Choose to live.

“Just choose one, Moseman…both will you lead you somewhere”. At a crossroads where I don’t have a legal permit to be, only 2 buses passing a day, 1 liter of water remaining, eating emergency food rations, and extended time at that altitude was causing horrendous physical effects, I was predicting my demise…you don’t have time to sit at a crossroads examining the paths to see which seems to show a history of more travel or kicking dirt around trying to forsee what will be at the end of each road. It’s not about the path we choose in life, it’s about making a choice and then cycling through with conviction, passion, dedication, free thought, and open heart. It’s not what route you choose that matters, it’s how you live through the journey that you felt was the “right”one at that moment. People say they are “lost”, no, they aren’t…they have chosen not to choose…they haven’t yet begun their journey. How can you be lost in life when you aren’t even living? This ain’t the gospel…just the inner-ramblings of a long-distance-lunatic-cyclist on a saga with skies in the eyes and a fiery heart that rules my journey.

Eleanor Moseman is a photographer and storyteller that cycled solo around Asia and Tibet.

Guess what ya’ll?! I’ve decided to hunker down in late winter/early spring to write the book. Yes…it’s ready to be spilled and chapters written that never graced this blog.

Tibet and Xinjiang

Until Friday, April 18th 2014, I am making a newly published eBook available for free! It’s an electronic version of “Life on the Tibetan Plateau”. This e-version has an added bonus of the text that was printed in the Brooks Bugle.

You can download from here: Life on the Tibetan Plateau

Also, last week a collection of 139 Uyghur photographs were published into an eBook as well. You can download by visiting: Uyghur

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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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New Print Available

On January 21 2014 I board an airplane for Dhaka. From there I will be working on another self-funded project. During my off days of working I plan on doing some motorbike trips around the country on a local bike. At this present moment, I don’t want to give away too much information but the planning is in the works.

There is a new print listed on Etsy and all profits will help go to the funding of this trip. A perfect holiday gift for anyone that’s lived on the road, or needs inspiration for 2014. I just can’t bare to do another Kicstarter at this moment, or rather, save it for something I’ve got brewing up on the back burner.

Happy holidays everyone, and I hope to get the rest of the Uzbek writing completed as I anxiously await my new China Work Visa. It’s been a very consuming process. Special love and thanks to those that have helped me with it, whether mailing items or allowing me floor space to sleep as I had to exit China to resolve the matter. New strict regulations. I guess if it was easy to obtain, everyone would have one. And of course, why should I expect anything “easy” or simple, ever.

https://www.etsy.com/listing/171865510/a-very-windy-road-along-the-border-of?

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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.

Assey Plateau – Kazakhstan June 6 2012 (Part III) Final

I woke up sore and hungry…and not to mention thirsty. I slept okay for the most part, as there were no storms but still had a bit of panic sitting in my gut.

It’s one of those mornings where I pull myself out of my bag and climb out of the tent apprehensively…wondering what the hell am I doing with my life.

Standing outside barefoot  knowing the heat is about to start pounding down,  I debate of what choice to make. I use my camera lenses to attempt to see into the mountains ahead. There are no signs of a road going down the plateau and there actually seems to be something going over the range and ridges. According to the map I should NOT be doing this. I was given directions that I should be passing a home, the only home on the plateau, and was given a DVD from the cyclist to deliver. The DVD had films of previous cyclists that had done this route. This house has not been spotted yet and I’m pretty sure I’ve veered off route – again.
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I plop my heavy bum down on the ground, alternating my view from my feet to the mountains. Slowly turning my head around the terrain…this is usually when I give a big exhale of air and tell myself to get my lazy self up and get my shit together. Slipping on my new sandals that I’ve already begin to tear because of walking through the broken terrain, I take a walk to the road to see what lies up ahead.

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Within just a couple of yards it begins a descent and even without the bike I begin to slip in the tiny rocks on the red clay earth. It’s dry, it’s broken, and I have no idea how I’m going to make it but it’s what I should do. My gut tells me to carry on…the road must lead SOMEWHERE. Or whatever this is, it’s hard to describe it as a road at all, but rather some poor excuse for jeep tracks. I’m going to have to go slow and push the bike for the most part. Most importantly I have to get going because the summer heat is going to boil me alive.

I begin the day around 11:00 and ride for a short bit, with a bit of walking and slipping, and within 15 minutes I spot the small house. It’s leveled out terrain with some trees and flowing water around it. Lying my bike down, I deliver the disc with a smile…hoping for an invite in, at least for some water and breakfast. I haven’t had a bite to eat and I’m running low on water. He looks at me in confusion, with my horrible explanation in Russian. It’s not worth it and I continue on.

