ellen moseman Archives - Wander Cyclist | A Bicycle Adventure in Asia

12 Jan 2023

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in 2022, Central Asia, Kyrgyzstan, Silk Road Mountain Race, The Silk Road With 1 Comment Permalink

The Silk Road Mountain Race 2022: Arrived, Riding, and Winning.

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On January 12, 2023 With 1 Comment

Just 24 hours after landing in Bishkek, Nurjamal and two video and production crew members would pick me and my bike up from the guesthouse. Brooks England hoped to get video footage of me riding my bike for a little promo piece. I had planned to be in Kyrgyzstan a month before the race to acclimate and finish the last of the training, so it seemed that it would also work best for the little film.

We would drive for a couple of hours directly south of Bishkek, headed towards Ala-Archa Nature Park. Unfortunately, arriving at the park gate a little after sunrise, it was closed for the next couple of days, to our disappointment and confusion. Reassessing our options, we drove back towards Bishkek. Stopping around Tash-Dobo, the crew set up their camera so there would be a view of Ala-Archa in the background and the soft morning light.

Although I was jet-lagged and sleep deprived because of the excitement and heat (close to 100F during the day), I was full of energy FINALLY to pedal my bike around the mountains of Kyrgyzstan. It had been over ten years since my initial visit on my old steel touring bike, and now I had Baby Yak, which had been built for the mountains.

After riding back and forth on the pavement, we headed towards the Chunkurchak Valley. Finally, leaving the tarmac and finding gravel.

It’s almost like I lept out of the vehicle with my bike and started to ride up the switchbacks. We were fortunate to catch a shepherd and his horses. I rode up the pass to meet him while our camera guy followed up through the field and two others in the vehicle. It would take a lot to get me off my bike after finally getting here.

I had dreamed of this day for what seemed like forever. I was finally able to return to Central Asia with a bicycle. I was here to race in the Silk Road Mountain Race, something I had wanted to do for four years. Something I had worked very hard for, almost every day, for the last year. There is no way to describe how it felt, how each pedal stroke ignited a spark to grow the flame inside. It didn’t matter what happened from then on out because…

…I won!

All that work had gotten me to exactly where I had dreamt of. Magic exists. And I got to share it with others. Nurjamal and Tilek, our videographer, both took a little spin on Baby Yak. I’m still trying to convince them to race the Silk Road someday.

This was the point where we stopped and turned around. I told the crew I would ride down, and they would film out of the back of the vehicle. It was an excellent little ride to test my bike, and my tool canister flew off from the water, cage on the bottom/underside of the down tube. Twice. That would have been fun if I had found that out during the race, so I would strap down the canister for future riding.

I’m still not sure if I enjoy climbing or descending more. I think each is needed to appreciate the other. These were the first miles in Kyrgyzstan since 2012, and I felt terrific and grateful to be there. An overwhelming joy that perhaps can only be understood by those inflicted with wanderlust, infinite curiosity, and a genuine love of two-wheeled travel. I had been locked out of Asia for two and a half years. I was closer to being “home” than I could have imagined. I felt like who I was before Covid threw me off course. I found a piece of me that roams the mountains, awaiting my return.

The last two and a half years have been challenging for me. When I opened up to some people, they shamed me for my feelings because some people had died because of Covid. As if I had no right to feel so sad and confused about my loss and confusion. For years, I was waiting for the dream to end. I would wake up from a nap on the plateau, surrounded by my Tibetan friends and family. They would laugh at my little snooze, and we would resume with laughter, tea, and tsampa. We would dance. We would walk through the mountains. Sit around the hearth of the home and braid our hair. I would be walking towards the sunset of the infinite plateau horizon. It was all a dream.

I don’t expect others to understand my feelings, but I am thankful for those that can commiserate. Many of my fellow ex-pats had left China around the same time or were still enduring the insanity. Other friends that were travelers could understand, and many expressed their sympathies. They knew how much I loved my Tibetan and Uyghur lands and what an emptiness I carried. I remind myself that I can understand the diasporas a little more because of this experience and the inability to return. I will be a better photographer and, more importantly, a better human when I can return.

