During June of last year I began preparing from one of the scariest events of my life. I was to give a TEDx talk to an estimated audience of 900 people here in Shanghai. Perhaps, someday, I’ll write about the experience and how it changed me for life.
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.
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
I wake up to Jalabad’s fishing friend knocking at the door at 5:30.
Already having been up for 30 minutes, after hearing Jalabad’s phone ring over and over, I roll my loaded bike up to the door and greet him.
He makes an attempt to wake Jalabad but neither of them stir, so there are no goodbyes.
We walk to the road and wait in front of a little shop.
The first bus has no room for the bike and bags.
The second bus does.
His friend instructs where I am to get off at. Balhash, approximately 130km North.
The Russian drivers instruct me to sit in the first row, behind the current driver.
Within a few minutes, the driver pulls out a cd case. I notice his hands, wearing some pretty metal driving gloves…mesh and leather. His balding head and some mean lookin’ sunglasses.
By the look of the cd cover, I’m expecting some Norwegian metal.
If you know me personally, you may know I have a bit of passion for metal. I’ve been away from home awhile, and anything small, even if it’s not the type of metal I would prefer…it brings a nice warm feeling of familiarity to me.
I sit in my seat…thinking, “wow, I’m riding a bus through the Kazakhstan Steppe, with my bike in luggage listening to some intense metal…life is crazy”.
When we arrive to Balhash, there is some confusion of where I’m trying to go.
They think I’m continuing on, so after unloading, they load me back up. I hand them my map in the bus and after about a half kilometer, they realize I need to be let off now. I’m given an offer for a free ride to Astana…but I politely decline. My bus ride was free and the driver introduces himself, then I, with a thank you over a hand shake.
In Balhash around noon and I try to get directions to try to get to a small “town” North of the lake. I ask one man and he gives me directions, not in English, in Russian…but I make do at this point and can understand.
As I head in the direction…he pulls up in a car and tells me there is no road and I need to go back to Almaty and then come up from the East side. Okay, this is possible…could be very possible.
I go to a shop to buy supplies and tell them where I’m going, to see about their response. They seem to be familiar with the name and just kind of nod a “yes” and smile.
I go to another shop to do the same test. Same response.
So I decide to head out.
There are no signs to the road and it leads North and then towards the East.
Friendly Russians pass me in their cars. One stopping and asking, “Adventure”? I respond with yes. He hands be a big bottle of “Kvas” and a cold Vitamin C and tells me, “gift”. Holy shit, thanks!
I continue on and soon I can see the lake and there is no traffic except some local vehicles.
There is a headwind and at one point it catches my toilet paper on the front rack and before I know it I have 4 meters of white TP trailing behind me. I jump off with a few choice swear words and salvage what I can.
Only 2 small villages and about every 20 meters some sort of shed/shack that has some electrical facility. There seems to be some areas for growing plants as well, perhaps 3 or 4. I’m now questioning if this is going to turn into a service road of sorts.
After about 24 kilometers into this crappy headwind I see some abandoned concrete apartment buildings and offices ahead.
I can see, and hear, some construction going on. Trucks loaded with concrete and I can see a few people in a shell of a 5 story concrete building. Appearing to be very Chinese, I can see that they are taking down the old bricks and stacking them to be reused.
With a little more pedaling, I can see that this appears to be an old Soviet military base/testing area. Continue a little further on the crumbling road…and then…pass the base…and then…AND…THEN…
…THIS…
Here the road would be considered in “great condition”.
The temperature is in the low 40’s (C), being swarmed by mosquitoes and flies, and…and…hundreds of empty vodka bottles.
I sit on the side, in the sand, sweating…and think about what I could be getting into.
No traffic, no people…oh wait…a massive olive green military truck passes with 2 Russians…no water (a salt water lake), possibly at least 5 days without water/food, headwind, empty vodka bottles: drunks?, eaten by mosquitoes and flies, LOTS AND LOTS OF SAND.
Okay, maybe that guy was right about no roads…be smart Ellen, turn back. Screw your pride, love your life.
I turn back.
