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.

wandercyclist_8582

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.

 

 

Welcome to the ‘Boys Club’…or rather, no welcome at all.

“I’m more woman than you could handle.”

7km off course to camp next to Lenin Peak, Kyrgyzstan.

This summer was the first time since beginning this tour that I had the chance to encounter so many other travellers. Ranging from backpackers, motorbike riders, cyclos, and other miscellany.

I began this summer by riding with my favorite brothers, Matt and Lucas. It was stressful, downright frightening…at times I wanted to murder them for keeping me from my beauty sleep with their tent talk. I miss the chatter and that SMELL…THAT SMELL…from the tent. Although, at this current moment, I think both of these would offer great comfort to me. I do miss them dearly, especially that I’ve returned to Kashgar where we met.

There was Nathan in Bishkek and from there I would go onto Kazakhstan. I would not encounter another traveller until Tashkent, nearly 5 weeks later.

It was only the budding of the tourist season…where I met 2 Italians that had just completed the Pamirs on motorbikes. And a wonderful backpacker from the States that shared delightful stories of Africa, and a cyclist he met. Tashkent would be just the beginning.

From Tashkent, I would ride a small road through the mountains of Nurata. What a beautiful experience…except…that “eco-tourism” listed in the “Lonely Liar”. Stay away…they even received a lengthy complaint email.

The Uzbeks on this route…were…amazing. The homestays…the love. I had already broken the law after not registering for 3 days so I just threw my shit to the wind and didn’t worry so much about it.
Usually sleeping in cafes or with locals, kept me safe, rested, and well fed. The one time I camped in the desert, I got invited in by a petrol station attendant who grabbed my breasts twice in the late night. Nothing like starting to ride at 3:30 am along the desert highway, after only a couple hours of sleep. Luckily, I was planned to arrive in Bukhara that afternoon. I would do 80km before 10am that day.

Bukhara…I would become fast friends with Chris-Alex, a Swiss cyclist. We hit it off splendidly. A gentleman and a fellow solo cyclist who has been on the road for nearly a year. Besides our language barrier and his accusation that my English is “horrible”, we spent our days talking and recovering. We had both fallen ill and he was getting his shots for a dog bite.

We made plans to meet in Samarkand and away I went…through the deserts of Uzbekistan…taking a small road to Samarkand. I thought a route with little traffic would offer an authentic experience of the Silk Road. Everything DID turn into a beautiful golden color.

Samarkand must be the meeting point of the Peloton. All couples or solo male cyclists. Here I would have the honor of meeting the famous Jacques Sirat, who sends me lovely electronic correspondence.

The guesthouse is filled with all kinds. I would meet Robin and Keely (my favorite motorbike couple), Max and Mariya (who would see me crying on the side of the road in the Pamirs and donate their food supply), Richard (a British boy I would spend a half day with in Sary-Tash), Angelica and her new love (what an inspiring story, and the only girl to love my southern accent), this boy who had ridden a horse across Mongolia that was now carrying a pair of rollerblades (having given up his tuxedo a few months earlier)…and I would see the return of Chris-Alex…the boy that sleeps and showers more than anyone I know.

One night we enjoyed the fine vodka of Central Asia. Robin began to tell us all how women are better than men. We would also have a guest there that was completely insane. She kept us all entertained for a couple of days.

Towards the end of Samarkand, new couples arrived. Then it became couples/cyclists time. Chris-Alex had told one pair to talk to me about China as I “know everything about China”. I don’t…but more than the majority.

When I over heard them discussing the usual…maps/visas/roads…the stuff that bores me…I tried to add some insight and advice. I was looked at like I was speaking Chinese and they would rather not hear. Oh, excuse me…I’m sorry…did I talk outloud…shame on me…I’ll go sit in my room by myself. All my friends had left and I had these pompous cyclists left in the shadow of pleasant memories.

I’d been in Samarkand for 8 days…it was time to move on. My mood suffers drastically if I stay more than 5. Especially having to hear the same conversations over and over and over and over. Hey cyclos…lets make a deal…Visa talk for 5 minutes max. Let’s talk about other pleasantries…or funny stuff. Routes…mileage count…what job you quit…*yawn. Okay, so it was the first time I was obviously shunned from cyclists. Love me or leave me.

Onto Dushanbe. What?!

A dozen tents in the guesthouse. Bicycles and motorbikes everywhere!

