The Silk Road Mountain Race 2022: Arrived, Riding, and Winning.

Just 24 hours after landing in Bishkek, Nurjamal and two video and production crew members would pick me and my bike up from the guesthouse. Brooks England hoped to get video footage of me riding my bike for a little promo piece. I had planned to be in Kyrgyzstan a month before the race to acclimate and finish the last of the training, so it seemed that it would also work best for the little film.

We would drive for a couple of hours directly south of Bishkek, headed towards Ala-Archa Nature Park. Unfortunately, arriving at the park gate a little after sunrise, it was closed for the next couple of days, to our disappointment and confusion. Reassessing our options, we drove back towards Bishkek. Stopping around Tash-Dobo, the crew set up their camera so there would be a view of Ala-Archa in the background and the soft morning light.

Although I was jet-lagged and sleep deprived because of the excitement and heat (close to 100F during the day), I was full of energy FINALLY to pedal my bike around the mountains of Kyrgyzstan. It had been over ten years since my initial visit on my old steel touring bike, and now I had Baby Yak, which had been built for the mountains.

After riding back and forth on the pavement, we headed towards the Chunkurchak Valley. Finally, leaving the tarmac and finding gravel.

It’s almost like I lept out of the vehicle with my bike and started to ride up the switchbacks. We were fortunate to catch a shepherd and his horses. I rode up the pass to meet him while our camera guy followed up through the field and two others in the vehicle. It would take a lot to get me off my bike after finally getting here.

I had dreamed of this day for what seemed like forever. I was finally able to return to Central Asia with a bicycle. I was here to race in the Silk Road Mountain Race, something I had wanted to do for four years. Something I had worked very hard for, almost every day, for the last year. There is no way to describe how it felt, how each pedal stroke ignited a spark to grow the flame inside. It didn’t matter what happened from then on out because…

…I won!

All that work had gotten me to exactly where I had dreamt of. Magic exists. And I got to share it with others. Nurjamal and Tilek, our videographer, both took a little spin on Baby Yak. I’m still trying to convince them to race the Silk Road someday.

This was the point where we stopped and turned around. I told the crew I would ride down, and they would film out of the back of the vehicle. It was an excellent little ride to test my bike, and my tool canister flew off from the water, cage on the bottom/underside of the down tube. Twice. That would have been fun if I had found that out during the race, so I would strap down the canister for future riding.

I’m still not sure if I enjoy climbing or descending more. I think each is needed to appreciate the other. These were the first miles in Kyrgyzstan since 2012, and I felt terrific and grateful to be there. An overwhelming joy that perhaps can only be understood by those inflicted with wanderlust, infinite curiosity, and a genuine love of two-wheeled travel. I had been locked out of Asia for two and a half years. I was closer to being “home” than I could have imagined. I felt like who I was before Covid threw me off course. I found a piece of me that roams the mountains, awaiting my return.

The last two and a half years have been challenging for me. When I opened up to some people, they shamed me for my feelings because some people had died because of Covid. As if I had no right to feel so sad and confused about my loss and confusion. For years, I was waiting for the dream to end. I would wake up from a nap on the plateau, surrounded by my Tibetan friends and family. They would laugh at my little snooze, and we would resume with laughter, tea, and tsampa. We would dance. We would walk through the mountains. Sit around the hearth of the home and braid our hair. I would be walking towards the sunset of the infinite plateau horizon. It was all a dream.

I don’t expect others to understand my feelings, but I am thankful for those that can commiserate. Many of my fellow ex-pats had left China around the same time or were still enduring the insanity. Other friends that were travelers could understand, and many expressed their sympathies. They knew how much I loved my Tibetan and Uyghur lands and what an emptiness I carried. I remind myself that I can understand the diasporas a little more because of this experience and the inability to return. I will be a better photographer and, more importantly, a better human when I can return.

Getting here. Now. To Kyrgyzstan was one of the first things I have done for myself in a very long time. I spent over a decade working and saving every cent to pursue projects with Tibetans and Uyghurs. There was guilt if I wasn’t on the path to helping others. But I forgot to care about myself along that route. And so, for the last year, I put everything I had into getting to Kyrgyzstan. To arrive at that start line and try to finish one of the most difficult bike races in the world. All I wanted was to get here. And I did.

And I won.

The sun is rising in the sky, and it’s getting hot. So we decided to return to Bishkek to rest and return to the mountains later in the day.

Strava route can be found here.

Images of Bishkek

The heat is unbearable during the daytime hours. I can barely get any sleep as my hostel dorm room has no curtains, and the AC isn’t turned on. I believe this is for the best, as I think it will help me acclimate to the heat, but I think the lack of sleep eventually caught up to me.

Around 4 pm, we loaded back up and drove Southwest of Bishkek towards Kegety Pass. I remembered part of the route out of the city from the first Silk Road Mountain Race in 2018. Fond memories and somewhat surreal. We would turn off before Kegety and head towards the same mountain range but up Alamedin Gorge.

Glaciers in the background peaking over 15,000 feet, fresh water, and that alpine landscape. I seem to be getting closer and closer to the heavens.

I was able to ride a bit of double and single track. The bike is so light and nimble without gear, and wishing I could ride every day with a nearly bare naked baby yak. I could imagine I was back in Colorado or Washington or returning to when I was riding my fully loaded touring bike around Tibet. Sometimes I think about how heavy that bike was with all the gear and imagine what it would be like to return with such a lighter setup.

Up the Alamedin Gorge, you’ll find fresh flowing water, flowers, waterfalls, and hot springs. Small villages are lower, but it gets much more remote after the last village at the bridge.

Strava route can be found here.

While we were up there, where the road ended and turned to single track, Nurjamal found her “dream house.” And to be honest, it was mine too. However, the house seemed out of place for Kyrgyzstan as it seemed to be entirely new construction, well cared for, and even a guard sitting on the porch.

Again, I couldn’t resist riding down the gorge on the bike and would take the lead from the vehicle considerably. Washboard and washed-out roads are much less demanding on bikes. I took a little detour up a hill with my extra time and then found an apricot tree to enjoy the first fresh fruit of the trip.

The van would arrive, and I reluctantly loaded back as I wanted to ride forever. Finally, I felt back to myself. Before returning to Bishkek, we would catch the sunset and record a few moments of my riding on the road. A small car came around the corner and swerved to avoid me as I rode back to the vehicle after a short descent. I would ride this road again when I left Bishkek for Osh in a few days.

On the third day, July 14th, we would meet later. Again, I had difficulties sleeping in the hostel. A couple of guests didn’t want to turn the lights off, and one stayed up all night on her computer. This coupled with the heat, I couldn’t sleep and knew I was asking for future problems by going into a sleep deficit. So I decided to leave in two days to head into the mountains, where the air is cooler, and I can ride while catching up on sleep in the evenings.

Jet lagged and sleep deprived, I took a walk early in the morning to get the last of the supplies and food to head me out on the road towards Osh. I was estimating a week to ride but knew I would have some villages where I could refill supplies. But, I was looking forward to getting away from towns and more into the remote mountains. Also, loading up on extra gear would allow me to train more with weight for the race.

