to create.

19 Sep 2022
Sticky Post By Posted in 2022, Kyrgyzstan, Silk Road Mountain Race, Ultra Endurance Racing Permalink

4 Year Dream: A Return to Kyrgyzstan and The Silk Road Mountain Race

Sticky Post By On September 19, 2022

Ever since photographing the inaugural Silk Road Mountain Race in 2018, I had dreamed of one day returning to Kyrgyzstan with my bike to ride in the “world’s most difficult bicycle race”. Four years later, that dream became a reality and a life-changing event. Thank you Brooks England for asking me to be your gear-sponsored rider and giving me a platform to share my story.

03 Feb 2015
Sticky Post By Posted in Summer 2012, Tajikistan With 2 Comments Permalink

Tajikistan, Part 3 (July 23, 2012)

Sticky Post By 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.

wandercyclist_8910

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.

wandercyclist_8973

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.

wandercyclist_8975

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.

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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.

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22 Jan 2015
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Tajikistan, Part 2 (July 22, 2012)

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tajikistan eleanor moseman
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.

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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”…

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

22 Jul 2014
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Uzbekistan, Part 5: Samarkand to Dushanbe, Tajikistan (July 4 – July 9 2012)

Sticky Post By 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
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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.

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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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:
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View from the road.

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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:

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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!

04 Jan 2014
Sticky Post By 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 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.

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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.

 

 

23 Dec 2013
Sticky Post By Posted in Central Asia, Photography, Photos, Photos of Bike, Photos of Eleanor, Uzbekistan With 8 Comments Permalink

Uzbekistan, Part 2: Tashkent to Nurata (June 13th-June 18th 2012)

Sticky Post By On December 23, 2013 With 8 Comments

I could of bee lined straight to Samarkand but I decided to head to Bukhara via the Nurata mountains. After researching online, it seemed there were some guesthouses along the small road to the south of the lake that were noted on a tourist site.

Uzbekistan is getting HOT and this is the time I notice I have difficulties photographing in this intense lighting. It hasn’t been like this since Tibet, yet I’m always feeling like I’m melting. After looking through these photos a near year and half later, my face looks like a lobster. Even with sunscreen and a hat there was no way to avoid it.

On June 13th I would leave Tashkent. (I’m going to zip through a lot of this as my memories are fading fast and I don’t believe I was journaling much more these days).

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There was nothing exceptional the first day except getting out of the city and traffic. Uzbekistan is full of police checkpoints, I believe more so than Kyrgyzstan. The day begins to end and I’ve found myself on a somewhat quiet and easy road. I spot a cafe behind some trees and it looks fairly empty. It’s a little early for dinner but I just figure I’ll eat and then head on to find a place to camp for the evening. Although I’m still on the outskirts of the city, I’m a little worried about finding a good spot.

I roll into the cafe and there is an older man and woman, that my assumption is they are the owners. I’m correct and they wave me over to sit anywhere I’d like sit. I take a seat at a table and I’m served naan, tea, and I don’t remember what my meal was. Eating slowly, I notice there a few other young women working there that take some curiosity of me and the men ignore me or leave me be. It feels comfortable and safe.

When I pay the check they ask me where I will be sleeping. Of course I tell them I don’t know and I have a tent. They tell me no, and that I will be sleeping inside the cafe tonight. I leave my bike outside, take my expensive items inside and sit at the kitchen table with 3 women. We try to make small talk as they prepare food for the guests. The cafe becomes fairly busy and as the sun sets I’m shown to my own room where I’ll be sleeping. As I make myself comfortable, after bringing my bike inside, I’m served a bowl of plov, naan, and water. It’s a bit of a noisy evening as I can hear chatter outside into the early morning but it’s still a  comfortable sleep. Because my bike is not in my room, there is always a bit of paranoia looming over me because it’s not in my site. I just go with it…

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I would head out right after sunrise and I waved goodbye to a woman doing the early morning sweeping. It’s already getting warm and I can remember almost exactly how that rising sunshine felt on me that morning.

Continuing on I would get slightly lost on the 14th. I had entered a city and trying to follow the map to skim along the Kazakhstan border and get closer to the Nurata mountains.

