Posts Tagged ‘Kazakhstan’

Sand and caravans


North of Termiz the land turned to semi-desert: knuckles of sandstone, punched by the green plumes of weed. After the pale, deathly world of Afghanistan I was coming into the hunk of Uzbekistan that can be farmed, though irrigation costs the Aral Sea, which shrinks towards extinction. But a blankness lived ahead too – I was inching toward the Kyzyl Kum, a desert too large to traverse by bike before my visa expired. After the cities of the fabled Silk Road, I would have to take a train.

There were a few police check points as I edged north where the officers would order me to a halt and demand to know how much a ticket costs to watch Manchester United, or to examine an old Indian visa in my passport and ask ‘How is the Maharaja?’ At the bazaar in the village of Sayrab I was enclosed by a band of wispy beards ancients who draped arms over my shoulder and cackled benevolently. Conversations flowed towards an inevitable question:

‘How old are you?’

‘35’

‘Where is your wife and children?’

‘I don’t have any’

Much muttering, a gasp, wide eyes, ‘Get on with it!’, ‘What do you live for?!’

The next day was ending well: a lively wind coaxed me down to Karashina. But with the sun low in the sky my pedal fell off, oily bearings scattering into the dust. With no spare I had to make do with the thread, my foot slipping off on almost every turn. I found a plane of hilltop and set my tent up. An hour after sundown I noticed the dance of a torch a hundred metres or so below me, and so I slunk back into my tent, hoping the search wasn’t for me.

I poked my tent out into a sunny morning and saw the source of the torchlight – another cyclist had chosen almost exactly the same spot to camp. I waved him over – Charlie was a twenty something biker from Virginia. He had a hammock that was proving unsuitable for desert-living, so he just stretched it out on the earth and used it as a bivy bag. Yesterday, he mentioned, had been a long one. 230 km, and he’d started at 12. But that’s late, I thought, until I realized he meant midnight. He’d scored a puncture and pushed his bike off the road, my bike problems had moved me to do the same, at almost exactly the same spot of reaching Uzbek scrub, and only minutes before.

We were heading the same way, so we filtered coffee into mugs and pedaled off together, camping the next night in a tilled field, a fat and painted moon bleeding over the horizon. We climbed the pass south of Samarkand, threw ourselves into a frenzy of fruit eating at the top amid traders of trinkets and cheese, and then dropped into the clamour of city, where the enrapturing and long-venerated blue domes seemed dimmed amid the less alluring traffic and tourist tat. In Samarkand we met up with Kay, an American biker and friend of Charlie.

Tamerlane was not Uzbek, but that didn’t stop him achieving hero status in a region reaching for its misty history and sense of self after the Soviets pulled out, leaving Central Asia a strange commotion of borders with dislocated peoples pocketed away, adrift from their ethnic groups. It was deliberate: Stalin discouraged unity in permanent fear of an Islamic uprising. Tamerlane, a fierce dictator whose empire once sprawled over half of Asia, his sacked villages marked by pyramids of skulls, is buried in Samarkand. We stalked his mausoleum, hoping the guard would let us enter the real crypt beneath the show one, as travel writer Colin Thubron had done, but Colin was probably not looking quite as deviant as us, in ragged cycling clothes and Russian as halting as London’s traffic.



Kay’s plan was to come with us to Bukhara, 300 km to the west, but she’d left her bike in Tashkent from where she would fly home. ‘If I buy some rollerblades…’ she tentatively asked me in the hostel ‘will you guys tow me there?’

Charlie had agreed to try, and Stuart, a student from St Andrews was on board too.

‘Sure, why not?’ I said. It’s testament to the personalities present that no one offered any of the hundred obvious answers: because it was 300 km away, or that roads in Uzbekistan were piteous, or that any available rollerblades would likely be worse. Instead a pact was made and Kay went hunting for wheels.

When she returned I found her in a corner of the hostel, clutching fearfully to a chair, her legs involved in some kind of mad Irish dance routine. She managed after a time to let go of the chair and barrel across the courtyard, her windmilling arms madly hunting for more furniture before her new skates could set her violently on her head, or ass. ‘I think…’ she told me after another panicked expedition between a potted plant and desk ‘I’m gonna need some elbow pads.’