The quiet morning through the parks and a city just coming to life felt so welcoming and comforting. It reminded me of all the walks through China. When I lived in Shanghai, I would walk everywhere during all hours of the day—sometimes starting at 4 am or 4 pm. I would walk and have all my senses wake up while clearing my mind. Even though I grew up in a small town and love getting lost in the mountains or roaming the plateaus, it’s the big cities where I feel the most anonymous and unnoticed. No one cares about you or what you’re doing. You walk, questioning your existence. Does no one notice me? Am I even here?

The street sweepers pull at my heartstrings. It was one of the first things that captivated me about Asia. Especially during my first visit to China in 2007. And then, during my 2010-12012 bike tour, I would spend countless hours with street sweepers on the side of highways or in the middle of villages. Then when I would continue doing long-distance walking and hitchhiking, they were still the ones that provided me proof—that proof of existence.

The roses of Central Asia. You can’t miss them. You’ll find them in the parks and along the tree-lined roads. You’ll find them in the homes. That morning the smell seemed to float among the cool breeze trailed by the heat that would soon engulf the city.

Then there are the groceries. I can’t express the feelings I have when entering a supermarket in Asia after nearly three years. The colors. The smell. There is something so very different than those in the US. There are some different methods, too, but I understand it all.

It feels like I’m home. I’m finally home. Close enough, at least.

I don’t know how to describe it. It just feels right. It feels as if Bishkek hasn’t changed since I first visited in 2012. It feels comforting to be around women covering their hair in scarves and men wearing doppas. I would do nearly anything to stay forever. To stop time. To pause the progression.

That is one of the biggest inner turmoils I have been battling since leaving Asia. The passing of time and looking at the last decade and seeing what I did “wrong” or should have done instead. Where did that time go? I was bouncing around Asia for nearly ten years, having the time of my life. Then it ended. I took things for granted. Too often, I said, “next time.” I learned a harsh lesson: sometimes, there really is no “next time.” I don’t know when I will be able to spend time with my friends in Tibet. Or with my Uyghur friends, for more than a couple of reasons. The last three years have been memories filled with longing and regrets, and I don’t ever want that happen to again. I want to make the clock stop ticking and exist in these moments for all eternity.

At the time of this writing, I can at least say I don’t have any regrets from my time in Kyrgyzstan last summer, at least from what I had control over. Perhaps I would have taken more photos, but I did my best to balance a race, riding, and time. Time. The most precious thing we have.

I would go back to the guesthouse to try and rest before going out with the crew in the afternoon. Again, the heat has become unbearable, and I end up sitting outside and resting on the tapchan. The tapchan is one of the things I love the most about Central Asian countries. When I bike toured through the “Stans”, I spent so many nights sleeping on them at roadside cafes or in the backyards of a family’s home. Countless conversations, pantomiming with tea, naan, fruit compote. Especially apricot.

While waiting, I spent some time prepping my things for the road. My Tibetan professor had given me a Tibetan prayer to recite at the mountain tops for world peace. I was also given some time to catch up with my favorite traveler of Central Asia. Alick Warburton. A kiwi that can speak Russian has traversed over some of the most regions and routes of the region. He always has an answer to my questions of the region. An enCYCLEpedia on two wheels. I was so fortunate to meet him in a guesthouse in Dushanbe during the summer of 2012. And we haven’t seen each other in ten years, but perhaps our paths will cross again. And, of course in only the most remote regions of Asia

While driving up to the mountains, I teach Nurjamal the art of “your momma” jokes, dancing in the van, and flower picking. It’s been an absolute joy to share time with Nurjamal again. She is one of a kind, and her laughter and big heart are genuine.

We headed up the mountains to a yurt camp near Kegeti Pass again. We are looking for some nomad camps to film in, but it is challenging to remain this close to the city. There is a tourist yurt camp, and after we could get a few minutes of filming, a not-so-kind boss man chased us out.

Happier than I can imagine.

Me and Baby Yak

Mountains and Yurts.

It’s been a few years since I found myself in a yurt. Even with the lapse of time, I am still very aware of the etiquette and symbolism of yurts and nomadic life. I have to be honest; I have to turn away too often when I see foreigners in yurts for the first time, and no one has told them some of the etiquette or how to eat from shared plates.

The center of a yurt is called a tündük. It is also the emblem of the Turkic peoples and symbolizes their unity and connection. This symbol is found on the Kyrgyzstan flag. It is actually a depiction of the first thing one sees when waking up in a yurt, namely the construction of the pinnacle of every Kyrgyz yurt with three crisscrossing laths across the circular opening at the top of the yurt.

Tilek got another chance to ride Baby Yak, and I have high hopes he will race someday.

After the angry Kyrgyz chased us off for hanging around his yurts, we found a very kind guesthouse owner that was beyond hospitable. He allowed us in his yurt, where we were able to spend some time with him and his wife. We had a little lunch, and then the afternoon finished with a beautiful rainbow and some donkeys I chased down to kiss.

That night, again, I did not get much sleep, and I hope you can foresee enough with the mention of it that it may catch up with me at some point.

The following day, on July 14th, I went for a back massage at a clinic for blind masseuses. It was recommended to me by a local Kyrgyz. Nurshat. Give that guy a follow. I later found out that besides being a cyclist and runner, he helps visually disabled Kyrgyz run and even competes! Learning that and then understanding why he was tied to runners made me cry; what a wonderful soul to share something like that and encourage others to break past boundaries.

After navigating through a beautiful Central Asian garden, I found the complex. I waited outside in the shade and noted all the colorful flowers, clean white homes, and bright blue skies.

The young woman that gave me the massage was shy and apologized for her poor English. I took a taxi more than 30 minutes from the city to visit her. After doing this so much in China, I understood there would be a communication issue. Especially since she couldn’t read Google translate on my phone. I had to use my old ways of communicating and use more hand-holding and writing on hands, than pantomiming. She was sweet, and Nurshat told me she had worked hard and saved enough money to buy her apartment. These are the stories that give me the strength to carry on toward my own dreams.

She did state that my back was “bad”. That is not new news to me. Everyone comments on it. I heard it nearly every time I went for a massage in China. Sometimes the diagnosis was much more frightening than others.

Now, I was ready to go! Tomorrow. Finally. After a year of preparing. After four years of dreaming of this day. After ten years of being here for the first time on my bicycle. I am here. ME. The me that’s been missing for too long. I’m here and ready to go.

If you enjoyed this, please consider buying me a moment to create.

The Film:

Uzbekistan, Part 5: Samarkand to Dushanbe, Tajikistan (July 4 – July 9 2012)

I would arrive to Samarkand with very little clue where to find a place to stay. It’s actually a lot easier than I made it out to be but either way I spent 3 hours in the heat trying to find a hostel. At one point when I was sitting on a stoop in a labyrinth of old homes in the “old town” an ambulance pulled up to check on me for heat exhaustion. I explained to them I was okay and what I was trying to find. The guesthouse was only a few minutes away.