At noon I remember getting so hot and pulling over for a cold liter of Coca Cola. I believe I visited nearly 2 shops before finding one that was ice cold. Pulling over to the side of the road in the shade I would drink it down while applying sunscreen and eating some peanut butter on naan. After about an hour of putzing around I tried to find this small road. It turned into a single lane and all of a sudden it felt like I was pedaling over sand. Is my tire flat?…

I’m under the blazing sun, no clouds in sight, and there are grain and cotton fields stretching kilometers in all directions. There are some homes but everyone has taken cover out the sun. To check my tires I set my foot down and I feel it sink into the tarmac…you have got to be kidding me!? I’m riding on melting roads.

After making a half a dozen attempts to find this small road to the mountains, I turn around losing 30 kms and a lot of energy. It could just be looping and I’m not sure where this is going so I head back and just stay on a main route.

Exiting the city I pass by some vacant buildings and a bazaar.

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I am on a pretty secluded road at this point and a little concerned where I actually am. Maybe my map reading skills aren’t that exceptional…although I do pretty well in China. Maybe it’s not so much as “wander cyclist” as it is some other form. Honestly, I just kind of go in the general direction I’m supposed to be going and I’ll figure out on the way. Perhaps it’s mostly because I hate planning, it’s the most boring part I think. I don’t like reading websites, tourist books, any of that. I just have a general goal and I enjoy figuring it out in the moment. Ooops, have I let a secret out?

It seems Uzbekistan is going to be the country where I try to find shade constantly. Whenever I see an opportunity after cycling for an hour. I take it. I lied down in this grass for nearly 3 hours with maybe a half dozen cars passing me. I’m  not sure what I contemplated, speculated, or dreamed about…but I’m pretty sure it was good. I still clearly remember that spot and the sound the water made in the canal.

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After that refreshing lounge I stop to get some biscuits and some water. Sitting in a bus stop next to a police checkpoint, I have some visitors. A friendly bunch, seemingly innocent enough. The little English they can speak, and the little Russian I can…we have a good time.

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At sunset I would roll into a cafe, more like a truck stop, and hang out with these amazing people. I was also given a place to sleep.

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Now it’s the morning of June 15th. Just after a few hours of riding on a barely two lane country road it’s break time. This sun and heat is killing me or it’s because of all the time off I had in Kazakhstan…or maybe…I’m close to hitting the end of my tour. I think a lot are playing a part here. I’m not really sure what was going through my head around these days but I’m pretty sure it all stemmed from ending my wedding engagement that previous January and finalizing the break up between he and I in April after the Kyrgyzstan blizzard. There were times I would have tears rolling down my face while riding…hell, 2 years later I still had to hold back a few tears walking the streets here in Shanghai. When I tell people I burned my life to the ground and I’m currently rebuilding, I really mean it. There are no regrets, but…well, on with the story.

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And then I stop for some naan…of course…my tour was all about photography, sitting on the side of the road thinking about life, and eating.

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I load up on supplies in this town as I’m almost on the small road that skirts along the northern edge of the Nurata mountains.

I’m drinking more water than I can carry. I can’t keep up. Through these villages I see everyone carrying either empty buckets or buckets of water. Is it so hot that everyone walks around with a bucket of water to carry? Am I absolutely insane for being out here right now. I’m getting concerned about water so I pull into a village and look for water. Someone points me down a village road and I come home to a well, without a cover.

Peering down, it’s about a meter drop in and I’m trying to figure out how to do this. An older woman approaches me and I ask her how to get the water. She gives me a slight smile and moves along and jumps right in the hole. Asks for my water bottles and fills them up. She smiles as she hands me each bottle. Wow…did I really just witness this woman half my height and twice my age just pull a total Teenage Mutant Ninja move…I was humored for the remainder of the day with that site.

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Stopping for ice cream a couple hours later I meet this fella that can speak some English. We sit on the stoop and I buy another ice cream and talk with him for about an hour. He says he’s never seen any other foreigners along this road and it’s summer vacation for him right now. I believe the store keeper was his uncle and his family urged him out of the house to practice his English. In retrospect, he reminds me of my dear Uyghur “brother” Akbar in Korla.

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As I finally see the edge of the Nurata mountains I see a watering station where a few trucks are pulling over to. A driver turns the water on in this massive concrete structure and there are 2 faucets on both sides. The men are drinking the water…so I fill up one bottle with the water to use to cook. I also use this opportunity to wash my face, hands, and feet. The salt is caking my shirt stiff.