So we met Kay an hour later outside the store she’d bought her blades (for 40 dollars), now wearing as much protective gear as they sold. We used Stuart’s hammock stings to make a kind of reigns for Kay, she was supposed to cruise fluently behind, like a water skier, but Samarkand’s sketchy paving and bolshy drivers meant it was easier at first for Kay to drape herself over Charlie’s rear rack with legs straight and blades rolling. He towed her out of the city, me and Stuart alongside. Imperfections sent her into wild, helpless wobbles, a slight incline was nightmarish.

Gradually though Kay grew skillful, soon she was on the reigns, hopping over obstacles and she got to the end of the day one without emergency surgery. The Silk Road has flowed for ages with merchants and their curious caravans, and Uzbeks marveled again at three laden bikers and a girl on rollerblades carving out their own Silk Road odyssey. It must have been knackering for Kay though, hard on the ankles and back, hostage to constant concentration, and when we stopped to rest she would throw herself extravagantly into the nearest dust (‘the Kay-dive’) arms and legs starred like a depleted sky diver after a crash landing.

The next evening we camped by some ruins, boiling up pasta and then gorging like animals, when a boy arrived and stood about watching us. After a while he loped off into the dark, it wasn’t until the next morning we realized Kay’s skates were gone. With Charlie’s two rear panniers redistributed to me and Stuart, Kay sat on his rear rack and for the last 100 km Charlie lent low over his handlebars, Kay rested her chin on his back, music poured from speakers and they raved and weaved their way into Bukhara.



In all three of Uzbekistan’s ruined and reconstructed Silk Road cities, I felt that familiar depression that comes with being commoditized. It was unthinkable in the Uzbekistan I had relished in the south and east that anyone would invent a five-fold price hike because I was an outsider, in fact if I didn’t leave a town with five times the amount of free fruit I could eat, I would have felt unappreciated, such was my soring expectations of central Asian generosity. But in touristville I bartered for bottles of Fanta, argued with the plague of unofficial cashiers who popped up around monuments in well-rehearsed scams to pluck the tourist dollar, or with unscrupulously tricky taxi drivers and hoteliers. I don’t begrudge a two tiered price system, I am after all from a country that spends money on putting large ferris wheels in every major city, and a guest in one that has uses forced labour to pick cotton, it’s almost singular industry, in hardening times. But its hard not to get antsy when the cost of everything gets quadrupled.

My birthday came so we went out on the town in Khiva, it was a spectacular extravaganza of vodka and shisha that was spent in the company of a large group of well-middled, middle-aged men, who danced with racing legs, their arms drooped out in front, like a bunch of sweaty tyrannosauruses. Charlie ended up backflipping into a flower bed, ‘its so poetic’ he told me, breathing vodka fumes.

Khiva was my favourite of these ancient trading posts, from the minaret it was easier to imagine the ragtag caravans that would lumber into what must have been paradise after a long troop through the sere wastelands which fill the flats to a far horizon.

I said goodbye to Charlie and Kay, and set off with Stuart. The hotel in Nukus had the floating fragrance of toilet, but I’d been in worse, even considering the five minute on-off cycle for the running water and the belligerent alcoholic parked in the restaurant. There were three bored women sitting in the currency exchange office who offered the official exchange rate of 2600 somme for a dollar. But the blackmarket is booming. In any shop outside I could get 4500. Still, they sat. Maybe some travelers are dumb enough every month or so, and it becomes worth it.

Cotton plantations grew to consume everything outside the road and only the few purple bushes on the edge of the crops spiced the world with colour. I ran into Tim and Fin, two bright eyed Brits on bikes, I’d even been on a bike repair course way back when with Fin’s uncle Ray. Back then I might have exclaimed ‘small world!’, perhaps not now.


On the road I was wind-splashed by great trains of buses, holding the cotton pickers of Uzbekistan. There has been international pressure and boycotts of Uzbek cotton because of this forced labour, especially when it concerns children. In 2012 the president issued a decree banning children from working in the cotton fields, though the buses I saw were full of kids, faces planted on the glass, but how many ended up picking cotton is impossible to say.

In Kungrad I shuffled into a murky half-light of jumbled shrubs on the town’s outskirts. I’ve spent so many nights sequestered in this type of edgeland now, stalking civilization like a stray, and it can feel more adventurous than camping in the wilderness. There’s something seductive and outsiderish about the fringe of towns, here I listened to the clank and grumble of a strange city, sounds particular to the embers of the day. I woke in the fledgling moments of the next, the factory still beeping, the pylons above hissing like vipers, the journeying lights of the first cars on the horizon, the harangue of farm dogs that had fixed my scent. And then above me a team of red objects were tearing though the sky, something breaking up in the atmosphere, not the quick dash of a typical shooting star but the careering burn of something bigger and closer, appearing much slower in the sky.

