Hello Kyrgyzstan

Ethnic violence is far more destructive than any trans-national conflict. The damage it reaps both physically and mentally on people is far deeper than a war between two nations. Immediate neighbours turn on each because of their genetics and then after it’s all over have to come back and work together again. It’s never really solved simply subdued.

Kyrgyzstan, its current state and whether to visit or not has been a constant topic of deliberation and conversation throughout this trip. I left England the day the revolution happened. I had a friend in the country at the time and had to flee to Uzbekistan. I was in Shiraz when talk of genocide cropped up when referring to the ethnic violence of Osh. So it was with trepidation that I headed for the city which had been on CNN for all the wrong reasons. I decided to travel there and away by jeep, I didn’t fancy hanging around for too long. But this didn’t isolate me from the devastating images which confronted me when I arrived. I’d imagined a couple of smashed windows. How naïve I was, most of Osh was closed down and burnt out buildings were everywhere. But what was heartening was the way the city seemed to be getting itself together and moving on. I couldn’t make a distinction or a real opinion of what had happened, there is too much history and politics dating back beyond Stalin sown here. I didn’t take any pictures simply because it didn’t seem right, I walk around subdued for the next couple of days after I’d left. Kyrgyz people asked me, ‘why have you visited Osh?’ I said it wouldn’t be right to visit a country a not visit Osh after what had happened so recently, it was so relevant I couldn’t miss and say I’d visited Kyrgyzstan.

I ran into a friend, Bogdan, in Bishkek and together we headed for Issikul, the furthest lake from any ocean Russians, Kazakhs and Kyrgyz flock to it from miles around. I hadn’t realized how hard Tajikistan had been until I reached Kyrgyzstan. The lush green grass and wide variety of food was like a dream after a month of noodles and bread. It was summed up two days before I headed back to Bishkek. As I did some running repairs on my ailing bike in the evening sun, a herd of wild horses sprung out of the woods and galloped straight past me to take a drink at a nearby lake. I was truly speechless. I headed back to Bishkek to catch a flight back to Heathrow and then to Cornwall. My money was finished, and whilst my full plan wasn’t I knew I’d accomplished what I’d set out to do. To cycle the cultural centre of the world and tackle more than a few geographical obstacles along the way.

One hell of a river ford

I'm still speechless

Last day cycling with Bogdan

Homeward Bound (Robb Maciag)

The ‘Roof of the World’ makes the Pamir Mountains sound like heaven. Mountains have such an allure which I, and much of the world so it seems, can’t shake off. Whether the Hindu Kush, the Karakorum or simply Snowdonia, mountains emit a luster of wildness most of our world lacks today. The raw natural living which high altitude brings makes those there respect and learn to love the nature which supports and tests them. So as I road through the Wakhan valley between the Pamirs and the Hindu Kush up onto the high plateau at dawn John Muir’s quotation rang more true than I could have imagined; How glorious a greeting the sun gives the mountains’.

I’d imagined lush green pastures whilst in reality dust and sand were a constant battle everyday. I’d heard how bad the roads were and the rumours lived upto their hype. The road regularly gets washed away in the spring snowmelt and as result bulldozers have to repair huge lengths of it annually making the road extremely patchy and bumpy throughout. But what the Pamirs lacked in road quality they made up for in vistas. Cycling along the Afghan border gave my portal view into a country locked in the past by years of political and military battles. Burnt out tanks dotted the Tajik side of the Wakhan valley and I could see women in the typical blue burkhas we have all come accustomed to seeing on the news. But it all made my wish to visit this country one day even stronger, as usual my human longing to try what I couldn’t have was strong. Leaving the border and Hindu Kush behind I climbed high to the Pamir plateaus which turned out to be pretty chilly but just as stunning. The green pastures had arrived as had the nomadic Kyrgyz farmers. Cycling with Jorg, a sixty something, I cycled over 3000m for about a week to Murghab with night time temperatures going below zero in my element loving every minute of the road I had longed to ride for quite a few years. It lived to up to everything I dreamt it could be.

