Meeting up with Joe in Almaty we were hit with a cosmopolitan city, with tree-lined avenues and cafes, where the rich and wealthy Kazakh’s sat to enjoy a morning coffee.
It was a world away from dry stale cakes, sitting under electricity pillion’s trying invane to enjoy a small amount of shade out on the central asian steppe.
Joe had arranged an apartment for us to stay in, which was great since Tim was still getting over his stomach bug. Beers too were off the menu which was a shame, but filling up on the over-whelming choice of a western products in the super markets wasn’t.
We mainly spent our days wandering the parks enjoying the storys of Joe’s random teaching experience’s, plus being a cyclist himself i think he enjoyed our storys from the road in exchange and upon our departure, he wished he was coming with us over the white peaks which hung over the Soviet apartment buildings of Almaty.
Two days heading back west, camping amongst flowery meadows we reached the border of Kyrgyzstan, but crossing the border wasn’t done without a little bit of drama . After discieding upon our arrival in Aktau a month before not to register with the police, due to reading about some 20 dollar fee and the possibility of having to wait for 3 days, our passports were scanned over by the Kazakh border guards before asking us “where is registration?”. Our faces, knowing this might happen pleaded the dumb tourist, “Wait here”. A second man escorted us to a portacabin with three police men inside. Chatting away they eventually said we had to pay a 60 pound fine to the bank and that he would write a ticket saying our crime which apparently was in the eyes of this man a “serious crime”. Waiting for him to do so, after five minutes of silence we said “So, the ticket”, “Let me try to translate this, can you pay this amount” he replied, to which we said “yes, but we are waiting for you to write the ticket” He looked away as we stared at him saying “can you write the ticket”. Of course there was no ticket and no fine just a slight scare to see if would offer him a bride and seeing we weren’t going to, he told us to see the head of Police.
Back across the road there was no head of police just the same guy who was at the customs post before, who asked us to put 500 tengue in each of the passports, looking in my wallet and the frustrated line forming behind we put inside about 400 for the both of us to which a stamp was quickly placed in our passports. In total our registration cost 5 dollars each and took 30mins.
Kyrgyzstan was a different story, quick and welcoming and that evening we sat in Sukara guest house enjoying a cold beer pleased with our accomplishment in Kazakhstan and to finally being off the steppe. Naturally with us being on the road for Tim’s birthday and the biggest night in the footballing calender taking place we thought Bishkek would be a good place to try to party. By the time the night ended, Man U had lost 3-1 and Tim and I rolled back in at about 5am having danced the night away to some generic pop.
During our lavish lifestyle of partying and watching football, we did have some of the classic Central asian rubbish to get through, like visa’s and permits which were all wrapped up within a few days of endless walking.
We cycled out of Bishkek towards one of the main attractions of central Asia a lake named Issyk kul. The ride there was very pleasant after the long days out on the steppe, as we sat in fields looking up at the ice capped peaks whilst eating kilos of fresh strawberries, which everyone seemed to be selling next to the road or outside beautifully manicured houses for next to nothing. The lake itself personally and i know we only saw a bit, was a slight disappointment, a bit marshy around the edges with cows adding to the stagnant water which made for an evening of mosquito fun.
The next day we headed into the mountains which untill now, we had somehow avoided. The second morning we hit our first climb since Iran, 3030m, which was a bit of shock to the legs. But the down was a world away from the swift decent and memories of the alps. Off road and bumpy it made our hands numb from holding onto the brakes. The road eventually led through a stunning valley lined with fresh water rivers and streams with horses grazing in the afternoon sunshine. We reached a small town called Naryn and to take lunch before heading on towards Osh. The next few days would turn out to be one of the worst roads and hardest cycling we had come across.
Following some reasonable tarmac for about 60km we suddenly hit a rocky track heading off into the distance, It was like cycling on Brighton beach, pebbles which gave our wheels a pounding and corrugations worst than ive ever seen. Percerviering we stopped to by some lunch in a small town called Kok Jar, It had two small shops full of biscuits and vodka, loads of drunk men which stank of booze shouting “koda” and some old lady’s who seemed like they world rather be somewhere else. Asking for bread, tomatoes and anything remotely fresh was greeted with a no, so we ended up cooking what was left of our pasta, combined with some chinese noodles that a german guy had given us.
Naturally after such a nutritious meal we felt on top of the world and began the first of two climbs on the way to Osh. The road had improved to being slightly sandy and whilst clouds formed above threatening rain we crawled our way to the top. Arriving to a grassy pastuers we were kindly invited into a yurt for tea and the local delicacies of fermented horse milk, which is basically fizzy milk which in my opinion is just wrong!. A bumpy ride down hill again, we stopped by a fresh water spring to camp. The next morning we bumped into an Austrian guy called Yusef sitting proudly on top of his motorbike heading the other way towards Mongolia, which to our delight gave us some info on the road ahead plus some pasta as we were starting to run out of food.
There was one more climb of 3000m before Osh and after a few nights of rain which had turned what was left of the road into a small river and the sandy parts soft, it made every peddle stoke harder and harder. By the time we reached the top i think both our legs we nearing their limit even in the lowest gear. Thankfully we enjoyed a lot of downhill on the last part to Osh and the mountain pastures and yurts turned into a fertial valley with shops selling things resembling something that had been grown.
Osh was a welcomed break after ten days of hills and bad roads and we met up with a few other travellers before heading on towards the border of Tajikstan. However we did have one slightly eventful night, after drinking one too many vodka’s in a small disco below a teahouse, myself and a belgium guy were jumped upon on the way home and took a few punch’s in the stairwell of our guest house, luckily they didn’t steal anything but instead experienced a Danny arms nose bleed spectacular, which gave the rough-looking walls a splash of red. Everything is fine now so don’t worry Mum and Dad.
We made it to the border in about three days, which too me was a slight relief and i was happy to leave Kyrgyzstan after the incidents of Osh, also my scars were starting to heal which stopped the constant questions of how i received them to which i started making out that i had fallen off my bike.
Our expectation’s of Tajikistan was of course the massive mountains which dominate half the country, but upon entering in the country through the Fergana valley the high peaks eluded us for days and were instead replaced by an endless barrage of hot, humid hours in the saddle. This ment our routine turned into sunrise starts and siestas in the afternoon. The Fergana valley was rich with fruit trees which produced fantastic shade come the midday heat, plus inevitably a kind man with a hand full of freshly picked produce. I immediately felt that Tajikistan people were far more friendly than Kazakh and Kyrgyz but the one thing that hadn’t improved was the food, Oil does not always mean tasty guys!!!!.
The main road to Dushanbe was surprisingly a strip of perfect, rich black, brand new tarmac, but looking at our map it had the classic bonus of two 3000m+ climbs, i asked myself a few times “what are we doing the tour de France”. The first ascent having wound its way up on the near perfect surface then turned into a rough rocky, dusty track, which was again even more unpleasant on the downhill. The second, slightly easier on the accent due to the continuation of the chinese road presented a tunnel of death at the summit. Taking a closer look myself into the smoky abbiss the fumes which belched out almost made me vomit. So, taking the advice of a passing car who explained it was six kilometers of water a foot deep in places, we stopped a Kamas truck and threw our bikes on for a ride through.
From there it was downhill all the way to Dushanbe, where we sit now with a few other cyclists, the first we’ve met since Oman.
Our plan is to cycle around the mecca of cycle touring aka the Pamir highway then onto China before making our second pilgrimage of cycling tradition to the Karakoram Highway, that’s if Pakistan manages to stay this side of war.