I boarded the train the next day, almost all the passengers were economic migrants, bent on laboring in the building sites of a more prosperous Kazakhstan. I’d never before encountered so many vendors on a train, their number competed with that of the passengers, it was a mad melee of money changers who can count notes with bewitching speed, others carrying dried fish like a stack of newspapers, and spreading them for selection like a deck of oversized cards. Two silver bearded men gave blessings in exchange for money, which looked easier than the women’s harried task.

I sat with my journal open, waiting for an apt metaphor to hang onto this window view, but this was cliché desert, remarkable only in its unabating sameness, the train shadow stealing and releasing a thin strip of desert scrub for mile upon sandy mile. Gradually local people gathered around me, one old women was particularly brave. ‘Do you have an old grandmother in England? No? You can have me! Come on, let’s go!’ the women around me shrieked in delight as this old eccentric took centre stage.

On the next train there was no seat for me because I got on last with my bike, and passengers outnumber seats as a few bribe the conductor and board without a ticket. It didn’t matter, as I spread myself out in the cramped smoking section between carriages, a stocky man waded in, set his head to one side and made a meditative face which cracked into a grin. ‘Come on tourist, we’ll make room’. His son hopped out of his bed and I watched aghast as he squeezed into the luggage rack, high up above the other berths, to make space for me. They say a Kazakh has three faces: a smile for the guest, neutrality for the friend and a scowl for the stranger.

I arrived 20km kilometres from Aktau, a port town on the Caspian, now a fading tourist industry trying to fill the void after uranium mining retreated and died. I stepped out of the station and looked around. A sign on a shop blinked redly: ‘paradise’. The sky was baubled with grey cloud. I made my way in those delicious minutes before sunrise, past single story homes, the cheap gaud of restaurants, but alongside expensive SUVs, rushing testimony to the providence of oil. The sun rose at last, switching on the baubles of cloud, they burned a lingerie-pink.

In the end I flew to Baku just over the Caspian, it was cheaper and faster than the boat and I had the deadline for a school talk to make. Pedaling away from the airport, an intimation of blue coloured the horizon, venus still glittered bright. The sun rose, cold and orange. The highway of this new country, Azerbaijan, was perfect. Trees were trimmed into spirals like shells, petrol stations had video screens, there were street sweepers even before the first sunbeams rouged the highway, the first I’d seen since China. There was order and money everywhere, I embodied neither of those things and received some stares. I passed the Expo centre, the great stadium for the European games, the dreamlike grace of the Heydar Aliyev Center, the flame tower skyscrapers, not red, but blue with reflected sky. In the city the Azeri girls were beautiful, dark and sultry and sunglassed from the world. One in a group flicks their hair, and the others do the same, a Mexican wave of hair tossing. Their kids are accessorized to the max.


For years Azerbaijan has been quietly getting rich, though the cynics, and there are silent stacks of them, would argue that all that money barely drips from the elites. I cycled out of Baku under the previous president’s gaze, his mouth a straight line, like a hyphen, promising more to come. And it did, when he died in 2003 his son dropped into his seat as top dog, commanding the oil barrens and tycoons, the silencers of the press, the mobsters and cronies, from the tip of a very broad pyramid. Azerbaijan can put on a show, but behind the gleam there are faultlines and the pong of impermanence. The street cleaners don’t do the backroads, just the route from the airport to city. Journalists are regularly imprisoned, more in just the few days I was there. I wondered what will become of Baku in fifty years when the oil has run dry, whether only then discontent will better reach the surface, and boil over into rebellion.

But that, of course, is politics; as ever the people were entirely welcoming, from my great host Araz in Baku to all the rural folk that I met en route to Georgia. My first days in Azerbaijan took me through a tawny grassland, the land folded away in a wind made of dust. Men sat playing Nard (a form of backgammon). I stopped at a fruit stall and the vendors all charged towards me to begin a quiz. I answered what I could in Russian, and then the gifts arrived: apples first, by the arm full, then grapes, then men lunged in bearing tomatoes ‘Present! Present!’ they crooned. The ladies behind the crowd decided that they couldn’t let these rival vendors become the epitome of Azeri hospitality, and they burrowed though the arms of others, popping up in front of me to thrust aubergines and cucumbers into my overladen arms.