Getting here. Now. To Kyrgyzstan was one of the first things I have done for myself in a very long time. I spent over a decade working and saving every cent to pursue projects with Tibetans and Uyghurs. There was guilt if I wasn’t on the path to helping others. But I forgot to care about myself along that route. And so, for the last year, I put everything I had into getting to Kyrgyzstan. To arrive at that start line and try to finish one of the most difficult bike races in the world. All I wanted was to get here. And I did.

And I won.

The sun is rising in the sky, and it’s getting hot. So we decided to return to Bishkek to rest and return to the mountains later in the day.

Strava route can be found here.

Images of Bishkek

The heat is unbearable during the daytime hours. I can barely get any sleep as my hostel dorm room has no curtains, and the AC isn’t turned on. I believe this is for the best, as I think it will help me acclimate to the heat, but I think the lack of sleep eventually caught up to me.

Around 4 pm, we loaded back up and drove Southwest of Bishkek towards Kegety Pass. I remembered part of the route out of the city from the first Silk Road Mountain Race in 2018. Fond memories and somewhat surreal. We would turn off before Kegety and head towards the same mountain range but up Alamedin Gorge.

Glaciers in the background peaking over 15,000 feet, fresh water, and that alpine landscape. I seem to be getting closer and closer to the heavens.

I was able to ride a bit of double and single track. The bike is so light and nimble without gear, and wishing I could ride every day with a nearly bare naked baby yak. I could imagine I was back in Colorado or Washington or returning to when I was riding my fully loaded touring bike around Tibet. Sometimes I think about how heavy that bike was with all the gear and imagine what it would be like to return with such a lighter setup.

Up the Alamedin Gorge, you’ll find fresh flowing water, flowers, waterfalls, and hot springs. Small villages are lower, but it gets much more remote after the last village at the bridge.

Strava route can be found here.

While we were up there, where the road ended and turned to single track, Nurjamal found her “dream house.” And to be honest, it was mine too. However, the house seemed out of place for Kyrgyzstan as it seemed to be entirely new construction, well cared for, and even a guard sitting on the porch.

Again, I couldn’t resist riding down the gorge on the bike and would take the lead from the vehicle considerably. Washboard and washed-out roads are much less demanding on bikes. I took a little detour up a hill with my extra time and then found an apricot tree to enjoy the first fresh fruit of the trip.

The van would arrive, and I reluctantly loaded back as I wanted to ride forever. Finally, I felt back to myself. Before returning to Bishkek, we would catch the sunset and record a few moments of my riding on the road. A small car came around the corner and swerved to avoid me as I rode back to the vehicle after a short descent. I would ride this road again when I left Bishkek for Osh in a few days.

On the third day, July 14th, we would meet later. Again, I had difficulties sleeping in the hostel. A couple of guests didn’t want to turn the lights off, and one stayed up all night on her computer. This coupled with the heat, I couldn’t sleep and knew I was asking for future problems by going into a sleep deficit. So I decided to leave in two days to head into the mountains, where the air is cooler, and I can ride while catching up on sleep in the evenings.

Jet lagged and sleep deprived, I took a walk early in the morning to get the last of the supplies and food to head me out on the road towards Osh. I was estimating a week to ride but knew I would have some villages where I could refill supplies. But, I was looking forward to getting away from towns and more into the remote mountains. Also, loading up on extra gear would allow me to train more with weight for the race.

The quiet morning through the parks and a city just coming to life felt so welcoming and comforting. It reminded me of all the walks through China. When I lived in Shanghai, I would walk everywhere during all hours of the day—sometimes starting at 4 am or 4 pm. I would walk and have all my senses wake up while clearing my mind. Even though I grew up in a small town and love getting lost in the mountains or roaming the plateaus, it’s the big cities where I feel the most anonymous and unnoticed. No one cares about you or what you’re doing. You walk, questioning your existence. Does no one notice me? Am I even here?

