Bicycle Archives - Wander Cyclist | A Bicycle Adventure in Asia

03 Feb 2015

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Summer 2012, Tajikistan With 2 Comments Permalink

Tajikistan, Part 3 (July 23, 2012)

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On February 3, 2015 With 2 Comments

Awaking the next day with heavy eyes as the cool dawn begins to break into the early morning heat. The aches and pains and are extremely acute as I roll off my sleeping mat, as an invisible force is nudging me to get out into the bright sunshine; onward through the beautiful and majestic valleys of Tajikistan. I’m more groggy than usual, as dogs barking throughout the night continually pulled me across the floor, careful not to disturb the old woman and small child sleeping, to the window to check on bicycle and the four bags attached at her sides and top.

The house begins to take upon life, as there are women’s voices break the silence, as I dress and prepare to depart. The old woman asks me to stay for breakfast but I kindly insist I must carry on. Generally breakfast will take a few hours and it’s never been a eat and run type of an affair. Using those early morning hours to cycle will make the difference of 50-70 km a day, to end with a full belly of traditional Muslim food and a long nap under an apricot tree.

Saying my thanks with “rexmet”, speaking in a native tongue based upon Turkish, I exit the mud packed home into the chilled morning light to continue on.

The sun gets intense, and heat unbearable where it sometimes reaches 48 degrees, so I need to make as much progress as possible.
Yesterday had been a short day and the remind myself that I must make up for lost time.

I traverse along a single lane, with deep crevasse jeep tracks, going slowly up a valley. I lost asphalt nearly two days ago as I had chosen to take a route that most people don’t ride. I had debated about the route as no one could give me an accurate description of the area and there is a missing section of road on the map. Like usual, I was not quite sure what to expect but knew I wouldn’t see dozens of cyclists. Spending over 20,000 km already through China where I can speak the language, I am notorious for pulling myself off well traveled routes to see what else the world has to offer…but…sometimes there is a reason a particular route is not taken by the masses.

Stopping about fifteen kilometers ahead from the community I had stayed in the previous night, I stop for breakfast and supplies. Far from a proper town, supplies are limited but I make do with sodas, naan, and sugar glazed cookies filled with an apricot jelly.

Thankful for the dark storm clouds rolling in and the cool breeze on my skin, I know this will cut down immensely on the heat. I will be able to cycle through the early afternoon without a break. The trees are disappearing and it’s becoming rock mines along a raging brown river. I had been warned of the rivers and glacier melts during the summers; later learning that they were higher than average this summer. The water is angry and completely out of control; hearing her beating against the stone banks and walls. Such a contrast to the cool breeze, gentle rolling clouds, and the steady and calm beat of my heart.

There have only been one or two Land Rovers driving in the opposite direction since leaving the last town about 4 hours earlier. It’s becoming lifeless except for the massive rusted mining machines and mounds of gray stones. The road is more difficult as the stones cause me to lose my balance at times…tipping me off balance a few times, causing my right foot to try and find traction among the broken stones.

Spotting a small pond where the water was flowing clear and shade provided by some short trees, I decide to push over to watch the direction of the storm and to repair a snapped bolt on the front rack. There is no one around and decide to wash my clothes, feeling guilty I had a clean body living in the filthy and salt marked cycling clothes. Although my hair had been washed yesterday with bar soap and seemed to make my oily hair even worse, so a proper shampooing was in order.

One man stops to speak with me, only to return to give me some strawberry cookies he had in his Land Rover. He begins to get a little closer and asks me more questions than I bargained for and realize I have to back him off. I’d had enough men make assumptions about a single American woman in Central Asia and knew I needed to ward off any preconceived ideas.

“Is he your friend?” The man asked me in Russian and points to a blonde Tajik boy with a knapsack and dog. It took me a second to figure out if this kid was another traveler, just choosing to walk but realized he was a local. Deciding that an innocent lie is order for this moment, “No, my friend is ahead.” Which always confuses them because they assume friends should always be together. The man drives off after putting some water in his radiator and the boy has gone up towards the cliff across the road from my trees.