The world smelt of loam and mushrooms and woodsmoke, and I’d missed the woods after so long journeying through mountains, desert and steppe. I topped 70 km/hr on the downhill, passing Ladas who probably couldn’t speed up and not risk breaking up like a rocket entering orbit at the wrong angle, making debris of wipers and bonnets and bumpers. The weather was perfect, 28 degrees by day and sunny, the forest canopy a shut door preventing all but a few cracks and misshapen keyholes of light to stipple the leaf litter. Eventually I was released from kind the hug of the Great Caucasus mountains to zip through a flat farmland where the smell of horses muscled through the woodsmoke and where tribes of turkeys cavorted around stacks of hay.

I spent a night in the caravanserai of Seki and left the following day, asking directions for Qax, which if you do so articulately, will leave your assistant wiping the phlegm from their eye. It must be hell for the residents of Qax at borders.

‘Home town?’

‘Qax’

‘Get out’

Georgia: no more running for visas, here I was instantly granted a year as an EU citizen. I pedaled up towards Sighnaghi, the old town walls looped over the forested hillsides, a different sprouting of mountains these, the bulk of the Caucasus still just visible across the valley, half eaten by shadow and distance.

It was harvest time for the grapelands of Signhangi, wine flowed as the town celebrated. I met Nina, a German girl, and with another friend Emma we visited the monasteries carved into mountains at David Gareja.

Nina and I then decided to try and buy two donkeys and ride together to Tbilisi, but Nina, being sensibly German (and also correct) decided the risk of a wayward, uninsured donkey causing a fatal road accident was too great, so we found her a bike and cycled together for three days around the wine country. It was ace.





I’m now in Tbilisi where it was an honour to meet Paul Salopek, a double Pulitzer prize winning journalist working with National Geographic and walking around the world for a planned seven years following the earliest human migration out of Africa.

Thank yous:

Aigerim and Bakhtiear, Araz, Paul, everyone at the International School of Azerbaijan, QSI in Aktau, Vladimir and Fabienne, Paul Salopek and Kevin Sullivan.

Next up: My good pal Ollie has just flown into Tbilisi. We will go lightweight bike-packing into the remote parts of the country for the next month, surviving on the bone marrow of the mountain lions we hunt. And then I’m off to Europe. Having already cycled once across the behemoth of Turkey, I’ve decided to eschew another crossing and will head, perhaps by boat, to Bulgaria. From there, three straight months and I’ll lumbar over the finishing line, and down a vat of Earl Grey.

The resurrection of Green


The Tian Shan mountains arrived four days after leaving Urumqi, green and misty-peaked. My left knee, which had been a generous font of pain for the last month, felt obligingly strong. Before I crossed into Kazakhstan I decided on a day off, and my plan for the shores of Sayram Lake in Xinjiang was unimpeachable. I was going to pitch my tent overlooking the expansive turquoise waters, framed by abundant sproutings of wild orchids. I would sip red wine in the evening, read Nabokov’s short stories and perhaps take breaks to admire elk lapping at the shore or hoopoes jinking through the hazy summer air. Fact.

The lake shore was a marsh, the sky leaden and fuzzed by three building thunder storms, the rain slanting, the lake unswimmably freezing and the troublingly labelled ‘dry red wine’ was none of those things: A watery pink question mark. But the next day sunshine arrived, at first in a few angled stems through the storm clouds, and then on masse as the clouds blustered beyond the wind turbines to the east. I gorged on the snack food the young attendant at the park gate had given me for free – it had been my third gift in as many days in Xinjiang, a region so full of hospitality I’d given up arguing payment for my meals – when someone insisted on paying, they meant it, and they meant it quite often.

Sayram Lake is edged by whopping pines and snowy mountains, and I cycled three sides of it, halting to admire spreads of early tulips and purple wild flowers. The mileu of ethnic Kazakh and Mongol nomadic herders who take up home here come the summer had yet to arrive from their winter hide outs in the lee of rocky outcrops to the east.

Despite all my failings at Chinese I was going to miss the endearing Chinglish and mistranslations, the poetry too. On the brochure for Sayram Lake for instance they described the lake in various seasons: Spring is ‘when the earth takes off the shyness of first love’, summer ‘presents unlimited glamour with a warm posture’ autumn is ‘always sincere’ and winter is ‘when the earth is in a sweet dream’.