Chilly Night to Come (Jorg Widmaier)

Silhouette (Jorg Widmaier)

The motorbike only fractionally faster than a bicycle

Catching up on my Daily Mail news (Jorg Widmaier)

Wakhan Tajikistan and Afghanistan (Robb Maciag)

Iskanderkul Camping

Things changed instantly, the boys bowed their heads solemnly, touched their chests and ‘Salaamed’ and the hustle and bustle of an intense Uzbekistan was replaced by a much cooler relaxed Tajikistan. Beer replaced vodka and pipes replaced cigarettes. I love it already. The road was a surprisingly a dream and I cruised for a couple of days but with the knowledge that big passes were to come. Before that I had a couple of lovely homestays, one of which was a melon farm so when I arrived with a huge watermelon and offered it as a guest everyone let a quiet but definite groan, I polished it off handsomely by myself. There is currently a big project in Tajikistan to replace the ailing passes with nice Chinese tunnels. Subsequently the passes have been left to disintegrate and disintegrate they have. The first pass was marked by 15km of gruelling uphill where the road was littered with pot holes and rubble (a sign of things to come I imagine). But the down hill was beautiful, once the asphalt had returned the road became a sweeping mountain road through some stunning scenery. The road was empty and smooth and so my speed was pretty high, I couldn’t conceal a huge grin and a couple of whoops as I sped down the 3000m of altitude in about 30 minutes. I was in heaven. The day finished with me arriving at Iskanderkul a beautiful high altitude where the water, it turns out, is exceptionally cold but fresh. I spent a day resting here with my tent on the beach, partying with a group of Tajikis meeting for the first time in 25 years.

From here I headed to the next pass where the road was just as poor and steep, exhausted I arrived at the pass at sundown, with ominous clouds looming behind me. At the top I found a weater station and I was immediately welcomed in and handed a glass of warm milk. That night as the storm came in and the rain splattered on the window, my host radioed in the readings from all of his instruments. There was no power but I could hear the crackling radio, in the other room, with all the other stations radioing in their reports. I felt a long way from home and isolated, yet safe and at home. The flickering candle in the other room sent a warm glow into my bedroom and I huddled up near to the stove and feel asleep.

What with all the rain the next day the road was atrocious, mud was everywhere, my wheels jammed, spokes snapped and my tyre burst. I was cold, my hands were numb and my bike was totally unridable. Luckily a truck passed on its way to Dushanbe (60km away) so I jumped aboard and brought my wreck of a bike with me. Both the night before and the following morning will live with me for a long time but both were so different in emotion and comfort. It was one hell of an introduction to Tajikistan though.

Melon Farmers

Smooth Mountain Road "Whoop, Whoop"

Rock Fall

Tasty Breakfast at 3300m

A face to never forget

"Mud Mud Glorious Mud"

Registan at Dusk Samarqand

This trip for me has a couple of highlights both in terms of landscapes and landmarks; the Cappadoccia, the Pamirs and Tien Shan. Damascus, Esphahan and Samarqand. They so far have lived upto their name. So after a couple of days in Bukhara, a sleepy town with numerous madrassas and mosques I had even higher hopes for Samarqand; a city which has long filled my imagination with images of blue domes and huge bazaars. Don’t believe the hype. I arrived to find a perfectly pleasant tourist town, but one that was made to look like a museum. It had the blue domes and the big bazaars but also had pristine grass lawns and tailored flower beds, a world away from what I imagine it was like when it was the flourishing centre of the central Asian trade. It was certainly worth seeing, especially after so many years of yearning but Bukhara was definitely the quietly more real old Silk Road town of Uzbekistan.

'Secondary Road' (Julien Nivol)

I split from Ania and Robb in Bukhara to give ourselves a break from 3 full-on months together and arranged to meet up again in a couple of weeks in Dushanbe, Tadjikistan. Having spent three brilliant days in Bukhara, I started to miss the bike and took a smaller road through some of the few mountains Uzbekistan has to offer for Samarqand. As I cycled away from Bukhara, higher and higher I relaxed more and more. The people and the landscape began to change, as usual, the people in the country were at first more reserved but then when they accepted me they welcomed me with amazing warmth and generosity. It was still pretty desert like but as I climbed the temperature cooled and I even had to sleep one night with blanket. However after two days in these lofty regions I returned to sea level to find the climate had changed. Humidity and green plants were the order of the day. I hadn’t realised how much dusty yellow strains your eyes and suddenly I felt my eyes relax as they feasted on the lush green trees and plants that lined the road. I arrived in Samarqand having ridden a bit too hard and fast but reinvigorated and fresh.