I’m waved down by a couple truck drivers that are curious of what I’m doing and after stumbling over my broken Russian I move on. I’ve got a hell of a tailwind and I’m pedaling over 30km/h.
About 5km up a car comes up to me. A man and woman, Kazakh. They insist to come back to where they are working and they will drive me to town. I can stay at their home for the night. They look about my age and decent folks. I insist it’s not a problem, I can do this…but they are very very insistent on me spending time with them
They are at the old military base breaking down the walls and salvaging the bricks.
We have a bit of a picnic, with 2 other men that are working with them.
One is a bit older and he makes me laugh, the other is a sex pest in the making. Asking me for kisses…peering at me behind corners asking for more kisses. No dude, you aren’t getting any kisses.
So, after some work…and the older dude getting shit faced on vodka…we head back.
In the car, I’m in between both men and the older one on my left is really truck and accidentally grabs me a couple of times. As he is really excited to be talking to me. He means well…I just laugh.
The OTHER dude gives me that handshake with the wiggling middle finger in the palm. I pull away and look at him sternly and let him know I do not appreciate it at all. No more games with this shit…I’m tired of it.
We have to pull over to let oldie vomit.
Arriving to a classic Communist apartment block, we go inside.
Wow, it’s very nice and has really warm feeling about it. The couple’s son arrives and he can speak a little English.
We have dinner and then I retire to the room with the tv. Mr kissy is in there and asks me for a massage. “No.” or rather “nyet”. He begins to beg and I ignore him with my constant “nyet”.
He finally gives up and actually apologizes to me. It’s time for sleep.
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.
I’ve returned to Dushanbe to figure out what to do next.
See you in September!
View Tajikistan in a larger map
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Breaking down camp well before 6 am, I pass through a small town. Picking up minimal supplies, like candy, along with some ice cream for breakfast.
It’s been close to a week since my last shower and I saw a gas station/truck stop that seemed to offer something of the sort. But, it either wasn’t open that early or just not open at all.
I ride through the barren steppe with a headwind until about 11 when a blue, 2 door Lada pulls up next to me.
There are two men in front, a bit older, and they are extremely friendly and waving at me. Asking me where I’m from and they are even happier to hear I’m an American. We wave goodbye and they move ahead.
They stop about 200 meters ahead.
I’m greeted by two men and an old tiny Kazakhstan flag. They seem so excited to meet me and so welcoming I can’t help smiling during the entire conversation.
He tells me they are going fishing in Lake Balhash and I am invited to come along. Them miming that I’ll throw my bike on the car and we’ll all go together. It’s only 11am but, if you’ve been following this journey for awhile now, you know I rarely turn down offers of any sort. Well, I do turn down the offers for sex…
One man tells me his wife is in the back of the car and this is the confirmation that I shouldn’t have too many problems.
He pops the trunk of the tiny 2 door Lada and there is a tiny girl sitting in the back with reflective aviator sunglasses on. We exchange “hellos”…she doesn’t look Kazakh or Russian, but she does appear to be very young. As she moves around in the area of the hatchback, for me to put my bags in the back, I catch a glimpse of her eyes behind the sunglasses.
Holy F*$K! What am I getting into?
Her eyes are nearly swollen shut and the skin dark purple. It’s the worst black eyes I’ve ever seen and I try not to look too much. I cringe from sympathy pains as I throw my bags into the back, being engulfed by the smell of fish.
They tell me to sit in the passenger seat by I insist on sitting in the back with the wife.
We head off the road and throw sand tracks within just a few minutes. I’m trying to settle my nerves, as I’m having flashbacks of the perverted police officer in the Gobi. Okay, these people aren’t intoxicated, friendly, and it’s daylight. I’m trying to make mental notes of the tracks just in case I have to make a run for it. We are heading East, further and further from the main road but I can keep my orientation by the power lines and the city to the South along the lake.
We pass wild horses through the sand, listening to Hip Hop being blasted through the Lada. I’m forced into the front seat, as a guest. The heater is also blasting on me.
At one point Jalabad, the driver, jumps out and then jumps back in with a small bouquet of wild flowers. For me? Yes. Okay, this is uncomfortable, what about your wife?