I’m going to apologize now for rushing through a lot of these posts. I’ve grown a bit weary of blogging and sometimes I just don’t feel like pulling out stories, feelings, emotions, and deep thoughts from two years ago when I’m developing and following a different train of path right now. What I’m currently chewing on is basically based on these thoughts and feelings but bringing them to maturity and some coherence. In all reality, I really hate writing about facts and history and am in this mode of digging deeper.

Entering the guesthouse with a beautiful garden, it’s a bit quiet at the moment but see one bicycle in the garden. Over the next week I would make some wonderful new friends, people I still stay in contact with. Samarkand made me a bit lazy but it was great meeting so many like minded travelers. You all know who you are, so I don’t have to go over the roster. There were some great times in that guest house and I would run into some of them again in Dushanbe. Chris-Alex would arrive eventually and we had made plans to meet up again in Dushanbe as he was in Tashkent arranging his Visas. I had also made plans to perhaps run into another cyclist, Jacques, in the Pamirs…but he would carry on but would see each other again in Kashgar over a month later.

Leaving July 4th, as it just seemed like the date to move on, I would head towards Dushanbe and predicting I would arrive in less than a week. I bid goodbye to the few that were at the guesthouse after 3 in attempts to beat the nearly unbearable heat of Central Asia. Towards sunset I would begin to climb some hills and few little descents. There would be moments of a few slight descents down a hill.

A not so friendly couple I met in Samarkand would pass me as I was finishing my dinner at a cafe and they asked me if I was okay. I was actually fairly proud of myself considering they left Samarkand before me yet I sped past them.

I would pull over to a little market in hopes to buy water. Before I knew the entire mud packed shop was filled with children women and men offering me fresh, cold well water to drink from. I sat and drank, and talked, and refilled my bottles. This is one of those moments that still sits so vividly with me 2 years later. I remember walking away back to the road and turning around and seeing them all out front waving goodbye with smiles. There are times I regret taking photographs of all these moments but I sometimes wonder if the memories wouldn’t sit with me the way they do after so much time has passed.

I’m nearing mountains towards dusk and there are men on the sides of the street offering me that delicious cold milk beverage I had given to me by that beautiful Uzbek woman in the Nurata mountains. Passing the bowl to me, I drink. I never assume anything is for free and it cost me close to a USA dollar…I look at as supporting the local economy.

Sun is setting and I find myself riding up a gorge of sorts. There is nowhere to really set up a tent so I wait until near nightfall and push my bike off the side of the road and precariously down to the water. It’s one of the most perfect places I’ve slept, ever. I remember lying there, listening to the water stream by and staring into the night sky…nearly falling into a trance state. What I would do to go back to that evening to hear the thoughts running through my head.

A view in the morning. July 5th 2012
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It’s hot and I have a pass to climb. As I’m climbing I have a young man on a donkey keep asking me to ride the bike. He’s getting close to me while on his donkey. I can sense the donkey not feeling comfortable and I’m surely not. After this for about 10 minutes I pull over and stop. I instruct in English and hand signals he needs to go on. I’m getting flustered and I’m hot. It’s not even 10am yet. I can sense a day of frustration looming ahead…

At the top of the pass, I pull over to use the well water to clean my face, brush my teeth, and have a little sponge bath. There is a van pulled over and there is a small group of men watching me. As I’m sitting in the shade resting and looking off into the distance from the summit, they start fondling my bike and one even trying to get on it. So…what do I do…I run over to his van, open the door, get in, and begin to try to turn the truck on. Yeah…they got the jist. I’m just not into dealing with men today and I can feel it all coming to a point.

As I ride away, I now notice my bike has a puncture. Great. (I can feel myself getting stressed again just as I write this.) I pull over and begin to pull out my tools. Before I can even blink I have over a dozen men and boys shoving their hands into the gears, drive train, and grabbing my tools from my hand. Yeah, I get it, I get it…I’m a woman and you’re trying to be men and take care of this and me. I’ve had absolutely enough and start shouting as I’m being suffocated next to my bike by the men surrounding me and even pressing up against me to get a better view. The lady loony has everyone evacuated within a couple of minutes. Finally, let me breathe and work.

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I begin the descent and pass a stretch of cafes where I pull over to cool off with more water. In the concrete basin at the base of the mountain that the public uses to wash off, I look for the puncture in my tube and I can’t find it. I have a very kind boy help me try to find it. We exchange smiles and a few words, he can’t seem to find it either. I thank him and I move along.

A couple hours from dusk, as I’ve now returned to a flat stretch of barren desert landscape I ride through a very small community lining the road. I go slowly and two teen boys wave me over with a gate open into a home. I stop and look over. They are definitely waving to me so I head over, thinking this could be my safe sleeping space for the evening.

I would stay 2 nights here.

Upon entering the courtyard, I’m instructed to sit down on the blanket and finishing having something to eat with the family. There is an older couple present and teenage girls and younger boys. Within 30 minutes, I have had my fingernails painted and now I’m being dragged into the living room inside the house and a dance party has begun with me and all the women and girls. They are playing Bollywood videos and the song “Jimmy” (Archer) comes on and I’m familiar with this one. Again, dance has brought smiles, laughter, and women together across language and culture divides.

The sun has set and now three of the teen girls and I are arranging our sleeping mats in the garden and courtyard. It’s an open space with grapevines lining the edges. The night desert air is now cool and my mind has become calm being with women and girls. I feel safe, this will be a good nights rest under the star sprinkled sky with young girls talking quietly next me…with the conclusion that I will stay tomorrow.

I spend the morning with the younger girls and boys having tea in the neighbors garden.
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We go for a walk to visit neighbors and I see a magical site. This taxi pulls over and I see a child get out of the right side door of this Lada. Then the woman…then the donkey!
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Spending some time in the kitchen and baking naan in the tandoor.
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I would spend the remaining of the day with this young woman. There was such an intense feeling of trust with her, she could of probably directed me to do anything and I would followed suit.

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From what I was told by her she is the daughter in law of the family and is responsible for all of the household chores. She told me how she missed her family a lot but kind of just shrugged it off and it accepted it as fact. We went to the market together, milked cows…after finding her, feeding the goats, and she washed and braided my hair. Since cycling, it’s been the first time in a very long time I’ve had hair past my shoulders…over the past 4 years I’ve had so many women and girls fingers run through it. I can’t bare to cut it these days, either.

At one point we were sitting in a garden and I was talking with a group of women and children and there questions about my family and America. I’ll never forget their faces when I explained it was night time at that current moment and that my parents were sleeping.

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I would be dragged away from her by this one man and his children…his daughter had been spending the day with me earlier. We rode in his car for about 1/4 of kilometer to his neighbors. I knew exactly what was going on, I was being shown off. He then asks me in front of a group of men and a few women why I don’t have babies. Then looks at me and says, “Diseased?!” I’ve had enough with you mister but I play nicely as I know that my safety could be at risk. He shows me around and I try to express my indifference and irritation with him. I just want to go back to the women and girls.

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Dinner would be prepared this evening in a different family’s house and I would sleep with two of the girls from the previous night under the grapevines and stars. My favorite gal had left earlier to be with her in laws. Again, as I state over and over…I have some return visits that must be made to Uzbekistan to see some of the most wonderful women I’ve ever met.