As I’m leaving his home and yard area, there is water flowing under some trees. I see some animals around and I question the cleanliness of it. It seems stagnant in areas and I pass it.

The terrain is still holding it’s level but the trees immediately disappeared and I’m surrounding by red clay and cliffs…and it’s getting HOT.

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This route confirms that it’s much more difficult going down than going up. There are spots I have to get off the bike because braking doesn’t work and all it does is slide me down the road with the back wheel trying to go faster than the front, causing minor spin outs. Either I’m sliding on my bike or I’m holding onto my bike walking her down and slipping nearly the entire way down. Of course I remain calm, not a peep from my mouth, cool as a cucumber…knowing I have to do this and there is no point in throwing tantrums or cursing.

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Traveling solo teaches you, and you come to realize, that outward expression of emotions is only for the benefit? of others that surround you. There is no reason to curse, or scream, or even laugh…when you area all A L O N E…AND NO ONE KNOWS WHERE YOU ARE…let alone hear a peep that comes out of your mouth. Don’t get me wrong, I still get a mad woman cackle of laughter every now and again, and of course a few tears here and there, but I see it as more of a release of emotions for stability.

I’m able to ride a whopping 2-3 kilometers up a slight incline to find myself on another type of road conditions. Things are beginning to look a bit more hopeful. I see a small abandoned house and an old sign signifying a resort or hotel. It’s obviously no longer used, or no one is home. I take a break to take a look at from where I’ve come from. There are storms clouds that are beginning to roll in and I’m so thankful as the overcast will cut down on the heat.

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After years on the road and in the sun, I’ve started to become very aware of how much of my skin is exposed. You’ll probably notice through images from the beginning to the end that I begin to wear more clothes, even in hotter climates. It was in Tibet that I learned that I actually stay cooler with clothes covering my skin. I also prefer not to show much skin to locals, as a single woman. I’m of the camp where when it comes to covering, the more the better. You can’t ever go wrong with that choice.

After a brief rest looking at the past I begin to carry on to the future. What I ride into becomes glorious. I can’t believe my eyes…so much that I have to sit and stare into whats to come. A descending plateau, a lake ahead, and amazing road conditions for me to pick up great speed. Knowing that I’m going to be riding with a shit eating grin down the entire way, I take my time to have a little snack and breathe.

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And a little bicycle and girl pin-up photo for you folks.
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I descend fast, hard, and with a smile the entire time. It’s less than 5km then it levels out and I’ve encountered some of the worst terrain to get through…even worse than Tibet. It’s rough, it’s tough, and I even tumble a few times. I bust my bottom at least a few times from my feet slipping out from under me and the bike nearly coming down upon me.

The most fearful moment is when I’m walking the bike along the “road” that is breaking off and there is a 2 meter drop off. I debate how to walk her by as I think I’ll have more control on her right side. As I’m right handed I usually always walk the bike on the left side. So I move over to the right, very precariously, and begin to walk past the ledge. The bike slips because of the incline and before I know it the bike is on top of me with the wheels just a few cm from the edge.

Holding onto the bike I crawl out from under her and drag her on the side to get enough space to lift her back up to safety. The problem is my feet are slipping in the fine gravel and can’t find my footing. This goes on for nearly five minutes knowing that the bike CAN NOT slip off the road. With a few huffs and puffs and a heave and a ho…we are both up. Although I’m sweating much more profusely than her.

It’s the moments after these moments where I smile…sometimes just from within. It’s these treacherous and challenging moments that I can say, “look what I did…on my own”. It’s the challenges throughout this entire tour that has brought joy to me, made my heart fuller, and a reminder that I am a “warrior”. (A name Chris Alexandre would give me). Yes, I cried for a few seconds yesterday when I thought I may be lost, just 24 hours earlier…but then pull my self up and my bike to say, “Look at what I can do!!!”

It must be at least 10km of this terrain before I can begin the final descent to the lake.

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Well folks, that’s it. In retrospect, this was the last great ride of my tour. The last great few days of solitude, thinking, feeling, and looking at myself and finally realizing what I’ve accomplished. There was something about this route that embedded who I’ve become and who I finally am. It was a pivotal point in my tour, my exploration, and the finalization of seeing the love for myself.

It was a moment to make peace of an ended relationship; to realize I’m strong enough to carry on alone.

It was a moment to be thankful for the people in my life that have helped make this whole thing possible.

