cycle touring

03 Aug 2014
Sticky Post By Posted in China, Featured Blog Posts, Inner Ramblings, Landscape Photography, Tibet With 1 Comment Permalink

Mercy

Sticky Post By On August 3, 2014 With 1 Comment

Hours spent sitting along the banks of Namucuo, the highest alpine lake on Earth, watching the current bring the most crystal clear water to my feet. Complete silence except for a single heartbeat, the pulsing of my own blood, and the water gently rolling and crashing to accompany the beat of my own rhythm. No one around for as far as eyes could see, small schools of fish coming to the surface, massive black ravens along the bank tending to themselves, and thousands of insects silently skimming across the lake. The waters and skies merging into one along the horizon, unable to differentiate between earth and the heavens. We are one and at the mercy of it all.

Lake Namu in Tibet Autonomous Region and photographed by Eleanor Moseman.

Lake Namu in Tibet Autonomous Region

05 Mar 2014
Sticky Post By Posted in Brooks Saddle, Publication With 2 Comments Permalink

The Brooks Bugle 2014

Sticky Post By On March 5, 2014 With 2 Comments

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

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

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

The Brooks England Blog » The Brooks Bugle

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

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

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

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

tumblr_n1vbcdlWfQ1r42zmvo1_1280

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

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

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

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Text from The Brooks Bugle:

 

A horizon of 360 degrees, the most vivid and rich blue skies you only dream of and at times standing on my tippy toes thinking I might actually be able to pluck a cloud from the heavens. Days would pass with seeing exactly 2 buses and if I were  lucky a few lorries and a half a dozen motorbikes pimped out with neon colors and a speaker loaded on the back pumping American hip hop. Washboard roads and sometimes jeep tracks that cut through the plateau in the general direction I think I want to traverse. Locals have lined stones along the edge of the roads in hopes to prevent the tourism industry loaded into Land Rovers from ruining this desolate, dry, arid, and vacant space.
My feet sore from walking, inspecting the soles being worn down in the heels and at times catching my feet dragging. The sun is boiling my skin and I have every millimeter covered except my face and the two top knuckles of my fingers. If I get out of the sun I freeze.
I have no detailed maps, just some crap tourist map of China, as I never had intent of crossing into the Tibetan Autonomous Region. My riding partner of six weeks, that I had randomly met in Litang, and I had a very heated, abrupt, and emotional break up in a the middle of a yak field days after crossing over. Along with the absence of maps there was also no fuel for my alcohol stove as we had come to rely on his gas burner. I would NEVER find myself to not be self sufficient again.
Every night in my camp, marking the weeks since I had a shower, I would examine my feet noticing they are turning more and more blueish. My fingernails are pulling away from the bed, my ears are constantly ringing along with the constant “thud” of my heartbeat felt within my ear canal and all over my head. Lying down in my tent with the inability to sleep, hungry, I wonder if this is what it feels to be buried alive. At times I genuinely feel like I am going insane and even avoid nomads because I do not want to alert them of the mad woman on a bicycle.
This was the time of my life. These weeks and the months leading up to it would mark a major transformation of who I was and who I am today. Realizing how damn insignificant I am in this world, as Eleanor, as a human, and how we all are at the complete mercy of nature. There is no fresh water on the plateau, hail storms can give you a twenty minute warning and beat the hell out of you. Snapping tent poles because of the cold wind blasting at you and there is no wind shield at 5400 meters. Pouring cold water into your instant noodles while you set up your bed for the night hoping they will be soft for consumption in a few minutes. I had to eat as my 6′ frame was already down to 53 kgs a few weeks before and I know it was probably much lower at this point. Looking at my hands I could see the veins, tendons, and bones protruding more than ever before. Catching a glimpse of my hip bones in the tent at night, sometimes I wondered how I even had any strength to carry on during the days. There was NO option.
I have never felt so free in my entire life. People ask if I was lonely these days and I honestly can say the fullness I carried in my heart kept me company every second. If I looked hard enough along the horizon I could spot a nomad and a young child…or a shepherd woman perched on a cliff watching over her flock of sheep. Finding a nomad gypsy camp and witnessing an outrageous Shaman ritual or spending the morning helping a family of 10 children prepare for a journey to a local market. Life is full of richness and fleeting moments of pure bliss, but you have to keep moving forward, keep taking risks, keep placing yourself out of your comfort zone to encounter these seconds that make up an entire journey…of life.
With no maps, fear of water supply, I must trust myself because I have no one to help me through this. When you stand on a slight rolling hill on the plateau and you can see hundreds of kilometers ahead with no site of human life, you have to convince yourself there is no other option but to go forward. I’m not going to lie. It was tough. It was one of the most emotionally demanding experiences of my life but I managed to enjoy every second of it too.
This part of my tour of 26,000 kilometers is one of a few where it was more than just cycling. It was about self discovery, learning lessons of life, and becoming an emotionally and mentally stronger person. Moments that are brought to mind to get me through the days, where I find myself back in society a little over a year after pausing my tour. I say “pause” because I will never feel that it has concluded.
I watch our society want, and at times, expect immediate gratification and results. Summiting passes sometimes takes days and a whole lot of patience. One reason I cycle alone is because I really enjoy the ride up. I probably take a lot more breaks on the roadside than most and where I can stare out into the beauty of the world and time seems to lose all meaning. There is nowhere to be, no one to meet, no agenda. I’ll get to the top when I’m ready…there is no rush for me and the hours spent on the side of the road thinking and having revelations about life that I will not remember to the next day is what a lot of my tour was about.
Now it’s very evident this is also how I approach life. At 34 my photography career is just beginning to be something I can call a profession and rely on it completely for income. I received my first camera at 14 and was accepted into a program at 19. As you can see, I’m not a kind of person that gives up and I remind myself it’s about developing a stable and reliable grounding. What person can summit a 5040meter pass without weeks of training leading up to it?
There are too often times we can’t foresee or predict the outcome from our actions. We must have faith that something ahead will peak out and our hopes and dreams will be exceeded. Holding a steady pace and carrying on while remaining to have hope will take us far. Expectations? I carry none. Adding that to a load varying between 60-80kgs at time could be very very hefty. I’d prefer to be surprised when I summit that mountain that lies distant within  my site.
When I feel like life is just spiraling out of hand and the switchbacks never seem to cease I put myself back on the saddle and return to the mindset that got me through those years navigating around Asia. I continue to take risks, while trusting myself and knowing there are also millions of people in this world that would be more than happy to help you if they can. Reminding myself I am at the mercy of nature but it will be left up to my own strength and will power to survive, or rather, excel.
Life sure is like a very very long bicycle ride. I have no idea what the destination is but I sure am enjoying the journey…wherever it leads.
20 Dec 2012
Sticky Post By Posted in cambodia, motobike With 2 Comments Permalink