The street sweepers pull at my heartstrings. It was one of the first things that captivated me about Asia. Especially during my first visit to China in 2007. And then, during my 2010-12012 bike tour, I would spend countless hours with street sweepers on the side of highways or in the middle of villages. Then when I would continue doing long-distance walking and hitchhiking, they were still the ones that provided me proof—that proof of existence.

The roses of Central Asia. You can’t miss them. You’ll find them in the parks and along the tree-lined roads. You’ll find them in the homes. That morning the smell seemed to float among the cool breeze trailed by the heat that would soon engulf the city.

Then there are the groceries. I can’t express the feelings I have when entering a supermarket in Asia after nearly three years. The colors. The smell. There is something so very different than those in the US. There are some different methods, too, but I understand it all.

It feels like I’m home. I’m finally home. Close enough, at least.

I don’t know how to describe it. It just feels right. It feels as if Bishkek hasn’t changed since I first visited in 2012. It feels comforting to be around women covering their hair in scarves and men wearing doppas. I would do nearly anything to stay forever. To stop time. To pause the progression.

That is one of the biggest inner turmoils I have been battling since leaving Asia. The passing of time and looking at the last decade and seeing what I did “wrong” or should have done instead. Where did that time go? I was bouncing around Asia for nearly ten years, having the time of my life. Then it ended. I took things for granted. Too often, I said, “next time.” I learned a harsh lesson: sometimes, there really is no “next time.” I don’t know when I will be able to spend time with my friends in Tibet. Or with my Uyghur friends, for more than a couple of reasons. The last three years have been memories filled with longing and regrets, and I don’t ever want that happen to again. I want to make the clock stop ticking and exist in these moments for all eternity.

At the time of this writing, I can at least say I don’t have any regrets from my time in Kyrgyzstan last summer, at least from what I had control over. Perhaps I would have taken more photos, but I did my best to balance a race, riding, and time. Time. The most precious thing we have.

I would go back to the guesthouse to try and rest before going out with the crew in the afternoon. Again, the heat has become unbearable, and I end up sitting outside and resting on the tapchan. The tapchan is one of the things I love the most about Central Asian countries. When I bike toured through the “Stans”, I spent so many nights sleeping on them at roadside cafes or in the backyards of a family’s home. Countless conversations, pantomiming with tea, naan, fruit compote. Especially apricot.

While waiting, I spent some time prepping my things for the road. My Tibetan professor had given me a Tibetan prayer to recite at the mountain tops for world peace. I was also given some time to catch up with my favorite traveler of Central Asia. Alick Warburton. A kiwi that can speak Russian has traversed over some of the most regions and routes of the region. He always has an answer to my questions of the region. An enCYCLEpedia on two wheels. I was so fortunate to meet him in a guesthouse in Dushanbe during the summer of 2012. And we haven’t seen each other in ten years, but perhaps our paths will cross again. And, of course in only the most remote regions of Asia

While driving up to the mountains, I teach Nurjamal the art of “your momma” jokes, dancing in the van, and flower picking. It’s been an absolute joy to share time with Nurjamal again. She is one of a kind, and her laughter and big heart are genuine.

We headed up the mountains to a yurt camp near Kegeti Pass again. We are looking for some nomad camps to film in, but it is challenging to remain this close to the city. There is a tourist yurt camp, and after we could get a few minutes of filming, a not-so-kind boss man chased us out.

Happier than I can imagine.

Me and Baby Yak

Mountains and Yurts.

It’s been a few years since I found myself in a yurt. Even with the lapse of time, I am still very aware of the etiquette and symbolism of yurts and nomadic life. I have to be honest; I have to turn away too often when I see foreigners in yurts for the first time, and no one has told them some of the etiquette or how to eat from shared plates.