Samarqand didn’t dampen my mood, it was just a little disappointment and so after another couple of days catching up with some good food, bicycle chatter and watching Howard Webb ruin Holland’d chances in the World Cup Final I set out for Tashkent. Since arriving in Central Asia the number of cyclists has increased dramatically. This is probably because there are fewer roads and so as a result I keep on bumping into the same people. Its lovely, you share stories, spare parts, make friendships and then ride on knowing that you will probably bump into them again further on down the road. After discussing my route to Tashkent with a French couple, Julien and Stephanie, we decided to ride together, again through the mountains taking secondary roads. This turned out to be a bit of a gamble, the road turned into a mixture of dusty, loose rock and sticky asphalt all which slowed us considerably. After 3 days hard cycling we hitched a ride in an army jeep and head back to the main road only to be shocked again by the humidity and temperature. It was 33 degrees at 7am and 49 degrees at 12pm! It was nicer to cycle and get some breeze than to sleep and sweat in the midday heat. It was lovely to cycle with a couple again and to have some company but they head for Kyrgyzstan and Pakistan so I leave them in Tashkent and I head south for Tadjikistan and some serious mountains, the Pamirs.

Inquisitive eyes

Julien tackling another rubble road

Uphill (Julien Nivol)

Char Minor Bukhara

Driving Sheep (Julien Nivol)

Turkmenistan (Robb Maciag)

Crossing borders can sometimes be a real anti-climax for me, especially in Europe. I expect that by entering a new country you will be entering a new culture. This was definately the case entering Turkmenistan. We cycled from Mashad to the border in three days, in which time I saw England lose to Germany in a Police bunkroom. They laughed themselves silly at the Englishman and as I went to bed they called to me ‘Goodbye Benny, Goodbye World Cup’ I didn’t dare ask where Iran were when it came to football. The following day we came across one of the most intact Caravanserrais left in Iran and when the keeper offered us to stay there we gladly accepted. We spent a briliant afternoon playing cards, eating sweets and drinking tea in the shadow of one of the greatest monuments to old trade routes, a day that will stay for me forever. Reaching the border I really didn’t know what to expect but by crossing a small river the change was instant and certainly no anti-climax. The faces, were suddenly Central Asian, there were women in flowing dresses and long hair and no one laughed at my cycling shorts. I really felt like I had entered a new world.

Travellers Home (Robb Maciag)

Closed countries have always interested me. “What’s there they don’t want us to see?” Bhutan, Burma, Turkmenistan, all countries with a rich and mysterious history which are just crying to me to go and investigate. Turkmenistan is regarded as one of the worlds most autoratic dictatorships, its a country which is built around the notion of one man, Turkmenabat and his book, some pretty heavy doctrine which I won’t bore you with. The government is pretty much the only employer and the gas and oil fields mean its a relatively rich country; its citizens get gas, petrol, electricity and salt for free and as a result they all love their leader. From the pictures it always seemed quite an eery place still reeling from its Soviet days. The latter is certainly true but once again its people blew me away. Their relaxed laughter and smiles were infectious after the rather hectic time spent in Iran. But the Turkmenistan government only grants tourists a 5 day visa which means for cyclist either 5 days of hard riding or the need for some kind lorry or bus driver to take pity on us. So we caught a bus run by a gas company for its workers and we spent a day in the north of the country meeting people and exploring rather than simply sitting on the bicycle through a 46 degree desert.

Before we knew it we had to leave and go to Uzbekistan. Waiting for us at the border was a German guy, Tobias who had heard about 3 cyclists heading his way. We all battled through the border together and headed for Bukhara. 20 kilometres from the city we stopped to camp and save on a night in hotel, we ate a plate of eggs, rice and salad and were settling down for bed when we discovered it was our hosts 30th birthday. The vodka came out and we knew the fun was just startubg. Having not drank a single drop for 2 months the three bottles of voldka did some damage but I think my Russian was helped in the process. It was lucky my tent was only 6 metres from where we drank but we were up at 7am but I have to admit the bicycle definitely did sway on the way into town.