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July 7th 2012

A view of the dry and barren landscape. If my memory serves me correctly, I saw a fox of sorts at some time out there. Because of the heat I had to stop as often as possible to get out of the sun and heat. There were a couple of times I really didn’t think I was going to make it through this heat as I was getting physically ill and sick. At one point there was a short stretch of homes with refridgerated coolers along the street. I pulled over to buy cold water and a man behind me got mad at the kid for trying to rip me off. After thanking the man, I bought two.

I spent a lot of time in bus stops in Uzbekistan…a lot. Sometimes with company, human or animals, and others alone. I’ve had cold beverages and even ice cream delivered to me. To all the wanderers going through Central Asia, sit down for a little while and enjoy those bus stops. It was definitely one of the highlights of Central Asia.

After an absolutely exhausting and draining day of heat and riding I catch myself getting caught on a pass at dusk. So the genius I am decided to sleep here. Let me just state that I slept horribly and I woke up with a fine layer of dirt over everything. It’s all part of the adventure and experience…and I would of regretted not taking this opportunity.

July 8th morning:
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View from the road.

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Today would mark the first and last time I attempted to truck surf up a mountain. The road was in awful condition and I hung onto the back of a dumptruck. It was just too precarious and unsafe so I let go after a little while. I remember seeing a train engine on top of the mountain cliff…it really perplexed me and no I didn’t take a photo. I was absolutely drained.

I would ride through some sand dunes on the side of the road that kids were playing in. I pulled over for a little while to spend some time with them but then carried on and would end up being invited into a garden to sleep for the evening. The people were beyond wonderful and they could tell how exhausted I was as I was nearly falling asleep as I was eating. They gave me a platform to sleep and I remembering falling asleep listening to them talk, watching the sun set through a crop field. Another image in my memory I can’t seem to wipe clean. There is no way a photograph could of captured what my eyes saw at that moment and no way would these words come close to conveying the emotions I had.

July 9th morning I would wake up well before everyone and be on my way and hopefully arrive in Dushanbe by the day’s end.

The view of where I lived the previous evening:

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The last 15 kilometers of Uzbekistan was not enjoyable, besides watching women shake the fruit trees and the children popping birds out of the sky with sling shots. It was so hot.

Then there was this boy on a bicycle. He wouldn’t leave me alone. After about 5 minutes of him harassing me I stop, get off my bike and starting chasing him screaming. A car pulls up to me asking me what the problem was and I try to explain that the boy wouldn’t leave me alone. I’m hot, tired, and I don’t know how much more of men I can deal with. I can’t recount the exact day but I had a beer can thrown at me from a car window going up a hill that was under construction and riding in loose gravel. Cars were riding so close behind me that if I were to spill I would of been immediately run over. The constant sexual harassment from men and if they weren’t harassing me I could see in their eyes what they were thinking. I wanted to get to Tajikistan without any more problems.

There were also some really great men, the majority were very kind to me. Like everywhere, the countryside and common man is generally harmless.

I get to the border and the Russian speaking Uzbek border guard demands to go through all my bags including my netbook. I had been warned of this and played by her rules and continually explaining to her repeated question, “what is this”, “what is this”?

Going through the Tajik border control I get to the other side and go into a cafe to eat and rest…and debate on hitching a ride with one of the dozens of taxis on the border.

After a couple of hours of sitting in the shade mulling over my decision I decided to talk to a taxi with a station wagon. We await for more people going to Dushanbe and when they arrive, we leave. I was extremely happy with my decision as the road was under construction and would of easily taken me another day.

Being let off at the only guest house in Dushanbe, I open the door to see a yard of over a dozen tents and an overwhelming amount of people. The not so nice cyclists from Samarkand arrive almost right after me and I admit to hitching a ride for the last stretch. Of course I get shit for this but you know what…don’t judge me. I know they had only been on the road for 3 months at this time and knew nothing about me nor knew what it was like to travel as a solo woman. A man with Ural would hassle me a bit about it too…but after my shower he and I would spend a few hours chatting. Interestingly enough, our chatting has continued for 2 years and I just Skyped with him this morning. You can read about his adventures here: http://advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=923656

To be continued…

It’s now mid July and I’m planning on doing a month adventure in the next few months. I’m awaiting to hear back about a bid on a job that will arrange my schedule accordingly.

Also, I’m looking to do another Kickstarter to continue some projects in Bangladesh.

Again, thanks to all of you, old and new fans, for following along and all the support over the years. I’m not sure where I would be without all of you.

LOVE!

Uzbekistan, Part 4: Bukhara to Samarkand (June 21st – June 26 2012)

Arriving to Bukhara by ten o’clock am, as I had been on the road since 4 am because of the previous night’s assault.

I arrive into the city center and begin looking for hotels in the area. Roaming around and around and around in the heat, I feel myself coming to a near collapse. My cure for most ailments is ice cream and a cold soda.

Walking over to a market where I can refill my SIM card so I can access Google Maps and grab an ice cream.

Sitting on the curb in the shade, trying to regain my since of my direction, I notice how ill I’m beginning to feel.

A young Uzbek comes up to me and tries to speak with me in broken English. He offers me a cold Coca Cola in a glass bottle and we sit trying to communicate about the usual basics. I finish the soda and he offers me another with exclaiming I should wait as he wants to show me something.

He returns with a laptop that appears to have a bootleg video playing. I can hear the vague sound of English and realize he’s grinning at me as he’s showing me pornography. Setting the soda down, I say thanks and leave.

Very kind locals help me navigate through the historic part of Bukhara to find a hotel. The first one I try I notice it’s all women around and taking care of the business matters. After the past couple days this is exactly what I want and need. I pay the basic fee for at least three nights, load my belongings into a small and simple room and literally collapse. Physically exhausted. Something much more than fatigue and my body is not feeling right. It is reminiscent of the days of dysentery but my head feels messed up as well.

For the remaining of the day and into the night I’m drinking my emergency supply of drink supplements for dehydration. It’s the only thing I can think of since I’ve been in the desert for so long with the blazing heat down on me ever day.

Once it cools down a bit and think I can actually leave the room, with no appetite, I walk out to the center area of the old town to refill my water supply. Walking back to my room I see a young man with a touring bike talking to a local girl. It’s been ages since I’ve seen another cyclist and of course introduce myself and we begin chatting.

His name is Chris-Alexandre of www.allschoolproject.ch

He is stuck in Bukhara for about another week as he was bit by a dog and tending to his rabies shots. Both of us are ill, him from the rabies treatment and me from whatever I’m suffering from. (It turns out that many cyclists will get sick in Bukhara, and Uzbekistan in general, and we hear it may have something to do with the cooking in cotton oil and our bodies not being able to process it.)

A little site seeing in Bukhara as I don’t have plans for staying as it’s extremely touristy and I want to be back on the road. I have also been spoiled by kind strangers helping me and in Bukhara I’m scammed by a man who wants to show me around. This post is starting to sound like a lot of negative things so I’d like to not go into detail as Uzbekistan is still one of my favorite countries and the hospitality I was shown was some of the best.