It was a moment to let go of so much of the past and know what ever the future carries for me, I can overcome it…anything.

It took me over a year to write this entry because it carries such strong emotions, many that I still have difficulty expressing. It’s strange what a few days alone, with a bike, can do for the soul.

If you haven’t seen it, this is a short film I put together of my time out there, featuring a song from Cat Power. The music I was listening to during this ride was the Kings of Leon…I had enough albums to keep quite entertained for the few days. I would enter Uzbekistan on June 9th 2012.

Assey Plateau, Kazakhstan June 2012 from Moseman on Vimeo.

Assey Plateau – Kazakhstan June 3-4 2012 (Part I)

I had left off the story after cycling to Lake Balkhash…and then took a bus back to Almaty because I decided to not try and die on the desert steppe next to a salt lake. In Almaty, I stayed with a fellow American that had lived there for quite awhile. Through “warmshowers”, I had met another fellow that helped me find a nice bike shop for repairs and plan for a little trip to the Assey Plateau. On the “Media” page you can watch the video entitled “Assey Plateau” of footage I took during these few days.

The first attempt (May 31), I had ridden for a day from Almaty. While riding around the city I had been having difficulties with punctures. From what I could see, it looked like the spokes were coming through and tearing open the tubes from the bottom. What was even unfortunate was the patches didn’t seem to hold.

Puncture #1 was right at a turnoff to head towards the plateau. This little guy INSISTED on helping me. No, I do not promote child labor.
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I make pretty good time after this puncture; a bit of rolling hills and then a little bit of down. Did make an ice cream stop and purchased some naan and other miscellany snacks to take to the plateau.

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Puncture #2. Well, I couldn’t repair it and blew off 4 patches before deciding to throw everything in the back of a car and pay $30 to get back to Almaty. It was very evident my spokes were eating my tubes. I now only had 1 tube left…and the sun is setting.

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After fussing with the bike and adding two cheap rubber rim strip tape and lining the rim with electrical tape x2, I head back out on June 3rd. Two days before my 33rd birthday. I had promised myself to spend my birthday the way I enjoy the most, alone in some amazing place.

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I take the bus about 20km before I had turned back the previous time. The weather is ominous…no rain, yet.

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There is about 30km from the bus station until the unmarked turnoff to the plateau. I only knew where it was by the mileage and the landmarks that were given to me by one of the Almaty pilots, Taz, that lives in the capital.

I am now on a nearly single land country road with minimal homes and some shepherds. By the looks of the road and the direction, I may be at the base of the mountains by nightfall. I collect water from a fresh spring and try to find a place to sleep for the night before the rain comes down.

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You’ll notice I am only carrying two panniers, as I had left a lot of my gear back in Almaty. There is no reason to carry double the weight for only a few days.
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The route at this point seems very similar to a National Park in the States. The trees begin to enclose around the road; the road begins to incline and become more narrow. It begins to sprinkle and because of the weather it’s getting dark much earlier than I had expected. To my surprise, I find a campsite next to large stream and a rock cliff. It will be my only campsite of my entire tour. I am usually very apprehensive about camping next to water because of the noise. Not so much about flash flooding, but because I can’t hear visitors over the sound of the rapidly moving water. But I take it anyhow. It’s beginning to thunder and lightening and decided I’d rather be dry for the night. This was actually one of the first lighting storms I camped in. It lit up the entire sky and the thunder bounced around the mountains.

June 4 2012
Morning, when everything is beginning to dry.
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A view of the water I camped next to. I slept to the left of it. It’s a morning of spotty rain mixed with warm sunshine when the clouds part. I have faith it will clear up.
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A look ahead.
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There is only about 15km of broken tarmac before I hit loose gravel and rocks. I was warned that the condition of the road would become pretty tough. Unfortunately the incline on the loose gravel caused me to get off and push. Little would I know that because of the lack of roads, I would be doing a lot of pushing. Descending the plateau, it would be more like slipping and crawling out from under my bike as it slips off trails. This would become one of the toughest terrains yet, but one of my most memorable experiences. It’s really one of the last times I felt so damn free and alive. There is something about being alone on a plateau, anywhere in the world, that really makes you realize how fortunate you are to be there, and living.
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One of the most common questions I get when giving public talks or even discussing this trip, is “What do you do when you get bored?” Like I’ve stated before, I’m not really sure if I know what “bored” feels like. I can do almost anything to keep myself entertained. As a child I used to get in so much trouble for day dreaming in school. Well, I’ve kept up the habit and if I could become a professional at sitting and dreaming, well…you get it. The plateau is a short ride and I took extra time to just really enjoy being out there alone, with less of a load than I usually carry.