After washing my clothes and hair, I put on some traditional Tajik Atlas printed pants that were made in Dushanbe and hang my wet clothes up in the trees, needing to secure them as the storm is making it’s way closer. My hair tied and wrapped up on my head, I attempt to fix the snapped bolt. The best I can do is to use pliers to tighten the headless screw into the eyelet threads.

The vivid blue sky has now been completely grayed out, and it begins to rain upon me and my damp clothes. I put on rain gear to cut down on my chills and to cover up my wet, yet clean hair. Thinking it’s probably best to stay under this three for a little bit of coverage, I begin to organize my panniers, as I had dumped everything out digging for soaps and tools.

There is a sound in the bushes behind me…like the sound of something hard falling into dried grass. I stop, there is no one around…what was it, who is it? Another. Then another but it comes through the 2 meter high trees I’m standing under.

Rocks!? Why are there rocks falling from the sky. Walking out from under the trees to straighten up, I look around. My left arm is hit with a piece of gravel then “crash” and another “crash”, these are fist size stones if not bigger.

Across the gravel road and about 15 meters from me there is a cliff, approximately 50 meters high and I see the blonde boy and his dog. The sky is dark and I can barely make him out has he begins to launch another rock, then another.

“Hey! You, I see you!” in English. I had studied Russian for three weeks in Bishkek but when you begin to feel your blood boil it’s not so easy to squeeze out the translated words.

He launches another and begins to pick up another rock. The rocks are getting bigger; the heaved stones have less time between them. His aim is definitely improving too. I again repeat that I see him and he needs to stop while choosing a few four letter words that is understood throughout the world. The dog is barking and running back and forth along the edge of the cliff. Rocks continue to rain from the sky, overtaking the harmless precipitation that had previously been speckling my body.

During my first few months of tour I learned my “War Cry”, something I didn’t even know existed until it had to be used to remove a man’s body lying atop of me. It came to surface because it’s all I had to fight with, the shrill death cry coming from a woman that feels her existence being shattered from within. This moment isn’t so frightful as some of my previous battles so I knew it must be conjured up like a masterful magician, or rather resourceful sorceress.

Now intense feelings, deep buried memories, frustrations are brought to the surface; I allow myself to feel vulnerable and scared. Opening my mouth to inhale has much air as my lungs can take to push the call of anger from my cracked and sunburned lips. As my breathe moves from my guts, I keel over at the waist to make sure that all of these emotions have found their way out of my soul. I let out another and another. Sometimes it feels difficult to stop, releasing emotions that have been shoved deep within my mind for the simple act of survival.

The boy and the dog have now disappeared. I pack up my bike and know it’s time to get out of here as fast as possible. Slightly damp and clean clothes are put back on my shivering body and my clean hair braided, I assume I would be leaving danger behind.

I had rested my bicycle on her drive-train side, so I could manage repairs. I’m a bit uncomfortable pulling her from the other side so the tire slips down the damp soil. The sharp silver teeth from the triple crank puncture deeply in the front of my right ankle. Water nearby is turning bright red from the blood rushing from my body. There is nothing to do but remain calm.

All I can question at the moment is,“Did I puncture something important under the skin, deep into my body…I hope this stops…and I don’t bleed out here in the middle of nowhere Tajikistan.”

I’m splashing water on it from the stream, which I know isn’t the best antiseptic to be cleaning an open wound. Especially since I had been watching the cattle bathe and drink from the same water a few meters away, my little pond only separated by a few inches of mud. The bleeding continues…and it’s not letting up.

A Tajik woman is now watching me from the cliff. Too many people are aware of me, I’ve let out the crazy woman “war cry”, and the boy has also returned. I hate, and avoid, confrontation or really any uncomfortable situations in unknown territories. Especially when I can barely speak a few words of the language. In China, I’m more than willing to argue and reprimand as I can speak and understand the culture after living there for more than 4 years.