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It was great spending a few days with Chris-Alex and making plans to meet back up in Samarkand. He had befriended a wonderful young local woman that sold her paintings and her mother had another shop of porcelains and souvenirs. I would end up buying a few of her paintings for Christmas gifts.

I would leave Bukhara on the morning of the 24th of July, 2012.

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…and OF COURSE, by now you’ve learned I do anything I possibly can to not take the beaten path.

It’s a little difficult to navigate to the small road I found on the map but locals help direct me at a busy intersection on the edge of town. Of course I’ve gotten a bit of a late start and the sun is beating down on me and I can feel my body weakening under the desert sun. As I approach the small road for the turn off after about an hour of riding, a car pulls up to me and pours out cold water from a thermos. Sitting here, writing this nearly two years later, this memory is still so vivid. I remember how amazing the cold water felt in my mouth and going down my throat, almost as if dropping my body temperature by a few degrees. Their smiles and waves will never be forgotten; they helping out a stranger and guest in their country and me being so thankful for such a gracious and simple act of kindness. Cold, clean water. That may have been one of the most memorable drinks of water of my life.

Before finding camp that evening, I had a nice man offer me to come watch a football (soccer) game with him. If my memory serves me correctly, it was the World Cup and is quite popular everywhere in the world. After being in a touristy city for a few days, I politely decline, and fantasize about being all alone once again in my tent.

I am now all alone on the golden road to Samarkand.
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The Golden Road to Samarkand by James Elroy Flecker
HASSAN:
Sweet to ride forth at evening from the wells,
When shadows pass gigantic on the sand,
And softly through the silence beat the bells
Along the Golden Road to Samarkand.
ISHAK:
We travel not for trafficking alone;
By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned:
For lust of knowing what should not be known
We take the Golden Road to Samarkand.
MASTER OF THE CARAVAN:
Open the gate, O watchman of the night!
THE WATCHMAN:
Ho, travellers, I open. For what land
Leave you the dim-moon city of delight?
MERCHANTS (with a shout):
We take the Golden Road to Samarkand!
(The Caravan passes through the gate)
THE WATCHMAN (consoling the women):
What would ye, ladies? It was ever thus.
Men are unwise and curiously planned.
A WOMAN:
They have their dreams, and do not think of us.
VOICES OF THE CARAVAN (in the distance singing):
We take the Golden Road to Samarkand.

On the morning of the 25th I would wake up as the sun begins peaking above the horizon. The golden rays turning the sky from black to blue and there is complete silence and stillness of the air. I would sit on my hilltop looking into the countryside contemplating life, feelings; truly living in the present moment and being so thankful to be where I was. On my chosen hillside for camp, a shepherd would greet me as I finish packing up my gear and we make a little small talk. Waving goodbye, I’m on the road just as dawn breaks.

Later in the afternoon I would be sitting on the side of the road looking out into cotton fields.

A boy comes up to me and starts trying to speak to me in English. He leaves. He then returns with his mother and younger brother. I remember her being beautiful and she refused to let me take her photo. The three of us sat on the side of the road together for about an hour just staring out into the fields and talking on occasion. They would leave for the late afternoon nap, and I’m left alone again, but not for too long.

A car pulls up and 4 men exit. I’m asked if I’m French and I say “no”. Then the jokester puts his hands on his hips and starts thrusting his pelvis back and forth while saying “sex sex sex”. I’m utterly disgusted and get up and leave.

At night fall I would go into a cafe hoping they would let me sleep outside after I eat and pay for my dinner. The usual questions are asked but I’m not invited for a stay and see no women around anyhow. It probably wouldn’t be the best after this streak of luck I’ve been having.

I ride my bike into the night for about an hour until I see a cleared field. Pushing my bike down through a ditch and heaving it over dried grass, I walk about 2 kilometers from the street. I throw my tent up in just a matter of minutes and collapse.

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The afternoon of June 26th 2012 I would arrive in Samarkand.

Uzbekistan, Part 3: Nurata to Bukhara (June 19th-June 20th 2012)

I wake up before everyone, on the porch with the three young girls I had giggled into the night with.

The sun is just beginning to light the sky to a saturated navy blue. Heat is all I can think about at this point, even with the cool desert breeze going over my dry and burned skin. The few moments before pulling myself up from the sleeping mat, I take a few slow deep breaths and give myself my morning pep talk. It will be okay, today will be good, I will not suffer too much, I will stay alive and find a safe place to stay for this evening. I will listen to music and think about things that need to be thought about. I will work through some of my inner demons and acknowledge my insecurities. I miss my family. I miss my friends. I feel good, I feel strong…I am strong.

Yesterday, the eldest sister had braided/plaited my hair. It hadn’t been washed in a few days and needed a comb run through it. When we had been sitting on the patio, about a dozen of us. She grabbed her comb and came and sat close next to me, letting me know what she wanted to do. I smiled gratefully and nodded yes and took my rubberband out of my braid. I begin to finger comb the braid/plait out and I then feel her hands run through my hair, finger tips gently brushing against my scalp…

…my eyes begin to water and I hold back tears. My eyes are leaking, there is something I’m feeling that I’ve never felt before. An emotion that seems recognizable yet so distant and strange. I have been extremely emotionally neglected, I have gone more than a year without human interaction or intimacy. I’m not talking to a sexual sense, I’m talking when you share a moment with another soul when you let your guard down, you allow them in, you share a connection. I have to hold back from sobbing as she runs her hands through my hair, then the comb, but as she plaits/braids my hair I feel as I almost want to fall back into her and be held. This seem so out of character, so strange for a woman that goes days, weeks, months thinking…and more importantly convincing herself, that she doesn’t need so much human interaction. That she is a loner. You know, as I type this a year and a half later…I’ve only had about 3 fleeting moments since then…of intimacy. Hugs, kisses, and quality conversation is so under-rated. When you haven’t had something for so long you truly cherish the moments of someone embracing you. (A few weeks from this day I will notice another change in me. Since I’ve been “home” I’ve really made an attempt to hug and touch people, because I became too “hard” and scared.)

I wake the younger sister as I put my bag on my bike and she leads me to the road where her sister and mother escort me. It’s been an emotional 12 hours and as I hug the sisters and then the mother, I again hold back tears. There is something in their eyes, something that their soul speaks…it seems we all have some sort of suffering and past words and language barriers, we are all speaking to one another. I call her “mother” and the two “sisters” in Uzbek and thank them. Holding back the tears I ride off towards the bright orange sunrise. I can’t look back…I can’t bear to see their faces. There is a part of me that wants to stay, to live a simple life, to have company, to feel a connection, love, and tenderness.

The day is uneventful as I’m back on a main route to Bukhara. I notice the traffic begins to pick up and the heat gets nearly unbearable again. Stopping for water and shade as much as I can but the shade is becoming minimal.

At sunset I begin looking for a place to camp. It’s all open desert with occasional petrol stations. The traffic slows down and I ride later into the night than I should, it’s not smart to night ride especially on a highway.