I’ll run into some of the folks from Samarkand…hear rumors of those ahead of me leaving for the Highway a week earlier. Here, in ol’Dushanbe…I would learn that boys on motorbikes and I get along real well. I acquired a nice short list of emails…some handed to me…Alick being the first.

Again, the usual run of couples and a few solo men…with the eventual return of Chris-Alex and a posse of 2 other solo cyclos. Men, of course. A few pairs of girls show up (the second time in Dushanbe)…which surprises me.

The couples from Uzbekistan had been there earlier…and left with 2 other couples. Hey, ain’t nothing wrong with being a cycling couple…ain’t my thing, probably never will be…nor is riding in a group of 6.

While in Dushanbe, I got to meet a wonderful cyclist gal that lives and works there. It was such a pleasure spending some time with another woman that spends hours pouring over maps and can “do it all” herself.

Pamirs…well…we all know that one. FAIL.

I returned to Dushanbe with Chris-Alex and 3 AMAZING Swiss couples, all returning from Kalaikumb. So wonderful that I was invited to their National Day Dinner…the only non Swiss, out of 9! Sheeesh, I felt like the guest of honor although I couldn’t understand a word. Eight were German speakers while Chris-Alex is a French speaking Swiss. Remo, the solo guy on a single speed Swiss Army Bike, impressed me not only by his bike of choice but also his beard. The wonderful couples, Janine & Dominik and Ruedi and Fabienne – see the Sponsors page to visit their blogs.

If you all have found this blog…you made the return to Dushanbe enjoyable. As enjoyable pouring our tears and misery into bottles of beer can be. Perhaps we will have a reunion in Dushanbe before the next Civil War…as Matt Woodward would joke to me tonight about. A fine fella on a motorbike that is currently in Mongolia.

The great thing about being alone, is when other travellers cook, you more than likely, get invited. THANK YOU TO ALL…IT WAS GREAT!!! And never ever under appreciated.

So, I’ve only met a few assholes…honestly. It’s been a fine fine summer…so many new friends…a lot of faces I won’t ever forget. Although its caused my Chinese to go to the shitters, I’m thankful for a few of lifelong friendships I look forward to. And just imagine…when I finally tour Europe I’ll have Switzerland, France, UK, Belgium, and the Netherlands covered.

What the hell happened on the border of China?!

Ok, I’m not going to act completely naive. I’ve seen a little of the “Hey I’m on a bike…I’m extraordinary…lady you should talk to me.” But very very very little of it. Most of us know there is nothing special about it…we are just like you, backpackers…just like you motorbike folks. We are all living the way we want to. We are not extraordinary…we may just be more masochistic…and for the solo folks, socially inept, emotionally stunted, or running away/towards something.

On the border, yes, I did the Irkeshtam Pass – again, I met 5 other cyclists, 1 married couple, 1 2dude couple, and 1 recently solo dude.

I know the ropes. I help them all with the border crossing bullshit. Getting into the truck and all that garbage.

My stuff is loaded with “Doofus” and Christian…the boys from Germany. I would camp with them that night, it’s nice to have the laughter…but I do notice “Doofus” is a bit in love with himself and NEVER quits talking. Well, when he’s asleep, I suppose.

We make it to Kashgar the following day, early afternoon. The solo Frenchie caught up with us and the 3 of us got here just a few hours before the Dutch couple.

After 7 beers a piece…and a lack of water and food…we all crash out. “Doofus” had been making his moves on me all night. I was quite turned off by his technique for passing gas in peoples faces…and his beatboxing was not something that makes a lady swoon.

Then the most awful pickup line…”You inspire me”. Gross. Shut up.

He keeps trying to cuddle with me outside and I tell him, “no, I don’t want anyone to see me”. First, I’m not 15…I do not like PDA…especially from an A1 Doofus. He tells me he has always wanted to be a clown…”Really, are you retarded?” was my drunken response.

Yes, I’m difficult.

He continues to try and convince me to cuddle…”Oh, it’s been too long…you just need to be close to another person”. Haha, that’s a new one. I deny and fall off the platform pulling away.

I’m lying down next to him and Frenchie comes back. The two start wrestling and then Doofus turns to me and gets extremely aggressive and starts trying to bite my butt? I pull away telling him to stop/quit and he refuses…he gets a big ol’slap across the face. I don’t stand for that shit…when I say stop…you better STOP.

