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03 Dec 2013

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

20 Jun 2013

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Assey Plateau, Kazakhstan June 2012 from Moseman on Vimeo.

18 Jun 2013

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

Assey Plateau – Kazakhstan June 5 2012 (Part II)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

09 Jun 2013

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A look ahead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

06 Jun 2013

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Uncategorized With 3 Comments Permalink

Survived Another

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

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

Birthday #30 (Gramma’s backyard)

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

Birthday #32 (On the roads in Yunnan)

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

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

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

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

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

27 May 2013

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Post Tour With 2 Comments Permalink

The Photographer’s Life is Far From Bunnies, Flowers, and Unicorns.

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On May 27, 2013 With 2 Comments

It was once brought to my attention that I don’t discuss photography and photographs enough on this blog. I would probably agree with that comment but I also have a half dozen other places where you can see the images. Although, most forums do not allow for detailed stories, techniques, or other things.

I guess a part of me wants to keep some of my magic a secret; not like photography is a mystery. Years ago, before this trip, I was also told that I am “too timid” to get those street shots and portraits that I now have. That I need to “go in like gang busters” and don’t care if they get upset. Well, this is not how I work and never will be. My tippy toe, sweet smile, and gentle demeanor is what has gotten me where I am, right now.

There is more to these people’s stories than a still image; a moment caught in time. You’ve probably caught on that I spend a lot of time, if possible, with the people I photograph. I talk to them as much as possible and I sit back and wait for the time to pull out the camera. There is a method and I’m not going to spill it for free, here. People often ask me how I get some of the intimate portraits and I guess it’s something that sets me apart from the millions of tourists snapping off thousands and thousands of photos on vacation in hopes for that one million dollar winner they will submit to some National Geographic contest.

There is so much that goes on behind the scenes that will never been seen, documented, or really discussed. When looking at my photos you may not realize my interaction and experience within the moment.

When I was watching a mud house being made in Yunnan, within 15 minutes the two dozen women had convinced me (not very difficult) to climb the ladder and help pack down the dirt for the exterior walls. Of course I didn’t take the camera up there with me, I left it on the ground and lived in the moment; I attempted to live the life they lead.

Living with the Uyghurs, there were days I would go out to the cotton fields with them and pick next to the family of four. Sitting on the edge of the cotton fields eating naan and pears while the women rubbed my arms and hands from all the open cuts on my hands and arms. In the evening all of us sitting around for dinner, absolutely exhausted after a full day of back breaking work. I am not a leach of a photographer, I try to give as much in return as possible. Whether it’s labor, English tutoring, or sending a package of medicine to aching gramma.

Taking walks to a stupa in Tibet, holding a little girl’s hand for nearly a mile as we walked near the shores of Lake Namu. One of the most intimate moments I have shared with anyone over the past few years, one moment that nearly brought tears to my eyes.

Going to markets with families and helping carry items home and keeping an eye on the children. Assisting in the picking out of fabrics for a new pillow and choosing the perfect amount of camel fur to be stuffed in the bedding.

I am not just a photographer, I am not just a cyclist, I am not just Eleanor. I am “Ai Lun” or “Ai Gul”, as I’m known in other parts of the world. I am a storyteller, I am the voice of those that I have captured in an intimate moment. I am an entity that can travel within borders and boundaries unnoticed, gathering as much information as possible. My experience is so much more than mileage, altitudes, and photographs. I feel as I’ve lived a dozen different lives over the past 3 years.

This month marks the 3 year anniversary of the beginning of my trip. These months home has allowed me to dig deeper and have realizations about the life of a photographer. A recent email from a photographer I highly admire commented on how I am so open about the pains, struggles, and the tragic loneliness of a photographer. We’ve all met those photographers that seem to be so confident, so Alpha, so have their shit together…you know the joke rings a bit true about there is “only one photographer allowed in a room at a time”. I’m learning that these guys are not of the majority, or at least the type I like to hang with. Although I met many more like these when living in NYC.

Although, Brooks, if you are reading this, it was such a breath of fresh air to know you aren’t like the majority either. It was such a pleasure meeting you and talking shop (2 wheels and photography).

What I want to express is that my chosen profession, although it’s hard to call something I love so much, is not what it may seem. This is not to be a boo hoo story of any sorts, but I want to share what goes into being a photographer, or a creative.

Firstly, I’m realizing that photographers (and a majority of other creatives) all have this disconnected sense from the world. Returning home, I have a few new friend photographers and some old. These people are the ones that I think, right now, offer the most of what I need emotionally and mentally. We all know how it is; often it can’t be expressed but the constant requirement of solitude is seen in our photographs. When we take the camera down from our eyes we can see within each other the long lonely path we have all chosen to get where we are.

Photographers are a lonely, secluded, lot of outcasts. I have yet to meet another that isn’t somewhat socially awkward in his or her own sense. But it’s what makes us an awesome bunch, all our little strange quirks. We are the ones that can appreciate it in one another.

Of course there is the constant commiseration of never having enough money to purchase new equipment. For many of you that don’t know, there are rental houses in NYC and all over the world that cater to us. The working class photographer. I don’t know how many times my equipment has been snubbed by high dollar flash packers carrying the best equipment around on their grand tour. They are not professionals, but their 6 figure income can afford the luxuries that us photographers salivate about some day attaining.

So, as you can see, my life as a loner has no separation from my work, social, and personal life. I work alone, I live alone, I rest alone.