Heading west, the sun is beginning to set and there is no one or anything in site. I eventually see these lines of trees heading off the road and into the mountains. I imagine there must be some sort of irrigation for these trees to be in the middle of the desert. As I get closer I see homes.

I eventually reach where a few dirt tracks are heading south into the mountains and the lake is to the north. There is a woman holding a baby on the left side of the road speaking to a man on the right side. There are some children around her and I see about a dozen women along a small pond doing laundry, chatting, and drinking a white liquid out of bowls.

Slowing down to see what the opportunities are here but also playing it cool, I stop to take off my sunglasses and put on my eyeglasses. The woman approaches me urgently with a smile and hands me a bowl of the white stuff. It’s cool, it tastes like milk but with maybe some sort of herbs I can’t differentiate from. I’m not a culinary expert but it’s some sort of chilled dairy drink that’s absolutely delicious. She gives me another with a smile. The women are all laughing and talking louder and hooting at us.

They ask me the basic questions and within a few minutes I’m walking along a broken gravel path to her home to stay the night.

We eat, we talk, we watch a little television in the main room. There is about a dozen of us and one younger man brings back a bag of ice cream for all of us. The food was delicious and after every meal like this all I can do is try to prevent myself from passing out. I answer their questions the best to my ability and I’m in awe of the family unit. The main woman explains to me who everyone is and how they are related. I believe her husband is a professor in Tashkent. Her small child is ill, it seems to running a fever. There were a few moments when all the eyes were on me because the infant really to a liking to me. All smiles and she even held my hand at one point.

Yes, it melted my heart a little. Going months, years, without intimate moments it’s these fleeting seconds that remind me of who I really am. At 34 I’m not really sold on the idea of motherhood for myself, but I remember Uzbekistan had a very lasting impression on me. All the women and children; it was there I realized that if I were to have children, it was going to be like these women out here. Their children never lead their sides and they all take care of each others offspring when in need. Of course all mothers love their children…but there was something different in Uzbekistan. Perhaps it’s the difficult environment, many fathers are absent because of work, and the fact these women are working throughout the day taking care of the home…and at least a couple of children.

I can’t remember her name exactly but it was something like Magdelene, but it is written in a notebook at home in the States. She lived in this large home with her father, her brother and his wife, and the children. Her mother had died a few years before as she showed me her portrait hanging in one of the rooms.

She signaled to me it was time for bed and we exited the home. The two children and she began to prepare the bed outside. Oh my goodness…you can’t believe my excitement of sleeping on this platform bed in a warm Uzbekistan desert night and staring straight up into the heavens. If you’ve ever been in the desert, or out of a city at night, you have a 360 degree horizon of star speckled black’ness. It’s one of the things in life I live for.

I sleep on the edge next to my bike, with the mother next to me, her infant and the two children. We are all on the platform together with barely 4 inches between us. This may have been one of the loveliest nights of my entire tour.

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I do not see myself as special, or exceptional, or anything of that sort. My time in Tibet was when I realized how insignificant I am in this entire world and how my life is such a speck on the map. But when a woman shares her bed, with me, and her family…maybe there is something about me that sets me apart from the herds.

We wake up at sunrise with the sun blazing down on us.

Of course I don’t leave until about 11 after hanging out with them. I watch the naan being prepared and cooked. They send me off with 6 naan, water, and apricots. Of all the places I want to return to on my route, is to this woman. She wrote in my journal a note in Uzbek that I had translated later. It basically was wishing me safe travels and that she was happy to meet me and that she hopes I never forget her and the children. I’ve met many many people along the ways but there is about a dozen of older women that my heart yearns to visit again.

Today, a year and a half later after this story has taken place, in the real world I have people talk to me about feeling a connection. But a real “connection” is with someone where it crosses over language. Where you can sit next to a person, and rely on true feelings, emotions, intuitions, and your gut tells you about a person. I think my time in China and on tour has allowed me to “feel” people like I never have before. More than just a judge of character, but really “see” what they are all about within juts a few moments. When you have to move past words and language, and completely trust your instincts.