Earlier that night, Doofus had strutted around the courtyard about riding a bike to a few locals here. At 4000km, a few months, and a plane ride…yeah, homeboy…strut your shit to someone else ‘cus your shit to my face, stinks!

He gets the nickname Doofus from me this night.

So we go to the dorm room. He lies down in the bunk next to me and he’s silent. Oh my god…you do shut up. Okay, readers…I’m going to be completely honest about what I do next. Jason, quit reading now…or anyone that thinks I’m a nice girl.

I lie down next to him for an hour. There is NO hugging, NO cuddling, NO kissing. It’s nothing. Honestly, I just needed to lie down next to a SILENT human being (after 18 months) for an hour. His hand would only lie on my thigh. Completely innocent. Yes…I used him. Blatant admittance…I used a doofus for emotional comfort, slipping back into my bed an hour later and awake with my dignity – or so I would think.

Through the next 2 days I would go insane listening to him in the courtyard. Even his friend and I would exchange a couple of eye rollings of the “kids” behavior. Oh, I never told you how he claimed to be a filmmaker and wanted to work on my project with me. WHATTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT?!!?!?!?!!?!?!?! You think I’m some stupid girl that’s going to give away years and years of work for you. You have got to be out of your obnoxious, self obsessed, mind! (This is the same filmmaker that didn’t get to film the Buzkashi match because he had a dead battery. No excuse.)

(I would explain to Doofus what the “drivetrain” is. He also told me how he will change his chain when he changes the cassette…wait a minute buddy. You’ve missed something here. You keep on dreaming of your clown career and your ukulele/beatboxing performances in the courtyard.)

Okay, I know I’m loud at times. Yeah. But I do have an “Off” button. I was really hoping this guy would find his. But, nope. Does not exist.

About 6 other cyclists show up. All guys…no solo. I’m really left out in this situation, ain’t I?

I begin to pick up on something. I watch from the corner…my face buried in my laptop dreaming up my next Expedition with Miss Chappell…laughing at my Doofus stories.

Hearing his stories over and over and over and over again. The same…over and over and over…He’s a braggart and a performer. I begin to catch onto the other male cyclists. There is a pattern. It’s somewhere along these lines.

“Where are you from?”
“xxxx”
“Oh yea…”
….
….
…..


“You came here on bikes, that is sooOOOooOOOoo cool, I would sooOOooOOOoo love to do that.” (Responses similar from men and women).”

Of course, I’m a woman, I’m a cyclist…of course I sit in the corner by myself wondering why they don’t talk to me. What’s wrong with me. I walk around with a smile and try to make small talk. Oh, like this classic one.

“Hey guys…where ya headed, where ya going”
“We are going to India.”
“You didn’t come from the Pamirs by any chance.”
“No.”
“Oh…just wondering because a lot of cyclists are coming from there and there was trouble because of the war.”
“War…KnoW nothing of it…that’s what happens when you are on a bike. Where are you coming from.” (Catch that?…letting me know THEY ARE CYCLISTS!…my bike is not in hand and there is nothing to show I have a bike.)
“I started in Shanghai and just did a loop through Central Asia and am returning home.”
“Oh, Shanghai?”
“Yeah, I live there.”
“Ahhh…teaching English…obviously.”
(Wait a minute!)
“No, I’m a photographer.”
“Oh.”

Great intro, eh?

So, I get it. Maybe it all stems from the fact that these boys that think what they are doing is the greatest thing since sliced bread or ice cream know they can’t use their silly “I’m cycling around the world” charm on me. Hey homeboy…I see through ALL YOUR SHIT.

I’m leaving Kashgar for a nice visit with a local Uyghur family. I’m so tired of listening to the whole “why you should bike tour” speeches. Why can’t people just enjoy what they are doing now…without regrets or thoughts of what they should/could be doing.
Cyclos…quit selling the idea so hard…it’s tacky. Let these people enjoy what they are doing NOW…they can think about the bikes later.

5 Seconds after we had arrived in Kashgar some girl just started up about cycling…to the BOYS. On and on and on and on…maybe I smell bad? Is there a reason to think Doofus has more experience and knowledge than me…oh YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH…THAT’S RIGHT…THEY HAVE PENISES…I FORGOT…TOTALLY SLIPPED MY MIND. Of course…they must know more than me and give more accurate information.