Secondly, don’t you think the camera is a way for a photographer to separate themselves from the actual moment, the people, the experience? Again, symbolism for being disconnected, an outsider. We are always on the rim of the experience, hoping to blend in and not to distract our actors of the story we are documenting. It’s a fine and delicate dance and many people can’t do this.

The files, or film, are taken home and we spend hours and hours alone editing, and re-editing. If we are lucky enough to have a strong body of work we then begin submission. Hours spent researching contacts and countless emails. Hopefully you’ll have 1/10 respond with some sort of interest in seeing more. It’s emotionally draining, as you send your images out, that incorporate your heart and soul – to only be rejected.

I have always had an idea of the lonely life of an artist or photographer but it hasn’t been until the last months that I’ve really been able to culminate these thoughts and realizations into words.

These days I find myself grappling with the fact that this may be my route for the rest of my existence. I am a huntress and like all good hunters, the task must be tackled alone. Can this be possible? Can I continue through with disregard for my emotional and mental need for companionship, friendships, family?

There is the post tour depression, I’m not going to lie one damn bit to you about it. I’ve slept the entire weekend away and now I feel like I just popped out of it at 4 am on Monday morning. Friends tell me, “How can you be depressed, look at what you have! Look what you have done!”

Do you remember in my interview when I talked about when I came “home” I saw how much shit is in our lives here and how “little we have”. By comparison to these people with nothing and their lives seem so complete as they have something that majority of us in the West don’t have. Something that has been lost in our culture and society. It’s hard for me not to sit here, typing, editing, drinking my tea seeing what I don’t have. It will be worse when I go back to Shanghai. No friends, no family, no lover, no real community.

I’ve tried to convince myself for years that I can live, survive, and be content without the previous mentioned. That my heart can deal with the solitude and the loneliness. But these sleepless nights, with my pillows wrapped around me and a death grip around my teddy bear…I begin to doubt my strength to continue on, alone.

The goal for the remainder of the year is to find a sweet balance, in everything.

Are you tired of hearing about the loneliness yet? Well, no one really writes about it, and too many blogs stop after the riding. For you all looking for my cycling stories, I left off on the Assey Plateau in Kazakhstan – which will be the one year anniversary next week. We are going to get back on track with a cycling post!

I thought I’d share a story about the below photo, as I edit some images of Central Asia.
There was a small village that I stayed at for two days in Uzbekistan, near the Tajikistan border. This man dancing in front of the camera was one of those men I despise being around. The first conversation developed around my personal life and he asked me if I had a disease and if that is why I was child’less.

Of course it’s a common question, but only out there would men be so rude and nasty to me about it. What if I did have a disease, what if I can’t conceive…what does he care…he needed to ask this question in front of other men.

This story isn’t so unrelated to the current post. An outcast; disconnected; a stranger.

I’ll slowly begin to transform this blog into stories with images, perhaps one photograph and my inner ramblings.

20 Aug 2012

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Onto Dushanbe. What?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the hell happened on the border of China?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, I’m difficult.

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

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

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

He gets the nickname Doofus from me this night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Great intro, eh?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

EXCUSE ME…EXCUSE ME…EXCUSE ME…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

02 Aug 2012

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist 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 WanderCyclist 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!

30 Jul 2012

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

Kazakhstan May 14, 15…Gone Fishin’ (Continued)

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On July 30, 2012 With No Comments

I wake up in the early morning and the couple is still sleeping.

Around 11 they wake up and Jalabad heads out.

I spend the day with the girl, as she does laundry and other stuff around the apartment. She tells me how she gets so bored at home and how here husband just leaves for the day.

We talk about possibly going to Astana. A tentative plan is to take a bus to Balhash, leave my bike at her gramma’s and then go to Astana for a few days. Why not?

My plans were to leave today, as Jalabad said he would drive me further. I’m getting a little impatient because I want to get back on the road and out of this depressing situation. Also, I don’t want massages offered to me with out the offer.

I do feel sorry for the wife, she seems so sad and in such an awful situation.

Around 3 Jalabad returns home with his fishing buddy and I say, “I have to leave.” They begin to show concern and telling me about “banditos”. And how I’ll get raped on the route to Balhash. They promise to get me on a bus the next morning. Okay, whatever…whatever.

Once I agree to this Jalabad and his friend step out, leaving me in front of the television with some movies. The wife telling me to nap. I take up the offer.

Later, she joins me in the living area to continue watching some Russian dubbed movie. The hilarious thing about Russian dubbed movies is there is the same man…just reading the script with no voice inflection – completely monotone. For men and women actors.

The electric goes out for a little while.

Eventually Jalabad returns home and he and I sit in the kitchen for a little while together. He explains to me that his wife is a little weird in the head, stating the age difference of about 48 years. He has been married previously, wife and kids living in Almaty. I’m not sure how accurate this translation is, but it seemed there may have been some documents preventing him from seeing them.

Again, we have boiled chicken, onions, and pasta. Of course, with white bread with mayo and ketchup on it.

I reside to the living room and they continue their evening marijuana smoking. Jalabad later shows me the “plants” he is trying to grow…and I have to break him the bad news but I don’t think that is marijuana.

Later, brushing my teeth, I bust the faucet and have to call them in, holding the tap. If I were to let go the water would spray straight to the ceiling. They both work on it and can’t fix it, but I arrive with some zip ties and the problem is solved.

Falling asleep around 10, I’m left undisturbed throughout the night.

29 Jul 2012

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Uncategorized With 1 Comment Permalink

Fighting in the Pamirs

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On July 29, 2012 With 1 Comment

I’ve returned to Dushanbe to figure out what to do next.