The center of a yurt is called a tündük. It is also the emblem of the Turkic peoples and symbolizes their unity and connection. This symbol is found on the Kyrgyzstan flag. It is actually a depiction of the first thing one sees when waking up in a yurt, namely the construction of the pinnacle of every Kyrgyz yurt with three crisscrossing laths across the circular opening at the top of the yurt.

Tilek got another chance to ride Baby Yak, and I have high hopes he will race someday.

After the angry Kyrgyz chased us off for hanging around his yurts, we found a very kind guesthouse owner that was beyond hospitable. He allowed us in his yurt, where we were able to spend some time with him and his wife. We had a little lunch, and then the afternoon finished with a beautiful rainbow and some donkeys I chased down to kiss.

That night, again, I did not get much sleep, and I hope you can foresee enough with the mention of it that it may catch up with me at some point.

The following day, on July 14th, I went for a back massage at a clinic for blind masseuses. It was recommended to me by a local Kyrgyz. Nurshat. Give that guy a follow. I later found out that besides being a cyclist and runner, he helps visually disabled Kyrgyz run and even competes! Learning that and then understanding why he was tied to runners made me cry; what a wonderful soul to share something like that and encourage others to break past boundaries.

After navigating through a beautiful Central Asian garden, I found the complex. I waited outside in the shade and noted all the colorful flowers, clean white homes, and bright blue skies.

The young woman that gave me the massage was shy and apologized for her poor English. I took a taxi more than 30 minutes from the city to visit her. After doing this so much in China, I understood there would be a communication issue. Especially since she couldn’t read Google translate on my phone. I had to use my old ways of communicating and use more hand-holding and writing on hands, than pantomiming. She was sweet, and Nurshat told me she had worked hard and saved enough money to buy her apartment. These are the stories that give me the strength to carry on toward my own dreams.

She did state that my back was “bad”. That is not new news to me. Everyone comments on it. I heard it nearly every time I went for a massage in China. Sometimes the diagnosis was much more frightening than others.

Now, I was ready to go! Tomorrow. Finally. After a year of preparing. After four years of dreaming of this day. After ten years of being here for the first time on my bicycle. I am here. ME. The me that’s been missing for too long. I’m here and ready to go.

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

The Film:

08 Jan 2016

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

Tajikistan, Part 4
(July 23, 2012)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———————————————————————————————-

Happy New Year to all of you.

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

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

03 Feb 2015

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

Tajikistan, Part 3 (July 23, 2012)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NO.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

22 Jan 2015

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

Tajikistan, Part 2 (July 22, 2012)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

11 Jan 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo by Chris-Alexandre:

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

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

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

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

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

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

July 20th, 5:47 am
Camp:

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

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

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

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

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

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

July 21st 2012

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

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

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

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

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

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

July 22

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

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

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

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

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

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

27 Oct 2014

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Tibet Walk 2014 With 2 Comments Permalink

4-year old Tibetan girl sings me a song with a little dance.

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On October 27, 2014 With 2 Comments

It had been 9 days since a signal on my phone and I had just completed a trek onto the plateau and was without food and water for 36 hours. This was a safe place to be, a “xiaomaibu”, which is basically a convenient store. The owner, and her father, told me to stay the night there. After the most delicious bowl of instant noodles and some water this little girl and I were playing non-stop for a few hours. We sat outside on a pile of dirt with her teddy bears having “tea time”. She climbed on top of massive bushes for me where I then had to clean the prickly things out of her shoes. I got countless hugs and snuggles and even a couple of kisses. In the morning she taught me how to eat my Tibetan fried dough in the tea, correctly.

Her father kept telling her I didn’t understand what she said, but the two of us made do and I had a glorious evening with an angel that dwells on the roof of the world.

27 Oct 2014

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Tibet Walk 2014 With 4 Comments Permalink

A bit of walking never hurt the soul.

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On October 27, 2014 With 4 Comments

I just returned after spending a month in Kham, Tibet (Sichuan, China). It was a beautiful experience, new, rough, and at times very emotional.