5 Lessons

Sticky Post By On December 20, 2012 With 2 Comments

I’ve just finished an impromptu 2 week tour around Cambodia by scooter. Yes, I kicked it up a notch, to 70km/h to be exact. This was a vacation so not a lot of photos…just riding and thinking. Which leads me to my 5 Lessons.

Lesson 1,: Physical pain and harm heals much faster than the heart and mind. I am nearly ready to remove the bandages.

Lesson 2: If life is more pleasure than pain…you aren’t challenging yourself to be a better person than you were yesterday.

Lesson 3: Self deprecation only hampers progress…lie through that blood, sweat, and tears during your private pep talks. “Moseman, get your fucking shit together! You (insert posi comment here)!” It has recently come to my attention that some people “judge” me by the language I use. I am letting you know what goes on in my head. Please excuse me for sharing my inner thoughts and feelings. Thanks for “judging” me too…but I really don’t have time for you pointing at me from your throne.

Lesson 4: Multiple personalities/identities has finally paid off. Knowing when, why, and where to flip the switch is key. Only let a few know “you” and be very picky in selecting these cherished companions in life.

Lesson 5: Feeling is living. I was once told, “you are too much heart and not enough brain”. Don’t let people dismiss your thoughts and feelings…they are genuine. We all have different capacities for feeling, dealing, and healing…respect.
Tired of people giving me “tough love”…I do that enough. Only I can save me from myself…you should give up.

Photo Career realization: “Freedom Fighter”, to give the censored, abused, forgotten, unknown a voice and to portray their story with compassion and unbiased images. Even if it means burning through every RMB/Dollar of my savings.

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

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

Sticky Post By On August 20, 2012 With 22 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Onto Dushanbe. What?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the hell happened on the border of China?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, I’m difficult.

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

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

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

He gets the nickname Doofus from me this night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Great intro, eh?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

EXCUSE ME…EXCUSE ME…EXCUSE ME…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

02 Aug 2012
Sticky Post By Posted in Scary Moments, Summer 2012, Tajikistan, video With 14 Comments Permalink

Pamirs v2.0 – and a little about my bonehead move.

Sticky Post By On August 2, 2012 With 14 Comments

After my first attempt into the Pamirs, and a return to Dushanbe during the fighting…I will be going back out in 1 day…hopefully.