Welcome to Central Asia

Route Making

Road Side Maintainence

Three Musketeers

Heavy Luggage - but tasty

Hard Work (Robb Maciag)

Hard Work x2 (Robb Maciag)

Pee Break (Robb Maciag)

Uzbeki Boy Racers (Robb Maciag)

My Goodness (Robb Maciag)

Smiles Allround (Robb Maciag)

Lets try walking the desert (Robb Maciag)

The thought of riding through a desert two years ago would have sounded ludicrous to me. The idea that I could get some kind of thrill and enjoyment from such a crazy past time would have baffled me and probably still does to many people. But I had been looking forward to getting back on the bike and going out into another, different wilderness. In comparison to Iran, the Syrian desert was tame, water was the biggest problem. Whilst there were plenty of trucks flying past blasting their horns and carrying water it was simply trying to drink enough. I don’t know exactly how hot it was but I can guess it was over 45 – “hotter than hell”.
We were cycling from 6am until midday (ish) and then resting out of the heat for a couple of hours before pushing on until about 7pm. These rest hours were a welcome break but by using a bridge was a shade it worked quite well as a wind tunnel as well. Quite a few of our lunches were enjoyed with an extra seasoning of sand. The wind rather than the heat was a bigger challenge. In the afternoons, when something to do with convection currents, the wind picked up to a fair old speed and usually not in our direction of travel.

The scenery was as amazing as I could have imagined. The dry plants somehow poking out of a ground so dry it was like a tiled floor in places. I wasn’t expecting mountains but the few that poked out from the barren skyline caught the sun and the sky in ways I have never seen before. Because of the constant heat we slept outside but with our tents up just incase of a sandstorm and the nightsky was the best so far. Not surprising considering we were over 200km from any city.

After reaching Tabas I headed on an odessey of a trip to Tehran to collect some much needed money which involved 2 lorries, 2 buses and a lot of begging. But arriving back in Mashhad I realised how much I was looking forward to heading into Central Asia, a bit of a mystery and a whole new adventure awaiting.

But not before an awesome chocolate icecream sundae!!

Birthday Celebrations with another crazy family (Robb Maciag)

Yadz Alley

The Storm is a' coming (Robb Maciag)

Desert Ground (Robb Maciag)

Yadz Mosiac

Esfahan Tiles

There are many emotions on this trip I think I can cope with and overcome; loneliness, exhaustion and boredom. But I have realised over the last couple of weeks I’m not very good with helplessness. Being a typical man in that I like to be in control, I like to be responsible for my own actions, to reap the benefits and suffer the consequences. But being helpless takes away all my ability to be in control of certain situations and instead makes me rely on other people and situations out of my sphere of influence.

The last couple of weeks have been totally different to the numerous weeks before. Iran is such a big country it was going to be impossible to cycle all the bits we wanted to visit. Because of this and the need for time to make visa applications the last couple of weeks have been spent travelling through central Iran by bus. Visiting Esfahan for the first time was a mesmerizing experience which totally bowled me over. The aqua marine blue tiles and huge domes created an urban landscape quite like that I have ever visited before. I am just interested to see the underground system, when it is finished, which is reputed will be made totally from these blue tiles. The old capital of Persia was such a welcome change to the urban sprawl of Tehran. Tehran struck me as a city built in a hurry, developed really only in the last 40 years with little regard for real human interaction and living. Esfahan on the otherhand was a city built over hundreds of years, developed and re-developed into an urban space in which the human was at the centre of its functionality (enough of all that geography).

Following two days in Esfahan we headed for Shiraz and the home of the Hasani family. Mohammed a keen cyclist welcomed us with open arms into his house and his family of parents four brothers and two sisters. Staying with such a relaxed family was a welcome restbite from the confined tent or box like hotel. Each Hassani has a smile as broad as a mile and all had a different interest which they wanted to discuss. I met my match in Hassan, a geographical facts prodigy, his atlas has been so heavily used it was in pieces, but it was still a source of information and conversation. Living which such a friendly, non-assuming family who let us get on with what we needed to do allowed me to relax quite unlike anytime in the last two months and inevitably it meant I came roiund to thinking of my own family. Its strange even at your most happy and contented your mind drifts off to when it was last so relaxed.

I’ve missed my bike and the simplicity of cycling from place to place and am raring to get going through the desert of 45 C, give it 20 minutes and I’m sure I’ll have had my fill.

A mouthful of Sanjak (Robb Maciag)

Kashan

Skyward

Bananas in Pyjamas (Ania Maciag)

Storm Over Ararat (Ania Maciag)

Preconceptions often shroud our first experiences of something new. We allow our prejudice and inexperienced opinion to influence how we approach and receive a new place, person or situation. For me Iran was definitely was one of these situations. I had obviously heard many stories of how renowned the Iranians for their hospitality and generousity. I had also heard about a country full of fanatical Muslims who want to wipe the West from the map and create an Islamic Republic in every country. I now know which one is more close to the truth, and how influential both media and government are in controlling both a society and opinion.