Everything Doofus said about cycling China was a repeat of me…but inaccuracies added. I would sit and listen to the bullshit being spread around the only hostel in Kashgar. I even shared a quote from Genochio – giving him full credit and I heard doofus use it at least 10 times out of context. The third time (in a few hours), I screamed from inside, “Hey, you know that’s not YOUR line!”

I may go absolutely insane if I have to hear his voice…

…oh, wait, I nearly forgot…the conclusion of Doofus and Co.

So, Doofus and Frenchie go out for KTV their last night here. Well, it will be the second to last after all the drunkeness.

I wake up at 6:30 to the awful word: Pu$$y…being dropped like the word “bike” over the past few days. What is going on…I’m sleeping. Of course it’s Doofus…eyes barely parted I realize he is TALKING ABOUT ME!?!?! It continues…on and on…a debate on if it’s shaved or not. WHO THE HELL DOES THIS A METER AWAY FROM THE GIRL?!?!

Then…THEN…THEN…I hear: “I probably know but don’t remember…huh huh huh.”

EXCUSE ME…EXCUSE ME…EXCUSE ME…

I throw a pillow at them and go into the room. Leaving behind, “I don’t know what I did wrong…she’s so beautiful.” Yeah right buddy…try to make up for that vulgar talk. You didn’t do anything wrong besides being the biggest creep, one celled organism, self obsessed, moron I’ve ever met. I’m just NOT into you.

Christian tries to have me come back and feels bad about it. I whisper, “this is bullshit, no.”

The next day, Doofus comes up to me with his arms spread…going in for a hug and says, “Darlin’ (Aussie accent), I’m sorry if we hurt your feelings.”

I pull away, flip my hand in his face and say, “Whatever, DUDE!” and walk past him.

Frenchie calls me a Princess. Sorry homeboys…if thats the only insult you can fish for…well, Thanks.

Bon Voyage ASSHOLES! They had been planning a route through T1b3t and with Doofus as their Captain…and already 2 days late because of his shenanigans…it’s not going to happen. There are some logistics I didn’t share, nor did they ask for. You will not get your Visa renewed after the police escort you back to legal land. 3 Weeks will not get you across the Northern part.

I don’t wish ill on anyone…he’ll be sure to find it on his own.

Days earlier, whispering with Christian at 4 am…I would tell him that the biggest problem they will have in T1b3t is teamwork. The stress levels will be high, you’ll be hungry, rushing against a clock, dealing with altitude…relationships will fail. i.e. Brandon/Ellen.

Being a woman…alone I have had to deal with a lot of shit.

I had one cyclist make fun of me in Dushanbe accusing me of using a “poor little girl” technique to get taken in and fed. Let me tell you one thing…I would give up all these perks if it guaranteed no rape attempts, no boob grabs, no pelvic thrusts on the side of the road, no harassment about not having a husband, no secret massages late at night. Bring on the equality!!!! I’ll take it with open arms.

YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT ITS LIKE. You wonder why I lock myself in a hotel room every now and again. It’s exhausting…it’s painful, having these reminders that I am inferior in so many eyes.

Then, western boys do similar, if not worse shit to me. Who am I run to for comfort? To another dude on a bike that uses his “riding around the world” to get attention from girls, and guys. I don’t think so. I try talking to the Dutch couple about it, but they have a bit of starry eyes for the triplets.

Two French boys, that had ridden with Doofus and Christian a month earlier invited me to come along. So…why would I? Is it because I’m a girl and I need company? You don’t know me? How do you know we would get along? I’ve learned that most people have ulterior intentions. Even like the Uyghur “friend” I have here…that made me promise to bring him back an iPhone.

If Chris-Alex was here…there’d be none of it. Or if darling Jacques…or even Brandon who behaved as a gentleman for 2 months. There are a lot of good, really good men out there. But at the present moment…there are too many boys stuck here in Kashgar.

Hey lady…wanna ride a bike….? I’m SPECTACULAR!!!!! I really hope my bike turns you on because my conversation is DULL DULL DULL.

Welcome to the Boys Club, Darlin’…too bad I’m into MEN!

I type this, silently, alone…because…I don’t need to strut, nor did I ever. This journey has been about me…not you. It only matters that I proved it to myself…every kilometer since the very first.