It’s about a 15 minute ride through the sand until we arrive at a tiny shack on the banks of a sparkling turquoise lake. We get out of the car and my senses are filled with the smell of salt and dried fish…and the sun beating down on me.
There is an old man at the shack and a very old aluminum boat.
The two men from the car and the wife begin preparing the boat. It’s slid off the trailer and we begin leaving the bank, the 4 of us.
My seat is an old 2×4 set across the front. The driver picks up speed and I’m bouncing all over the place, attempting to secure my camera.
We arrive to the first net in the middle of the lake. As the men begin pulling the net to grab the fish, the wife is in the back scooping out the water that leaks in.
The men toss fish from the front to the back, barely missing my head and hers.
We continue checking nets for about the next 2 hours. The leak is peaceful, and calm, and curious birds all along the way. There are fish I’d never seen before. I watch the wife, behind my sunglasses, sticking her finger in the eye of one of the fish. Not as cruelty, but I saw it as a curiosity, a playfulness.
The driver of the Lada and boat…the leader. His name is “Jalabad”.
Fishing partner and wife.
We come back in and dock the boat. There is a jeep there with one police officer and 2 other men. They are talking to the old man that lives in the fishing shack. The men from the boat join in and I can tell the conversation is about me.
The wife and I go sit in the Lada and wait for the men. As we are completely ignored. A giant bee flies into the car and startles her from her sleep. It’s hot in the sun…I want to go, I want to get out of the sun.
As we are speeding through the sand, I am invited for tea. I’m in the front seat, with the wife squeezed between us. Wife gets a smile across her face and she puts in extra effort with the invite to come to her home.
The first thought to my mind is, “If my presence will keep him from beating the shit out of her…well, I ‘ll go.” If she were to be punched a few more times, she would probably lose the eyeball. But, here I am making assumptions.
What I do notice is both eyes are black, the worst one being her right eye, and her husband is right handed…along with a big ring on it. She also has dozens of scratches all over her face and neck. This is just weird, men usually don’t beat and scratch women.
(I wish I could remember her name.)
After unloading the bike and gear, Jalabad leaves to get rid of the fish and I spend time with the wife. She makes me Nestle hot chocolate and adds a shit ton of extra sugar.
She walks into the kitchen with her hand covering her eye and signals to me not to look. I give a hand signal to dismiss, it’s not my business and I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable.
We sit in the kitchen, the apartment empty except for a few necessities. A new fridge, washer/dryer, and in the living room a bed, 2 chairs, a tv, and countless DVDs. Their bedroom closed off.
Within 15 minutes we are scribbling on paper and drawing photos to communicate. Also using a Russian English dictionary we are able to get simple questions and answers across. She had quit covering her eye and tells me it was Russian girls in Balhash. She is actually half Korean and half Russian, 20 years old and Jalabad is 46, his second marriage and has 2 children.
Jalabad returns home and we have dinner together. Boiled chicken, pasta, and onions…all boiled together. Of course with bread, topped with mayonaise and ketchup. Not my choice but my hosts insist it’s delicious…I’ll say differently.
They escort me to the living room, throw some awful American movie in the DVD player with a hilarious Russian overdub. It’s just a man translating the movie…he does it all…like reading from a script. I’m mostly entertained by the Russian Sprite commercials.
I’m under the impression I will be getting a ride tomorrow, so I settle in for the night and not think too much about my next step.
Jalabad and his wife are in the other room. Finally, I smell marijuana and realize they are getting high. Whatever, none of my business.
It’s getting very late and they enter the room. They have an idea and I’m pulled into the kitchen. Jalabad makes a sketch of me getting bathed by his wife. Um, no thanks…I can pour water over myself and don’t need creep fest 2012. I thank them for the offer, laughing, and say I’m okay.
I’m in bed half asleep, in the living room and I can hear the wife go to bed. Jalabad is switching off the lights and I’m very aware of what may happen next. I’m lying with my face to the wall and the lights are off. Within a few seconds, I have hands rubbing my legs…I turn over and see Jalabad kneeling at the foot of my bed and I kick him away simultaneously.
Damn Sex Pests, everywhere!
To be continued…