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Morning of June 16th are the previous photos and head further West. Supposedly there are guest houses along the way and I debate about taking a small road north towards the lake. But after my experience with “lakes” in Kazakhstan, I decide not to because of the heat and lack of drinking water. It’s dry and hot out here.

Around 4pm I find a sign to a guesthouse and take it. It takes some asking people and a grueling 20 minutes pushing my bike up into the mountains. Let me just cut this story straight but it was a horrible rip off. So badly that I made a complaint to the company that advertises. This is the only time I’ve ever did something like this because I was furious. It probably wouldn’t have been such a big deal if the woman’s sun didn’t keep me up at night trying to talk to me and then sleeping on the same platform bed with me, texting into the night, and horrendous dog barking throughout the night. I’m embarrassed to even say how much money they took me for. Enough that would of last me for weeks in China…WEEKS. The complaint also had to do with the fact that even though I’m a western woman, I was insulted that they thought it was appropriate for a young man in his 20’s to sleep so close to me.

Anyways…it was cute place and I enjoyed watching the neighbors get apricots from their trees. One man would climb up and shake the branches while 3-4 women stood underneath catching them into a sheet.

Morning of June 17th. I do everything I can to get shade and enough water. There is only one stop, with one shop, between the guesthouse of the previous night and the next town I will stay at.

blog-25 blog-26 blog-27 blog-28 I hung out in there for a little while. A boy had escorted me out of the previous town with the one shop, on his bike. He was sweet. I told him he should go back because there was nothing out here. Most of the kids I play along with and their racing games. His bike looked like it was about to fall apart so my biggest concern was he going to far and having a problem with the bike.

I come into a town near sunset and on the edge of town is about a dozen men sitting on the east side of a bus station. One gets up and waves me over. I’m greeted with smiles and waves. He buys me a water and ice cream. Then he buys me another ice cream. After 15 minutes of shootin’ the breeze with these hooligans and watching them heckle this local woman driving a motorcycle, that kept stalling out,  I’m walking back to the man man’s house.

This was dinner.

blog-29 After dinner and right before the sky turns black, I snuggle onto my “kurpa” outside the house with the rest of the family. There are a few meters between me and the rest of the family but it was a very easy going and non-obtrusive homestay. It seems that these moments always appear after a horrible situation.

The next morning, June 18th,  I leave after the man escorting me out to the main road. I ride out just as the sun is peeking over the horizon. Around 10 am I pass this dead dinosaur in the road. I’m reminded to never sleep in the desert without a tent. The lizard must of been 3 feet including tail and a good 4 inch girth. I’m also spotting white spiders with a bright orange back.

At 10am I arrive in Nurata and look for a place to buy water. As I’m sitting outside a shop a young girl tells me to come inside, out of the sun. I end up staying the day with the women in the back yard. The two sisters work on embroidery and the mother is making apricot preserves. We all take a nap inside a dark room around 2 to 4 and then carry on with the rest of the day.

I would stay the night with them. The sisters and I would sit outside along the main street watching traffic and passer-bys listening to my iPod. The mother at one point wanted me to stay with her, in the room with her husband. He had come home later in the day and by now he was intoxicated. The mother’s demeanor had changed from the joking jovial woman earlier to something that seemed like fear. There was some sort of exchange with the mother and daughters and the two sisters and their cousin won me for the evening.

The four of us lined up along the platform on the back porch and giggled into the night.

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You know what? If you haven’t caught on…I LOVE being a woman, alone, on a bike. Yes, there are dangers I have to be cautious of. Some have had the audacity to say I’m setting myself up for some of the things that have happened to me. But through these years wandering around Asia have taught me so much what it means to be a woman…not for myself, but experiencing the lives of others. Never have a I wished to be a man…maybe I wouldn’t have had the courage to do what I’ve done.

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03 Dec 2013
Sticky Post By Posted in Central Asia, Kazakhstan, Photos, Uzbekistan With 4 Comments Permalink

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

Sticky Post By On December 3, 2013 With 4 Comments

June 8th 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.

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

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

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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.

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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 Jun13th 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 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 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.
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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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

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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 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 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.
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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.

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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.

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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.

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

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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.

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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.
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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.
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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.
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A look ahead.
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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.
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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.

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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.

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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.
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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.
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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.

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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.

I would love to hear from you!

Studio Address: Front Street Artist Studios

 

 

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