Right before noon, I am higher than the tree line and everything opens up. The ascent up to the plateau really begins, the clouds part, and the warm sun is beating down on me. I see pastures, rolling hills, yurts, shepherds, livestock, and the tops of snow topped peaks. I am getting anxious of what waits for me at the top…it brings back memories of the previous summer that I spent in Kham, Tibet.

I’m greeted by a nice shepherd and a young boy. They must of seen me coming as they rode down the hillside to say, “Hello”. They were quite happy to hear I was an American, and not a Russian.

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From the looks of the map I only go up this one pass and I’ve arrived to the plateau. The map is an old Russian map and the “roads” are questionable once I get to the top of the pass.

During the ride up the pass I come by a herd of horses. I walk over to not spook any of them and snap a few photos. They begin to move but a few actually approach me and start checking me out. I have a couple get closer than a meter to me. At the top of the pass I spot some pretty adorable cows and horses; awarding them with the “cutest cows of tour”. They approach me like the horses but even more odd they FOLLOW ME on my bike! Over the past couple of months I’ve noticed I am having less problems with animals. I’m wondering if they sense something about me…perhaps I am becoming more like them than I can imagine. I no longer spook animals and they look and approach out of curiosity. Wondering what has changed that allows animals to feel safe and comfortable around me. I feel no different but obviously something has changed that animals and I have some sort of connection.

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Making it to the top of the pass and now it’s just full, luscious, green plateau that lies ahead. Of course doing what I love to do, and do best, sit and enjoy the moment. Realize how fortunate I am to be seeing and living such a gorgeous moment. A moment that I could never describe in words on a blog. Perhaps that is why I haven’t written about this ride yet; it was just such a great few days that writing it down could never do it justice.

I hit a point where I have to make a choice on route. To my right, East-Southeast, there is a weather station that heads towards the mountain ridge. My map is questionable with this and I never heard anything on directions with the weather station. It is marked on the map. If I were to head towards the weather station, I would probably have to go over the ridge and head a little South.
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To the the left, or rather, directly in front of me facing East-Northeast is an open plateau with jeep tracks. The route to the weather station does have a road so I choose the road.

There is a road that leads up to the weather station but then disappears. I am then left with a deep jeep tracks in the rich black soil up towards the ridge. I’m really not sure if I’m going the right direction but continue on. It’s beautiful up here and what a place to spend the eve of my birthday. I’m feeling so amazing, refreshed, and really back to me…I take some time to celebrate the past year.
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The road and tracks disappear and I look back. I can see a half a dozen motorbikes followed by a jeep take a different route from the weather station. Up over some hills, with great speed, and then back down in the valley I had already passed. I will push on.

I push my bike for 3 kilometers through pasture, with occasional stones that may have been a driveway. Arriving to the base of the ridge I now know there is no passing it. There are remnants of a yurt camp, and it looks like people bring their Land Rovers up here to wash them in the ice melt. Leaving my bike behind, and camera, I climb half way up the ridge to take a look around. Take a deep breath, after catching it, and reassure myself it’s okay and I need to head back. There is no way going over the ridge and it’s been awhile since any Land Rover or motorbike has attempted over the ridge.

Walk down, pick up the bike, and backtrack. I usually HATE THIS…but this time it was down and had quite a beautiful world to look out at. There is a storm blowing in so I decide to set up camp and call it an early night. At the altitude, I know it’s going to be chilly and I want to be sure everything is set, and put away, before the storm comes in. I cook some pasta and add some delicious taco flavouring sent all the way in from Mom. It’s a fine fine meal.

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The sunset is breathtaking…perhaps the best I’ve seen since being in Tibet. Actually, the whole experience reminds me of Tibet. Maybe this is what is causing all these feelings and happiness. Guessing which routes to take, dodging storms, a little hail here and there, occasional nomads…simple life. It’s places like these that I always say, “I could die here and be happy.” Perhaps that sounds a bit macabre…but until you’ve been somewhere physically, mentally, and emotionally where you can sit down and say, “Wow…this is…”. There are no words to describe it. I can’t type anything here to explain what it’s like.

It’s been a hell of a way to say farewell to 33 and beginning 34.

Uighur work published online in The Atlantic

CLICK HERE to be directed to The Atlantic

Three years ago I set out on a journey and exploration of myself and China. Now I sit here, seeing the greater purpose of my life, direction, and vision. It was never just a bike ride for me…it was something so much more.

I would love to hear from you!