I had long battled with the idea of visiting Iran. It was country that didn’t really want me to visit. For starters the visa took many weeks and pounds to organise before I even arrived at the border. With the current rhetoric coming from both the West and the Iranian camps, escalation looks like the only road forward. Both want to prove a point and won’t give an inch. The prospect of being in a country which was basically an enemy of mine was a bit daunting. However, the chance of visiting Iran is diminishing with weeks. As the Green Movement become more powerful and the Mullahs grasp begins to slip I believe Iran will slip into a period of civil unrest and social conflict much like the last 200 years.

So as we cycled along the Azari border on the Aras river towards Tehran I my preconceptions began to diminish and the real picture of Iran began to appear. People were not aggressive like in Turkey, or boastful in their property like Syria, they were merely relaxed and comfortable but welcoming to a fault. I believe I have been greeted with extra friendliness to ensure there is no mistake, I am definitely welcome here. On our first night we pitched the tents in a field with the permission of the farmer at 8pm as a storm began to roll in. He came to us, ”please sleep in my house, I am leaving now to get you dinner but please sleep”. Once we managed to explained we had alredy eaten he insisted on bringing us breakfast, which we had to refuse, in the end we settle with a bottle of milk and of course at 8am on the dot we saw a motorcycle arrive with a bottle cold full fat milk balanced on the back, we enjoyed every last drop.

From the Aras River we crossed the mountains to the Caspian Sea. Another world away from the hot dusty hills of Turkey and Iran we have been cycling through for the last couple of weeks. We cycled through a one kilometre tunnel and emerged into a world of jungle clad mountains and humidity. As we dropped down towards to the sea we began to ride through some rice paddies. It was so out of place it felt like we were in Laos or Vietnam not Iran. I was very keen to sleep by the sea so we pitched up the beach only to be welcomed into a kiwi plantation next to the sea. The swimming was a little different from the Cornish waves I am used to but it still did the world of good. And afterward we all took full advantage of the rather ellaborate irrigation system on the farm to take showers. Luckily it was very dark, with the moon behind the clouds, but had it not been people would have seen three very white naked people taking showers under kiwi sprinklers.

I will leave you with that thought…

Buying Sweets (Robb Maciag)

Mountain Leaders (Ania Maciag)

Green Paddies (Robb Maciag)

Sunrise over the Caspian Sea

The Pass That Wasn't On The Map

“Its too steep their sir” and “Oh no, my friend that area is too cold now” and “You can’t travel on that road, their are too many soldiers, you will die”. Whilst there may have been a vain of truth in all the possible reasons why I shouldn’t cycle through Kurdistan along the D400 I am glad none put me off enough. Becuase if they had I would have missed one of the most amazing pieces of country I have ever visited. Judgement and evaluating risk is something I have never really worried about, maybe thats because I haven’t had the fortune of filling out too many Risk Assessment forms. However, now travelling alone in a very rural mountainous region of Kurdistan I was acutely aware of my personal situation and how reliant I was on my own perception. A couple of times I considered turning around or flagging down a truck for a ride because the road I was cycle has long cut through one of the longest but least heard of conflicts in Middle Eastern history. The Kurds.

Ortukoy

Cycling alone was and wasn’t what I expected. I suddenly felt freer to cycle as far and as fast as I wanted which instantly meant that I ended up doing crazy miles. I became aware of how alone I was in such a big country. It is easy when there are couple of you to form a little haven of famaliarity which can be quite comforting when you need it. However, this disappears when you travel alone, there is no back up if you’re down or ill and if you don’t feel in the mood to be talkative then nobody talks, unless its the army. I relished the opportunity of meeting people so defiant in their culture and sorry not angry at its long oppression. When I decided to head off for a week alone I simply plicked a road that was a little longer and more mountainous the others in order to give Robb and Ania a chance to catch up. What I didn’t realise was I’d picked a road that would take me over 2800m and 2 km from the Iraq border.

A Kurdish Shepherd

After six days and nearly 500km of riding I arrived in Van in one piece but more than a little exhausted. It left me to reflect on what was a very exciting but gruling couple of days. I was happy to see Ania and Robb, to have the company and the opportunity to share the judgement, but also eager to try cycling solo again in the not too distant future. We continued together along the edge of Van Lake, a salt water lake at 1600m before heading further north towards the Iranian border and a new country. So as I leave another country so quickly I look back on the last six weeks and try to think of time in my life when I’ve been more content and living more in the moment.

Muradiya Shepherds (Robb Maciag)

Tendurek Gecidi 2644m