In the meantime, here is a little bit of what I’ve already gone through:

The 22nd, the day the KGB boss was killed and started the fighting…I pulled a bonehead move.

I came to a river. I knew Chris (a guy I had ridden with for 3 days) had crossed it so I figured I could too.

The second push in the brown muddy water, waves went over my front panniers and the tire wasn’t touching the bottom. I’m not sure how long this went on but the water was over my waist as I’m screaming trying to push the bike back up on the bank.

I was desperately trying to keep the bar bag above water – camera. There was a helicopter over me (because of the murder) and I’m hoping some of the miners will come to my rescue. There are a few men watching from the hill as I scream at the top of my lungs for help.

I think…I’m not really sure what happened or I tried to do, but I tried to take the bar bag off to throw on the bank but instead the bike is whipped and pushed on top of me and I’m taken down with water under my armpits, water rushing over my entire bike, and I’m carried nearly 2 meters before crashing against the stones. My bike is on top of me, I’m almost completely submerged. I think my adrenaline gave me a moment of superhuman strength…as my bike is pushed across my body, the current taking it further, I crawl out and pull my bike out too.

It’s a grey fog, I’m not sure how I got out, what actually happened…but I’m alive and the only thing I lost was the tupperware container full of food and my book. I remember seeing the bin go down the river followed by a book…as I was pulling the bike out. There were some pressed wildflowers from Kyrgyzstan I had planned on giving to my gramma.

Earlier that day, a boy had been launching rocks off the ledge at me as I tried to repair the snapped bolt on my racks. I had washed my hair, and my clothes…and now…I was soaking wet from muddy waters.

(The day before, at a homestay, an older Tajik woman had insisted I take a bath. I was naked in her tub, while she poured warm water over my body…she helping wash my back. Yeah…only this gal would have stories of spongebaths from new Tajik lady friends!)

A mining truck came down to take me across the flooded river. We loaded the wet gear into the truck and we crossed. The water going over the massive wheels. I’m holding on in the truck, thinking it’s about to tip over in certain areas.

At the top, I unload my bags to dry and let it all out…

Then a jeep of Russian mechanics drove me up a pass of massive rocks…Chris had to push his bike for 3 hours…the path was unrideable.

That evening, arriving at the following city, it was raining and too dark to continue on. I slept in an old outdoor bazaar, on top of the stall tables where the produce is usually sold. Up to this point, I had at least one pass a day, sometimes 2…and tomorrow I would be tackling a big boy…

I had to push my bike for 2 days up the pass from hell towards Kala-i Kumb…body bruised, cut, banged. Ego damaged…breaking into tears every now and again. It rained so the first day was pushing through a few cm’s of mud. Also, the screw on my seat tube was stripped so my saddle would slowly drop in.

At the end of the second day, some backpackers I had met in Samarkand stopped on the road to see if I was okay. As soon as Maria asked me, “Are you okay?”…tears started flowing. It had been the first person to express what had happened to me. Maria and Max tried to get me in their jeep and the next one to come along…but no room. I thanked them anyhow and they donated a bag of snacks and bread.

That evening I would stay with a family up the pass that owned a cafe. A French mountaineer would alert me of the current situation with the fighting and the rebels.

Chilling with Grandpa! He is wearing a traditional hat that the Uzbek minorities wear. There are a lot of Uzbeks, and Kyrgzy, that reside in Tajikistan.

Riding down the pass…a group of boys launched apple cores and rocks at me. 20 meters later a group of boys come up to me in the road trying to talk and then start throwing sticks and rocks at me….I go absolute ape shit. I leave my bike in the middle of the road, pick up the biggest rock I can and start screaming, “I’m going to bash you fucking skulls in you fucking mother fuckers!” and chase them down the street and begin down the steps through homes. EVERYONE comes out to the street and I’m explaining to the men what they had done. I climb onto my bike, tears streaming down my face to find myself in Kala-i Kumb.

I stayed there, along with 9 other cyclists…where 8 of us took cars back to the capital after 3 days of waiting out the fighting in the Pamirs.

Of course, a bike in a car always gets damaged. For the past few days I’ve been trying to repair a snapped plunger on my stove and my Brooks saddle looks like a dog chewed on it. All from a 10 hour car ride back to the capital, Dushanbe.

I’ve been able to find a replacement pump for the stove, a replacement screw for my seat tube, and my body is nearly healed. Let’s try this again!!!

There are rumors of what is going on. Some say borders are closed, cities are shut down, fighting continues. No one can get the story straight, or accurate.

I promise to come back to the beginning of this story…of the Pamirs…after the Pamirs….

See you on the other side!

I would love to hear from you!

Studio Address: Front Street Artist Studios

 

 

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