About 80km away from Bukhara I see a petrol station. It’s brightly lit and I could see it a few kilometers away. To the left of it is an abandoned building, I am still in the middle of the desert. There is nothing out here except some desert shrubbery and barely trees. I’m tired. I’m exhausted. I just want to lie down and sleep. I’ve been going for over 12 hours now.

I ride past the petrol station and see there is a mechanic working on a truck outside and no one else. Stopping, I look out into the landscape towards the abandoned building. Do I dare explore it and stay inside. There is always a fear in me of camping too far off from a main road. Because it’s a main road, there is a likely possibility of having night visitors. If it weren’t a main road, I usually have less concern. My rationale is if I’m close to the road, if I have problems, it’s easier for me to get help from possible traffic.

Standing on the side of the road, taking a moment to stare into the skies above and noticing how black it is, everywhere. Except for the stars, the moon, and the petrol lights.

I find a place to take my bike off the road and into the sand. Pushing my bike just to the edge of where the petrol lights hit…it lights a triangle out to each side. Probably the length of a half a football field. I had waited to see the attendant go inside or to not be visible.

Pushing the bike through the sand, there is no way I can make it to the abandoned building. Deciding I’ll just lean the bike against a bush and roll out my sleeping mat. *Let me just state NEVER do this in the desert. After what I saw in the early mornings, it’s very very unwise to sleep in the open desert without protection from spiders. When you’re exhausted, sometimes the brain isn’t up to par.

After lying down for about 15 minutes I noticed a flash light. The attendant has spotted me and he’s walking towards me. He then turns back, I assume I will be okay…he’s given up. No. Now he drives a jeep over to me.

He’s a very large man. Asks me what I am doing and he tells me I can sleep in the petrol station. I don’t want to. I’d rather stay out here. He’s insistent on it. So, with very little light I try to pack up my stuff without too much of a hassle and push the bike to the petrol station.

I follow him and roll my bike inside the garage and he directs me to a couch in an interior room next to the garage. I sit down and he explains he will be outside working. It’s around 10pm. I lie down, the room is boiling…I wish I was outside where it’s cooler.

He pays another visit shortly and puts a blanket over me. You’ve got to be kidding me…I’m like a roasting piggy now. What’s worse, the blanket is making my skin crawl. It feels as if my skin is moving and being bit. This is horrendous. As I hear him banging and working on the truck outside, I throw off the blanket and mutter some words about him being an idiot and this filth and go to the garage. I grab my my tent ground cover and go outside. We make eye contact and I explain with hand motions that I’m going to sleep outside next to the garage. I find a place that is shielded by the bright lights.

The skin is no longer crawling and the cool desert breeze dries the sweat off my body within just a couple of minutes. I couldn’t ask for anything better, minus the lights and the constant mechanic’s sounds. There are also brief moments of conversation. My senses being on full alert, I awaken often but not for too long. I figure if I can just get a few hours I’ll be okay for the following day. Only 80km.

Although, every time I wake up I notice my body clenching up more and more from the cold. The temperature is dropping fast and the desert wind picking up. At first it felt good but now it’s beginning to get cold. The shivering begins and I apprehensively get up and grab my ground cover. Going back through the garage, I put my ground cover back in my bag…my bike is packed and I’m ready to leave at a moment’s notice.

All I smell is oil, gas, and dirty human…you know that smell of unwashed linens. I lie down on the couch.

I wake up, it’s around 3:30 am, and I notice the noise has stopped. The lights outside have dimmed. Finally, I can rest my head a little and get some sleep.

No. Someone is walking outside. There is the man’s silhouette in the doorway. He had been checking on me throughout the night but at this moment I knew something was different. He walks slowly into the room and sits on the couch, next to me. I can hear him breathing and see him looking at me. He leans in and grabs my chest with both hands.

I grab his hands and push them away from me. In my head, I distinctly remember thinking, “Here we go again, how am I going to get out of this one?!” Previously, there had been people within shouting distance but this time, there was no one else around. “Moseman, you’ve been here before, stay calm, cool, don’t alert him…you’ll get through this.”

Standing up and going towards my bike he stands clumsily and gets in front of me and grabs my chest again. I place both hands on his chest and push him away from me, shaking and trembling but trying not to show the fear. He’s at least 5″ taller than I and large…all I can imagine is a terrible situation, being crushed under his gigantic body smelling of oil, gas, grease, and unwashed hair. “No, get away, I’m leaving”, all said in English. I haven’t got time or patience to deal with fumbling over Russian with another pervert.

Grabbing my bike, I ride a kilometer away from the station. It’s pitch dark and I wait on the side of the road and I know I have at least two hours before I have any possibility of light.

It’s unsafe to try and hitch at this time of the night, anyhow there is no traffic.

I sit on the side of the road, eat a little naan and peanut butter and relive the past 48 hours. How things can change.

Around 4:30 I begin walking my bike and riding when I can. I’ve let my eyes adjust and it’s not too bad.

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By 6:30 I’m pedaling away and at 10am I arrive in Bukhara, exhausted, dirty, and hungry. All I can smell is that man’s garage…the thought of oil and gas making me sick to my stomach.

Trying to find a place to stay in Bukhara, I stop by a little shop to refill my SIM card so I can view maps and buy an ice cream. I feel awfully sick. Maybe it’s the heat. I’m lightheaded and feel on the verge of diarrhea. After I buy my second ice cream and sitting on the stoop, I’m emailing a long distance cyclist and friend that I’ve been in contact with for years. I’ve been telling him a little about the previous days and how I feel so sick.

A young Uzbek shop keeper comes out to talk to me. He brings me an ice cold Coca Cola in a glass bottle. I thank him and put down the phone. We make small talk, his poor English and my poor Russian. When he notices I don’t have any more cola, he asks if I would like another. Surely. He brings out another and he learns I’m American. As I’m finishing up the second he explains he wants to show me something. He grabs his laptop from the cell phone shop, as that’s where I bought my SIM refill from, and sits next to me. Within 30 seconds of staring at a very dark and scrambling laptop screen, he is showing me porn. I look up at him and he’s smiling.

It’s time to go. I find a decent place in the old town of Bukhara for a fair price with air conditioning. It’s quiet and pleasant and I fall onto the bed with exhaustion after a shower. For the remainder of the day I would be running to the toilet and drinking water mixed with packets of electrolyte mix. I’m ill…I’m sick…after all of this.

 

 

Uzbekistan, Part 2: Tashkent to Nurata (June 13th-June 18th 2012)

I could of bee lined straight to Samarkand but I decided to head to Bukhara via the Nurata mountains. After researching online, it seemed there were some guesthouses along the small road to the south of the lake that were noted on a tourist site.

Uzbekistan is getting HOT and this is the time I notice I have difficulties photographing in this intense lighting. It hasn’t been like this since Tibet, yet I’m always feeling like I’m melting. After looking through these photos a near year and half later, my face looks like a lobster. Even with sunscreen and a hat there was no way to avoid it.

On June 13th I would leave Tashkent. (I’m going to zip through a lot of this as my memories are fading fast and I don’t believe I was journaling much more these days).