Sometimes people allow “life” to become such a heavy burden they become so weighted down they can’t find the strength to really live. Trust me, it’s not easy at times…and there are tears, there is heartbreak, there is waking up every morning to myself, and at times telling myself to be quiet because I’m tired of hearing my own voice. I’ve seen poverty at it’s worst and I’ve seen happiness and love at an intensity I will never be able to describe. I can not carry the burdens of you, or the world, my fellow man and woman, or my own…because if I were to do so, I wouldn’t be able to find the energy or time to love you, and you, and you and you and you and mostly, YOU!

15 Aug 2014

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Uncategorized With 17 Comments Permalink

Play

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On August 15, 2014 With 17 Comments

Standing next to a cliff with fresh ice melt trickling into a stream, weaving between hundreds of animal skulls and pelts; the smell of the rot is overwhelming. I carefully, and respectfully, walk away from the ritual grounds while never turning my back upon the site of ancient magic.

A small group of Tibetans greet me and there is a community of three or four families living in permanent, mud packed structures. I watch her laughing to herself as she marches along the perimeter of the organic, white washed, wall. Walking towards the stupa, she slips her hand into my palm. Closing her tiny, weather worn fingers around my hand and we look at each other and smile with a child-like gaze. No one is leading nor lagging; traveling together in unison and harmony; souls complementing one another.

The touch reminds me I’m human, with all my insecurities and fears; overwhelmed with the innocence, imagination, and purity of the child’s love. We play with the horses, laugh under the prayer flags while inspecting and investigating everything that sparks our curiosity. She falls over with giggles after watching my attempt to milk the goats, even after her excellent hands-on instructions. She is flying around all of us, feet barely ever touching the ground, buzzing with energy and joy. Her brightness and warmth glows as intense as the last, and single ray of sunshine.

We have forgotten how to play, as adults, like when we were innocent children. We have been conditioned to follow the herd which leaves our child self yearning for approval and tending to. We are losing our imagination. We are losing our desire to spend countless hours with our self to hope, dream, recollect, and LOVE.

Every day, I find somewhere to dance, whether it’s in my room or in the streets during my evening walk that I take every night after 11pm. My street disco has made some laugh, some smile, some point. I have to do what makes me happy while causing no harm to others. I’ve begun to learn a new instrument and I’m going back to creating art, such as sketching and drawing. I allow myself more time away to stare out the windows and watch the storm clouds without the guilt I should be “working”. I’ve had to find a way to survive in this society that has told us we are “ill” or “wrong” for straying from the herd…refusing to be led to a life of apathy and complacency.

In light of this weeks events, I’ve made a big mistake and opened my mouth before thinking and writing it out eloquently and posted it on Facebook. I apologize for all those I upset, and please feel free to request I remove you from the mailing. I’ve shut down Facebook because it’s proved to me that most of those 1002 “friends” don’t know me, don’t know my tone, and have no idea what I do with my life. They have no idea of where I’ve come from nor care where I’m going. I’ve only recently learned how depressed people become by watching a FB newsfeed…so I’ve decided to quit blasting people with positive and thought provoking ideas. You can come here, and as some of you know, I respond to every email I receive.

Because I plan on writing this book about finding a selfless path and mindful way to live, it’s becoming easier to voice why I chose to go on a “journey”. In retrospect, my journey was much like a spiritual pilgrimage where I found my own church, temple, mecca, stupa, and learned to love myself. In the night sky, I found my constellation…the lone huntress with her antelope at her side. She sparkles so bright and lights the way ahead. “Stars can not shine without darkness”…and I birth my genius in the blackest of nights.