Spot my tent…

Rested, I set off to Kazakhstan. The rough road leaving the lake took me to a series of crumbly switchbacks which fell to the brand new highway suspended loftily over a green valley and disappearing on two sides into tunnels. I squeezed onto it by a break in the crash barrier and zoomed down the very Chinese affair: a spiraling overpass which plunged me into more tunnels and sent me rushing over suspension bridges.

The Chinese border town was actually nice, relatively speaking, though perhaps only in the same way that Milton Keynes is nice compared with Mordor. Border towns are scrappy, deshevelled places on the whole, but this one wasn’t all bad – it had a convivial evening food market, Uighur eating houses touting tasty polo, prancing toy dogs and gangs of playful children. I cycled to the border, past a ‘tourist toilet’ – which could have been a toilet for tourists or somewhere for exhibitionists to defecate, I wasn’t sure. The only other foreigners at the border were a foursome of Aussies on motorbikes whose vehicles held stickers advertising the name of their blog: ‘Bikes and beers’. Obviously every Australian I’ve ever met travelling by motorbike is irrevocably entrenched in alcoholism, but rarely are they so forthcoming about it.

Crossing some borders feels more significant than others, and this one was more than a switch of nations – it was entry point to my first ‘stan, gateway to Central Asia, and goodbye to the east. 

The incredible Chinese highway through the Tian Shan mountains

A poster in Urumqi, China. Burqas are banned, as are beards for young men and other items of clothing. As I took a series of photos of these posters I noticed a CCTV camera was positioned to film everything I was doing, so I did a runner – as a man in Beijing glared into a monitor?!
The Highway towards Kazakhstan
Despite a host of other dialects, Russian can be a considered the lingua franca for much of Central Asia, and especially eastern Kazakhstan – 30% of the population of Almaty are ethnic Russian. I’d failed monumentally at Chinese: it had gotten so bad I’d avoided asking for essential items like sun cream because it was easier to wait until I was scarlet and peeling and then point painfully to my skin in the chemist, that way I didn’t need to bother about using the correct homophene or tone. But for Russian, I had a head start. I’d studied it in school, even scoring an A at GCSE. It was time to unpack it, blow off 18 years of dust and stumble through my first conversations. 

I stopped to buy apples because I’d recently read that apples originated from Kazakhstan, in the wild apple forests of the Tian Shan – a fact discovered after sequencing the fruit’s genome. I pointed to some small green ones ‘NYET NYET!’ voiced the vendor, switching to English. ‘These Jackie Chan apples. You want Steven Seagal apples’ he said holding aloft weighty red ones. Seagal retains a legendary status here, as do the 80s and 90s in general. Tiffany and Tina Turner are regulars on the radio and denim jackets never left vogue. Later, as I introduced myself as Stephen to Kazakhs, it was always Seagal that people then yelled at me fervently, never Speilberg, or even Gerrard. Seagal is the most famous Steven in the old soviet world by a mile.

I didn’t think it possible to pine for a colour, to envy green. A wintery China had been a place of brown tilled fields, naked trees and snow. Mongolia’s steppe and Gobi desert were similarly beige sprawls, until the spring snow arrived and my world was bleached again. As Kazakhstan neared there was a resurgence of green – life-affirming, vivid, sigh-bringing colour flushed the hills.


I arrived in Kazakhstan on National Public Drag Racing Day. Unless… wait a minute… they don’t drive like this all the time do they? Fuck!

Busted up Ladas, recalling every horse power they had left, raged over waves of fractured tarmac, and more welcomes were shouted from car windows in one hour than in three months of China. As bizarre as the thought seemed – I actually missed those honking Chinese drivers, at least they paid fleeting attention to my mortality.

The Kazakh steppe was a far cry from the Mongolian version – here was greened by shrubs and dotted with yellow flowers, candle wax coloured rock intersected red ridges, everything smelt of chamomile and sage. It was a Sunday when I arrived, families had left Almaty to explore these frontier highlands and they stopped to gift me bundles of leftover salads and meat. Kazakh people are as proud of their hospitality as perhaps any other national quirk. I was happy to be here.