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There was nothing exceptional the first day except getting out of the city and traffic. Uzbekistan is full of police checkpoints, I believe more so than Kyrgyzstan. The day begins to end and I’ve found myself on a somewhat quiet and easy road. I spot a cafe behind some trees and it looks fairly empty. It’s a little early for dinner but I just figure I’ll eat and then head on to find a place to camp for the evening. Although I’m still on the outskirts of the city, I’m a little worried about finding a good spot.

I roll into the cafe and there is an older man and woman, that my assumption is they are the owners. I’m correct and they wave me over to sit anywhere I’d like sit. I take a seat at a table and I’m served naan, tea, and I don’t remember what my meal was. Eating slowly, I notice there a few other young women working there that take some curiosity of me and the men ignore me or leave me be. It feels comfortable and safe.

When I pay the check they ask me where I will be sleeping. Of course I tell them I don’t know and I have a tent. They tell me no, and that I will be sleeping inside the cafe tonight. I leave my bike outside, take my expensive items inside and sit at the kitchen table with 3 women. We try to make small talk as they prepare food for the guests. The cafe becomes fairly busy and as the sun sets I’m shown to my own room where I’ll be sleeping. As I make myself comfortable, after bringing my bike inside, I’m served a bowl of plov, naan, and water. It’s a bit of a noisy evening as I can hear chatter outside into the early morning but it’s still a  comfortable sleep. Because my bike is not in my room, there is always a bit of paranoia looming over me because it’s not in my site. I just go with it…

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I would head out right after sunrise and I waved goodbye to a woman doing the early morning sweeping. It’s already getting warm and I can remember almost exactly how that rising sunshine felt on me that morning.

Continuing on I would get slightly lost on the 14th. I had entered a city and trying to follow the map to skim along the Kazakhstan border and get closer to the Nurata mountains.

At noon I remember getting so hot and pulling over for a cold liter of Coca Cola. I believe I visited nearly 2 shops before finding one that was ice cold. Pulling over to the side of the road in the shade I would drink it down while applying sunscreen and eating some peanut butter on naan. After about an hour of putzing around I tried to find this small road. It turned into a single lane and all of a sudden it felt like I was pedaling over sand. Is my tire flat?…

I’m under the blazing sun, no clouds in sight, and there are grain and cotton fields stretching kilometers in all directions. There are some homes but everyone has taken cover out the sun. To check my tires I set my foot down and I feel it sink into the tarmac…you have got to be kidding me!? I’m riding on melting roads.

After making a half a dozen attempts to find this small road to the mountains, I turn around losing 30 kms and a lot of energy. It could just be looping and I’m not sure where this is going so I head back and just stay on a main route.

Exiting the city I pass by some vacant buildings and a bazaar.

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I am on a pretty secluded road at this point and a little concerned where I actually am. Maybe my map reading skills aren’t that exceptional…although I do pretty well in China. Maybe it’s not so much as “wander cyclist” as it is some other form. Honestly, I just kind of go in the general direction I’m supposed to be going and I’ll figure out on the way. Perhaps it’s mostly because I hate planning, it’s the most boring part I think. I don’t like reading websites, tourist books, any of that. I just have a general goal and I enjoy figuring it out in the moment. Ooops, have I let a secret out?

It seems Uzbekistan is going to be the country where I try to find shade constantly. Whenever I see an opportunity after cycling for an hour. I take it. I lied down in this grass for nearly 3 hours with maybe a half dozen cars passing me. I’m  not sure what I contemplated, speculated, or dreamed about…but I’m pretty sure it was good. I still clearly remember that spot and the sound the water made in the canal.

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After that refreshing lounge I stop to get some biscuits and some water. Sitting in a bus stop next to a police checkpoint, I have some visitors. A friendly bunch, seemingly innocent enough. The little English they can speak, and the little Russian I can…we have a good time.

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At sunset I would roll into a cafe, more like a truck stop, and hang out with these amazing people. I was also given a place to sleep.

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Now it’s the morning of June 15th. Just after a few hours of riding on a barely two lane country road it’s break time. This sun and heat is killing me or it’s because of all the time off I had in Kazakhstan…or maybe…I’m close to hitting the end of my tour. I think a lot are playing a part here. I’m not really sure what was going through my head around these days but I’m pretty sure it all stemmed from ending my wedding engagement that previous January and finalizing the break up between he and I in April after the Kyrgyzstan blizzard. There were times I would have tears rolling down my face while riding…hell, 2 years later I still had to hold back a few tears walking the streets here in Shanghai. When I tell people I burned my life to the ground and I’m currently rebuilding, I really mean it. There are no regrets, but…well, on with the story.

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And then I stop for some naan…of course…my tour was all about photography, sitting on the side of the road thinking about life, and eating.

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I load up on supplies in this town as I’m almost on the small road that skirts along the northern edge of the Nurata mountains.

I’m drinking more water than I can carry. I can’t keep up. Through these villages I see everyone carrying either empty buckets or buckets of water. Is it so hot that everyone walks around with a bucket of water to carry? Am I absolutely insane for being out here right now. I’m getting concerned about water so I pull into a village and look for water. Someone points me down a village road and I come home to a well, without a cover.

Peering down, it’s about a meter drop in and I’m trying to figure out how to do this. An older woman approaches me and I ask her how to get the water. She gives me a slight smile and moves along and jumps right in the hole. Asks for my water bottles and fills them up. She smiles as she hands me each bottle. Wow…did I really just witness this woman half my height and twice my age just pull a total Teenage Mutant Ninja move…I was humored for the remainder of the day with that site.

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Stopping for ice cream a couple hours later I meet this fella that can speak some English. We sit on the stoop and I buy another ice cream and talk with him for about an hour. He says he’s never seen any other foreigners along this road and it’s summer vacation for him right now. I believe the store keeper was his uncle and his family urged him out of the house to practice his English. In retrospect, he reminds me of my dear Uyghur “brother” Akbar in Korla.

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As I finally see the edge of the Nurata mountains I see a watering station where a few trucks are pulling over to. A driver turns the water on in this massive concrete structure and there are 2 faucets on both sides. The men are drinking the water…so I fill up one bottle with the water to use to cook. I also use this opportunity to wash my face, hands, and feet. The salt is caking my shirt stiff.

Heading west, the sun is beginning to set and there is no one or anything in site. I eventually see these lines of trees heading off the road and into the mountains. I imagine there must be some sort of irrigation for these trees to be in the middle of the desert. As I get closer I see homes.

I eventually reach where a few dirt tracks are heading south into the mountains and the lake is to the north. There is a woman holding a baby on the left side of the road speaking to a man on the right side. There are some children around her and I see about a dozen women along a small pond doing laundry, chatting, and drinking a white liquid out of bowls.

Slowing down to see what the opportunities are here but also playing it cool, I stop to take off my sunglasses and put on my eyeglasses. The woman approaches me urgently with a smile and hands me a bowl of the white stuff. It’s cool, it tastes like milk but with maybe some sort of herbs I can’t differentiate from. I’m not a culinary expert but it’s some sort of chilled dairy drink that’s absolutely delicious. She gives me another with a smile. The women are all laughing and talking louder and hooting at us.