I have been refusing a simple label of “ill” for the past 22 years. I refuse to believe that we as humans, as soulful, compassionate, loving, and nurturing bundles of amazing energy, can be simply labeled as “ill” or “wrong”. The mind is an amazing muscle and it needs exercise, freedom, love, and understanding. I left on my pilgrimage to save myself…to find a reason why I am the way I am. To find a fulfilling path in life and to understand that life is not purely for the benefit of the self. Sacrifice. I’ve had to face, and still daily, all the horrible, selfish, demeaning, embarrassing things I’ve done over the past 35 years. But I know in my heart, it was learning, it was developing, it was that led me here. How else was an adult suppose to survive that was told she was “ill” at 13? Telling that to an adolescent is like handing her a death wish…especially a very awkward, out of place, funny, loving, and creative girl.

As someone that has faced death by choice more than once and has come too close by accident, I want to say one thing. Do what you have to to survive. Anything, ANYTHING. But do it with thoughtfulness and awareness. Question everything. Look! Feel! We are losing dreamers, thinkers, creatives, loving, empathetic, selfless people to suicide. The universe is losing the souls that will make a difference, that try to save us from ourselves, that are telling us to open our eyes.

We are not “ill”, we are living in a diseased society that refuses to allow us to be true to our nature.

I’m not really sure if I should post this, or I will…but I want to thank each and everyone of you for having the bravery to live your life to the best way you see fit. I didn’t start this blog to be popular or win friends. I did this for me…and I hope I can share something with you. Even if before you write, “Please remove me from your mailing list”, I hope I provoked you to think about what’s going on in our culture.

Granted, not everyone can just jump on a bicycle and whiz around the world to figure it out. I get this. I’m beyond blessed. BEYOND. And every day I wake up thanking everyone, the cosmos, the heavens, mother nature, father time, God, Allah, whoever is listening…that I’m here, with another chance to make amends and do good. I hope this weekend you can take a hike into the woods, or go to the beach, or read a book…or turn up that music and just dance like no one is watching. I want you to laugh so hard you fall on the floor with your belly full of joy.

All this stuff has really helped me developed my voice as a photographer as well. We all know the world is suffering, I’m now looking for the voices of survivors. Those that can inspire us to think and live differently. Uyghurs, Central Asians, Tibetans, Bangladeshis…I love them all equally and I always turn my thoughts to them and see their smiles under back breaking labor or brick dust coating every inch of their body.

I’ve consciously chosen this path of being alone, working alone, being broke most of the time. I don’t need a lot in my life, I went without for so long. I can’t think this life any other than a blessing…because I’ve found peace within myself.

DANG, this felt good.

LOVE PEACE AWARENESS CLARITY ACTION AND CONSCIOUSNESS…GO!

10 Aug 2014

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in China, Gettin' Lost, I don't give up - EVER!, Inner Ramblings, Landscape Photography, Lost, Photography, Photos, Scary Moments, Solitude, Soma Saga, Tibet, U-Tsang, Western China With 2 Comments Permalink

Choose to live.

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On August 10, 2014 With 2 Comments

“Just choose one, Moseman…both will you lead you somewhere”. At a crossroads where I don’t have a legal permit to be, only 2 buses passing a day, 1 liter of water remaining, eating emergency food rations, and extended time at that altitude was causing horrendous physical effects, I was predicting my demise…you don’t have time to sit at a crossroads examining the paths to see which seems to show a history of more travel or kicking dirt around trying to forsee what will be at the end of each road. It’s not about the path we choose in life, it’s about making a choice and then cycling through with conviction, passion, dedication, free thought, and open heart. It’s not what route you choose that matters, it’s how you live through the journey that you felt was the “right”one at that moment. People say they are “lost”, no, they aren’t…they have chosen not to choose…they haven’t yet begun their journey. How can you be lost in life when you aren’t even living? This ain’t the gospel…just the inner-ramblings of a long-distance-lunatic-cyclist on a saga with skies in the eyes and a fiery heart that rules my journey.

Guess what ya’ll?! I’ve decided to hunker down in late winter/early spring to write the book. Yes…it’s ready to be spilled and chapters written that never graced this blog.

03 Aug 2014

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

Mercy

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist 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