The next day a pugilistic wind whipped in from a bruised sky hanging about the mountains. By the afternoon it was up to around 70 km/hr, and impossible to ride. What I took for a fuzz of rain I realised with a groan was in fact dust – a gusting and gathering universe of it, blotting out the mountains. Trees, sheltering the odd farmhouse, were savaged backwards, their tops nearing ground level; a bottle flew off my bike for a tour of the stratosphere. Eventually I pushed by bike to a town three kilometres off a side road. A car of young boys drove up to me, beeping and shouting from windows. Drunk. ‘HITLER!’ one was shouting and pounding his fist into his hand. Of all the things to hear a drunk man in charge of a vehicle scream, this was perhaps the least idyllic. I pedalled away fast. Then I saw two old men in suits, a great array of military medals pinned to their lapels. It was impressive that anyone could be so recognisably and unmistakably drunk from one hundred metres, but it was so. When I reached them they kept grabbing my hand and pulling me off my bike, in a fun sort of way, and I escaped laughing at the old codgers and realised that the Hitler remark was probably because it was the 9th of May: Victory Day. Alcohol, patriotism and a dust storm had conspired to make the town people a little mad, and shouty.

A guesthouse let me camp in their orchard for free, the owner was dressed in military camouflage and I had the sudden impression on meeting him that this was what he wore for fun every day, rather than anything to do with the celebrations, or his job. He seemed like that kind of guy. Over dinner, prepared dutifully by two kindly, buxom ladies, he plied me with seven cups of tea and quizzed me without let up.

‘Wife? Children?’

‘Nyet’

‘Which do did you prefer – China or India?’

‘I like them both’

He sneered. This was not sufficient.

‘But which better?’

‘Neither is better. Just different’

‘OK OK. This one is India’ he said pointing to one of the fat ladies sitting at the table. ‘And this one is China’ pointing to the other, and grinning heavily. ‘Now, which one is more beautiful?’

‘They are both very beautiful’ I said in Russian, the ladies smiled at me and I was off the hook.

There is a certain breed of Soviet man. Meaty, thick armed creatures who wade into rooms. I met another selling kebabs from a roadside stall – a door-filler, with gold teeth. We got talking about where I’d been when he said:

‘So you don’t have to fight people on your journey? Punch people?’

‘Errr no. Its been very peaceful so far. Do you?’

‘Yeah. You know, sometimes the Russians. They bit crazy’ He did the screwy sign with his finger to his temple ‘They don’t want to pay for kebabs so I punch them’ he made a boxing pose and threw a few air-hooks. He didn’t laugh. It was then that two Siberians arrived on touring bikes and told me of how they’d just been waist-deep in snow on the Kazakh mountains. I was proud of my winter traverse of Mongolia until I arrived in Kazakhstan where evidently I’m a cupcake compared to men who drag their bikes over glaciers and brawl over the price of lunch.



I passed epic poppy fields en route to Almaty and in the city gave a couple of school talks, couchsurfed and then set off in search of a Tajik visa, but first I needed a photo.

There is something Soviet about my barnet of late – I have cultivated a vast mullet which rivals the one I was sporting in 1992. I’m balding you see, and so the mullet is one last throw of the dice. Only now can I get away with it – mullets don’t sit so well on doctors. Or professionals. Or anyone not on parole.

For the photo I removed my cap, and deciding it would be a bit vain to ask for a mirror, gave the signal to shoot, whilst wondering what was happening north of my eyebrows and looking consequently uncomfortable. The camera man did as he was told – snap, snap. When I received the images I was startled. There was shame, defeat and a deep melancholy all sculpted onto a sunburnt face beneath a stretching steppeland of forehead. Eventually my eyes arrived at a halo of crazy hair, and then noticed the rat tails of the mullet showing from behind my neck. I looked like a balding clown who had presented to an emergency department with something embarrassing up his arse. Perhaps a root vegetable. There was no way I was getting a visa with this photo. I wouldn’t give me a library book.

In the end I was overcharged considerably for my visa at the Tajik consulate, perhaps because the official I got was corrupt (but do you argue the price and risk no visa?) or perhaps because there are two prices – one for normal people and one for redundant clowns and their concealed marrows.

I left Almaty the day after a great dust storm ravaged the city, boughs of trees had been sheared off by violent gales and were tossed into the city streets. The roads were… hectic.

There is, I have noticed, an inverse relationship between the hospitality of a nation and the ability of its people to drive. I’ve noticed this all over the world. There is something adulterating about the warm glow you receive when a stranger stops and provides you a gift, when afterwards they murderously run you into a ditch. So you have to deploy psychology – the ‘safety shuffle’ is a little wiggle of the handlebars when you hear a car approaching too fast and too close, inspiring the driver to believe you’re a ham-fisted imbecile who can’t ride a bicycle and will damage their fendors. Or there’s the lightning fast backwards glance I save for approaching cars I can hear travelling too fast. There is nothing plaintive in my expression, rather a look that says ‘If you come too close there will be consequences, ie. the painful death of you, your loved ones, and a bonfire of your inconsiderate corpses’. Unfortunately this is all necessary because drivers throughout Central Asia are reckless, wreck-prone hot-heads. Really, I’m not exaggerating.