They ask me the basic questions and within a few minutes I’m walking along a broken gravel path to her home to stay the night.

We eat, we talk, we watch a little television in the main room. There is about a dozen of us and one younger man brings back a bag of ice cream for all of us. The food was delicious and after every meal like this all I can do is try to prevent myself from passing out. I answer their questions the best to my ability and I’m in awe of the family unit. The main woman explains to me who everyone is and how they are related. I believe her husband is a professor in Tashkent. Her small child is ill, it seems to running a fever. There were a few moments when all the eyes were on me because the infant really to a liking to me. All smiles and she even held my hand at one point.

Yes, it melted my heart a little. Going months, years, without intimate moments it’s these fleeting seconds that remind me of who I really am. At 34 I’m not really sold on the idea of motherhood for myself, but I remember Uzbekistan had a very lasting impression on me. All the women and children; it was there I realized that if I were to have children, it was going to be like these women out here. Their children never lead their sides and they all take care of each others offspring when in need. Of course all mothers love their children…but there was something different in Uzbekistan. Perhaps it’s the difficult environment, many fathers are absent because of work, and the fact these women are working throughout the day taking care of the home…and at least a couple of children.

I can’t remember her name exactly but it was something like Magdelene, but it is written in a notebook at home in the States. She lived in this large home with her father, her brother and his wife, and the children. Her mother had died a few years before as she showed me her portrait hanging in one of the rooms.

She signaled to me it was time for bed and we exited the home. The two children and she began to prepare the bed outside. Oh my goodness…you can’t believe my excitement of sleeping on this platform bed in a warm Uzbekistan desert night and staring straight up into the heavens. If you’ve ever been in the desert, or out of a city at night, you have a 360 degree horizon of star speckled black’ness. It’s one of the things in life I live for.

I sleep on the edge next to my bike, with the mother next to me, her infant and the two children. We are all on the platform together with barely 4 inches between us. This may have been one of the loveliest nights of my entire tour.

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I do not see myself as special, or exceptional, or anything of that sort. My time in Tibet was when I realized how insignificant I am in this entire world and how my life is such a speck on the map. But when a woman shares her bed, with me, and her family…maybe there is something about me that sets me apart from the herds.

We wake up at sunrise with the sun blazing down on us.

Of course I don’t leave until about 11 after hanging out with them. I watch the naan being prepared and cooked. They send me off with 6 naan, water, and apricots. Of all the places I want to return to on my route, is to this woman. She wrote in my journal a note in Uzbek that I had translated later. It basically was wishing me safe travels and that she was happy to meet me and that she hopes I never forget her and the children. I’ve met many many people along the ways but there is about a dozen of older women that my heart yearns to visit again.

Today, a year and a half later after this story has taken place, in the real world I have people talk to me about feeling a connection. But a real “connection” is with someone where it crosses over language. Where you can sit next to a person, and rely on true feelings, emotions, intuitions, and your gut tells you about a person. I think my time in China and on tour has allowed me to “feel” people like I never have before. More than just a judge of character, but really “see” what they are all about within juts a few moments. When you have to move past words and language, and completely trust your instincts.

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Morning of June 16th are the previous photos and head further West. Supposedly there are guest houses along the way and I debate about taking a small road north towards the lake. But after my experience with “lakes” in Kazakhstan, I decide not to because of the heat and lack of drinking water. It’s dry and hot out here.

Around 4pm I find a sign to a guesthouse and take it. It takes some asking people and a grueling 20 minutes pushing my bike up into the mountains. Let me just cut this story straight but it was a horrible rip off. So badly that I made a complaint to the company that advertises. This is the only time I’ve ever did something like this because I was furious. It probably wouldn’t have been such a big deal if the woman’s sun didn’t keep me up at night trying to talk to me and then sleeping on the same platform bed with me, texting into the night, and horrendous dog barking throughout the night. I’m embarrassed to even say how much money they took me for. Enough that would of last me for weeks in China…WEEKS. The complaint also had to do with the fact that even though I’m a western woman, I was insulted that they thought it was appropriate for a young man in his 20’s to sleep so close to me.

Anyways…it was cute place and I enjoyed watching the neighbors get apricots from their trees. One man would climb up and shake the branches while 3-4 women stood underneath catching them into a sheet.

Morning of June 17th. I do everything I can to get shade and enough water. There is only one stop, with one shop, between the guesthouse of the previous night and the next town I will stay at.

blog-25 blog-26 blog-27 blog-28 I hung out in there for a little while. A boy had escorted me out of the previous town with the one shop, on his bike. He was sweet. I told him he should go back because there was nothing out here. Most of the kids I play along with and their racing games. His bike looked like it was about to fall apart so my biggest concern was he going to far and having a problem with the bike.

I come into a town near sunset and on the edge of town is about a dozen men sitting on the east side of a bus station. One gets up and waves me over. I’m greeted with smiles and waves. He buys me a water and ice cream. Then he buys me another ice cream. After 15 minutes of shootin’ the breeze with these hooligans and watching them heckle this local woman driving a motorcycle, that kept stalling out,  I’m walking back to the man man’s house.

This was dinner.

blog-29 After dinner and right before the sky turns black, I snuggle onto my “kurpa” outside the house with the rest of the family. There are a few meters between me and the rest of the family but it was a very easy going and non-obtrusive homestay. It seems that these moments always appear after a horrible situation.

The next morning, June 18th,  I leave after the man escorting me out to the main road. I ride out just as the sun is peeking over the horizon. Around 10 am I pass this dead dinosaur in the road. I’m reminded to never sleep in the desert without a tent. The lizard must of been 3 feet including tail and a good 4 inch girth. I’m also spotting white spiders with a bright orange back.

At 10am I arrive in Nurata and look for a place to buy water. As I’m sitting outside a shop a young girl tells me to come inside, out of the sun. I end up staying the day with the women in the back yard. The two sisters work on embroidery and the mother is making apricot preserves. We all take a nap inside a dark room around 2 to 4 and then carry on with the rest of the day.

I would stay the night with them. The sisters and I would sit outside along the main street watching traffic and passer-bys listening to my iPod. The mother at one point wanted me to stay with her, in the room with her husband. He had come home later in the day and by now he was intoxicated. The mother’s demeanor had changed from the joking jovial woman earlier to something that seemed like fear. There was some sort of exchange with the mother and daughters and the two sisters and their cousin won me for the evening.

The four of us lined up along the platform on the back porch and giggled into the night.

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You know what? If you haven’t caught on…I LOVE being a woman, alone, on a bike. Yes, there are dangers I have to be cautious of. Some have had the audacity to say I’m setting myself up for some of the things that have happened to me. But through these years wandering around Asia have taught me so much what it means to be a woman…not for myself, but experiencing the lives of others. Never have a I wished to be a man…maybe I wouldn’t have had the courage to do what I’ve done.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I would leave Tashkent on Jun13th and head towards the Nurata mountains.

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

I would love to hear from you!