Welcome to Ka Zak Kuh Stan May 10 2012

I’m writing this from a guesthouse in Samarkand, Uzbekistan. After having breakfast with 1 backpacker, 2 motorbike riders, and 2 other cyclists…we all used similar words to describe this country noted for it’s “hospitality”. Things like, “over-rated”, “disappointed”, “a waste of time”, “not worth it”. We aren’t really sure why everyone goes into Kazakhstan with hopes, and leaves shaking their heads. All cyclists and motorbike riders note on the friendliness of the Russians, which was so true for me as well…but for the “amazing hospitality of Kazakhs”…I didn’t find it so much nor have many other travelers. Okay, maybe I’m over exaggerating…I did have a lot of nice things happen when I’m on the side of the road and general friendliness…but NOTHING compared to Uzbekistan or other places I’ve traveled.

Who is in charge of this propaganda? As a solo woman, I would advise any other woman to be extremely, EXTREMELY cautious in this country. The Kazakhs will shit talk the Russians but I received nothing but friendliness and generosity from these minorities throughout the country. I always knew if I had problems, to just wave down a Russian truck driver or bus driver.

Granted…I did have some really great moments in Kazakhstan…and did meet a fair share of wonderful people.

Okay, so onto the first part of Kazakhstan, Bishkek to Balhash (to the North along the great Kazakh Steppe).

May 10
I leave Bishkek on the 10th and head for the border. I’ve decided to ride for a couple weeks as my generous host in Almaty is on vacation and thought to kill some time before heading to the city. It’s only about 15km to the border and the crossing is not a real problem at all. In retrospect, a breeze compared to Kazakhstan to Uzbekistan.
There is a Finnish family driving across, they work at the Embassy in Almaty. They even offer me a ride.

In my, “I’m tired of this shit” way, I am swarmed by truck drivers at the booth for my stamp and I give attitude to the a-hole that cuts in front of me. If you had found me 4 years ago in China, I would have been standing there for 5 hours letting people push ahead…but I don’t put up with that shit any longer.

The other drivers here my tone and English and insist I’m next. The basic questions come along…although not about children or husband. Just, “Where did I come from?” , “How many kilometers?” ,“Where am I going?”

As I begin to leave the station, I even get pats on the backs and signs/words of encouragement. I’m thinking, “Kazakhstan is going to be great.”

I’m not ripped off exchanging money either.

It’s not too hot and there seems to be a breeze. Within a few kilometers after passing the border I’m in flat countryside and I can see some mountain ranges in the far distance.
As soon as I begin to ride West I am hit with one of the worst side winds ever. I am reminded of the time in Inner Mongolia when I was riding with Jason. To test the force of the wind, he pee’d with his back to the wind and the stream must have nearly reached the other side of the road. This wind may even be worse. I can’t ride because it’s gusts and I’m being blown out into traffic. I get off to attempt to walk it and I can barely keep the bike upright and close to being blown over.

I’m beat so quickly and I pull over along some trees to see if I can wait it out.

A station wagon pulls over with one driver and no passengers. He offers to put the bike in the back, or something like that. No, I wave him off politely.

The car comes back about 10 minutes later with a passenger. The passenger exits and comes over to me and squats next to me.
Basic questions, name, husband, baby, country…

The wind is blowing strong and he is telling me that I have to be careful with the trees. Then he is saying something about his home. Okay? Am I being invited for a homestay? Then I catch him winking at the driver during this conversation. No, this isn’t going to work and I’m put on guard immediately. I may not understand the language but I understand men, I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday.
Then I have him wrapping his arms around me as if I’m cold from the wind, and it’s not concern…it’s just a basic sex pest that has some effed idea of me because I’m a white, Western/American woman, without a man around.

I push him off.

More winking to the driver and some stuff I don’t understand. I express over and over, now with impatience, that I don’t understand Russian and to speak English.

Then I have him shoving his hands up the back of my shirt. That’s enough. I push him off and get up. He continues speaking Russian and I continue with “I don’t understand, English!” Well, he manages to get some English out with screaming, “Sex Sex Sex!!!” at me.

It’s time to get out of there. There are no cordial goodbyes, he just gets in the car laughing with his buddy and they drive off to the town ahead.

I only make about 35km in Kazakhstan before I call it the day and decide to find a place to sleep. It will be impossible to set up my tent in this wind and I know the wind generally gets worse later in the day. So, I sleep in here.

There is a beautiful sunset as I can see the mountain ranges to the South. The unfortunate part about sleeping under the road is that there is a late wake-up call from the sun and I don’t realize that the next morning that the wind isn’t so bad because now I’m in a wind tunnel. On the road around 9:30, the view from my tunnel.

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