If I had unlimited funds to come up with an invention, this would be it: I would design a button to go on bicycle handlebars. If a car came too fast and close, the rider could press the button, and on doing so a compartment would open inside the car dashboard (I would make this compulsory in all new cars) and from this a robotic terminator-like arm would extend clutching a stinking eight day old haddock. The arm would then thrash the driver around the jowls with said fish until they repented or collided with something hard and devastating. It’s not a very practical invention I grant you, but it makes me happy just thinking about it.

On the way to the lengthier and more remote crossing point between Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan, but one that promised to be more scenic, I camped in meadows and pedalled through gorges lively with the sparkle of yellow and lilac wild flowers. The mountains too were colourful – baize-green and rustily creviced.

Soon I reached the Sharyn River Canyon and cycled down through an eye-pulling corridor of pink rock under a sky where domed clouds dawdled like jellyfish. That night I slept under the stars alongside two German motorcyclists who had taken just 6 weeks to ride from their home country. The bastards.

I’m always a little envious of motorcyclists for what they can carry, kilograms might matter to them, but grams don’t. ‘Pass the honey’ one of them said as the other arranged deckchairs by the river ‘shall we have more filter coffee?’ said the other, filling up a metal coffee-making kettle. Yesterday I had decided against an extra onion on the grounds of weight.




The Sharyn River Canyon, south-east Kazakhstan

The next day I cycled back up through the canyon, the waterforged pink towers of rock looking over me. Back on the steppe, the mountains to my east had been almost entirely deleted by a vicious looking murk and in half an hour a cold wind had kicked up and my distance to the storm had halved. Thunder resounded every second, fork lightning travelled horizontally through the sky, which was now cinder-black. As rain drops smacked me with the force of colliding bees, I saw a village around three kilometres off the main road, reared up on my bike and drove my legs up and down in a race against the weather, elevating my person slightly, and probably inviting a lightning strike. 

The village had a small shop with a metal roofed porch area where I cowered aside my bike, drank tea, ate toffee popcorn and watched the dramatic scene above as litter was thrown into lively swirls by the gale. Vodka-scented men ambled over every so often to inspect me, one asking whether I had lots of money. No, I said. Do you have a gun? He wanted to know. Yes, I said, but he didn’t receive it as a joke and just nodded gravely and stumbled off with new found respect.

The owners of the shop and attached eating house were a kindly couple with three tearaway kids for whom the storm was as celebrated as a birthday. They gave me borsch and more tea. ‘You should stay with us!’ said the lady ‘too cold outside’. Her father grabbed my phrasebook and found the Russian for ‘Guest’ and pointing out the word, he said ‘In Kazakhstan, we love you!’

I was led to a room at the back of the house which had a double bed and, separated by a two foot strip of floor space, a sofa. Contented, I stretched out on the bed and began to read, snug in my sleeping bag as thunder boomed on.

And then the door opened.

In the doorframe stood the owner, smiling meekly, and with him a man and a woman. The man was clutching a bottle of vodka, three quarters empty. They looked like the kind of haggard duo that Interpol might be searching for in relation to a kitten-torturing ring. The way they smelt, and the way they reeled into the room, suggested that for them, vodka was something of a lifeblood.

The owner motioned for me to vacate the bed and move to the couch – I was to have roomies.

I didn’t catch their names, but I can be reasonably confident they were named whatever the Russian is for Donna and Bazza. Donna and Bazza collapsed boozily onto the bed and so I turned off the lights fast to signal my intention of sleep but for the next hour they smoked and drank vodka and didn’t even bother with that husky pseudo-whisper that sloshed people consider the pinnacle of subtlety and tact but is in actual fact just shouting. Instead, they just shouted. Then came the snoring. Not your usual snoring, Vodka-snoring. Loud, much much faster than you think is possible for sustaining sleep, and only yielding when they awoke to drink more vodka, which was almost every hour. Finally, just as I was reaching some kind of breaking point, I heard a liquid splashing onto the floor in a way that left no doubt that someone’s bladder was shrinking. I don’t think I’ve ever used the word ‘no’ so many times in the space of two seconds. I turned on my headtorch, not knowing until I did so whether I would be looking at a man with his cock in his hand, or a woman, squatting. It was a man with his cock in his hand, of course. He hadn’t even stood up, just turned over on his side and fountained piss off the bed. I appraised the flood damage. Thankfully most of my kit had been spared and he’d done a gratifyingly thorough job of pissing over his own shoes, which I’m sure could be a good metaphor for his life up to this point.

Afterwards the snoring became even more lip-flapping and sonorous so I put my buff over my eyes, headphones in my ears and tried to ignore the smell of piss. I slept for maybe an hour all night.

The next morning they were all laughter and cigarettes, and still quite drunk. I was particularly glad to watch Bazza groggily reach for his shoes, yank them on, and make a puzzled face. Donna just began shouting merry questions at me, most of which I struggled with, and she kept turning to Bazza to shout ‘You see, he doesn’t understand ANYTHING!’

She was only partly right. My Russian might be rusty, but I do understand one thing: to avoid damp shoes, use a toilet.

I was tired all the next day, but the steppe was sunnied and storm-fresh and fragrant, which made me feel better. I climbed through the Kokpek gorge, absorbantly slow, and began to think about all the reasons I love bicycle travel, of how the languid pace of it allows for detail to sink in and seduce. They might have crossed Europe and a sizable chunk of Asia in better time than it will take for me to reach the next country, but could the motorbikers remember all the different hues of the wild flowers as they careered by? Could they recall the butterflies or realise the rust colour of the rocks was lichen?

I was about 2000 metres up when fields sheeted with yellow flowers came into view. In spaces between far mountains there was no end to be seen – yellow met the sky – it was wonderful. 




That night I camped close to the small border post, which had opened for the year just a few days before. The unbroken sprawl of flowers had retreated, leaving just sprays of purple and gold. The still-snowy Tian Shen mountains leered over the Alpine-beauty splayed beneath.

I crossed the border and my British passport met the usual quiz about the merits of various premiership football teams. The best way to avoid a delay at customs is to know something of Liverpool’s midfield.

In Kyrgyzstan I immediately met plump green hills scattered with conifers. I’d planned on a much lengthier route up four thousand metre passes, seduced by the absence of tour reports online and the promise of a rare experience in the hills. But I had a change of heart.

The first hills were agonising, my bike too heavy, my knee too newly recovered, my knowledge of the passes too scant. Snow sat in patches at just 2500 metres. In effect, I wimped out. Only later did I read a section in the guidebook which explained my proposed route would have been impossible since the bridges maintained in Soviet times had collapsed since independence – it was a good call.

As I meandered slowly up a 20% grade, cobbled in jagged stones, two men arrived on horses. Seeing my sweat-beaded face peering up at them inspired the younger (and drunker) one to help. He took a rope, one end of which was attached to the bridal of his horse, and began tying it around the stem of my bike. I was getting towed, whether I wanted it or not.

I managed a few more ‘no’s than my previous record breaking fusillade. It was so evidently an appalling plan, but he’d already tightened the knot. I thought then the horse would bolt, provoked into full gallop by my wailings of ‘NYET! NYET!’ and his competitively loud ‘DA! DA!’. It would be a calamitous chariot: a runaway horse dashing up a steep mountain dragging behind it a toppled loaded bicycle, panniers tearing, metal scuffing, a racing shrapnel of bolts and nuts filling the air.

Some other nice Kyrgyz guys
The world became ever-lovelier, if that were possible. Herders rode towards me and I chatted a little in Russian, recovering irregular verbs from storage, dusty and stuttered. They flashed me their gold teeth, a popular status symbol, and the women stared at a distance, smiling and piratical in their headscarves worn like bandanas. 

I arrived into the town of Karakol in the rain, and saw a sign for pizza. I don’t recall the next ten minutes of my life, all I know is that at some point in the very near future I was cheesey face to cheesey face with a 30 cm diametered circle of heaven.

I camped for a few days in Karakol, hanging out with a trio from Quebec, visiting museums and animal markets and the town church.

Thank yous: Alina and Kristin in Almaty, Sam – master Yogi, KIS and Haileybury Schools, The Quebec posse, and all the generous Chinese and Kazakhs and Kyrgyz souls.

Next up: Lake Issyk Kul, then a rest in Bishkek where I’ll score onward visas. I’ll publish a new kit review piece too, and in mid-June I’ll set off for a 2-3 week stint of Kyrgyzstan to the Tajik border. And then there’s a few hills to climb, called the Pamirs.