I push the bike to the road keeping my eyes on my foot, watching the blood stream down my leg and the dark red beads of blood stream down into my sandals. Another battle scar.

Deciding to walk the bike after the injury, the rocks, the scream, and the storm…just get the hell out of here and to allow myself to find calm physically and mentally. There had been days like this before and did not take notice of the omens.

Around the cliff and continuing up stream I am met by an older Uzbek man carrying a stack of newspapers. We communicate through broken sentences and some pantomiming. He has me write my name down on a notebook and invites me to stay at his home for the night, as it’s storming. I politely decline, as his home is about 3 kilometers downstream. Rarely do I backtrack and had made little progress over the past 24 hours. We parted with smiles and I continue to walk my bike over the road which had now become loose stones. Experience was telling me I was finding my way off the beaten path.

The next two hours I would be alternating between riding and pushing through loose gravel, slowly going up and some rocky and steep descents. Once passing a mining community where I saw a village inset up in the mountains about 10 kilometers away. I would be going over a pass and was hoping that was not it because of the infinite switch backs for endless miles, or so it seemed. I told the men banging away at new homes where I was headed and they directed me at the fork of the road.

Continuing upstream, I pass a man lounging a top a mound of stones nearly 5 meters high and he lazily assures me I’m headed in the correct direction. There are roads always branching off this mining road and doubt is beginning to grow within me, with a nagging hint of anxiety. Traversing through mounds of stones, old rusted mining machines and equipment, the road going up and down and crossing paths with a few massive trucks, assuming if I was going in the wrong direction, someone would alert me.

Around three o’clock I find myself looking across the raging river that was the source for the water I had been cycling along for the day. The water is coming from the mountains, my right side and snaking to my left and continuing down through the villages I traveled through earlier. There are some trucks to my right, so before deciding to cross the water, I ride the two kilometers up a hill to find someone to speak with or an alternative route.

Riding through a few switchbacks and pass a shepherd and his cattle, I arrive to a small work community where mining trucks and Land Rovers are in a parking lot with a few old aluminum sided buildings. Passing through the checkpoint before two men stop me and tell me it’s the wrong way. With arm movements and finger pointing, I must cross the water.

Backtracking to the bank of the water, gulping the hints of fear and anxiety down, I know that if I were to set up camp and wait until sunrise the water would perhaps be lower.

Standing on the edge of the riverbank, created out of massive stones and gravel, my thoughts and apprehension is drowned out by the water beating against the stones and cliffs. The opposite side of the bank is about 15 meters across and turns into a field of gravel and stones. No sight of a road or tracks. The miners told me this was it; I can’t doubt the directions of locals.

I apprehensively lay the bike on her side, briefly examining the dried blood all over my ankle and foot wile noticing the flies enjoy taking a brief rest on the wounds. The water is rough, muddy…it’s bad, nothing I’ve encountered before and look up into the mountains silently, yet innocently, cursing the summer ice melt.

My riding partner, Chris-Alexandre, is about 30 centimeters shorter and I reassure myself “if HE can do it, I CAN do it!” Heck, and I’ve been on the road longer and a well seasoned veteran. This isn’t a big deal.

“Moseman, you can do this…you’ve been through hell and back, this isn’t anything you can’t defeat.”
Taking a deep breath, standing with my bike to my right and holding the handlebars with a white knuckled grip, I give a good push into the water and the front wheel rolls forward. The front of the bike drops so far down that the water is nearly rushing over my front panniers. The tire doesn’t hit the bottom so I’m pulled further into the water than anticipated. My heart skips and stalls when I realize that I’m well over my head in this situation. Water is now brushing along the bottom of the rear panniers and up to my knees. I can feel the front of the bike wanting to be whipped down the river, giving no consideration to the woman between it and the wall of stone further down. The bicycle behaves like a buoy and I think if I can press the front down it will surely help stabilize. Taking all my might while trying to prevent my body from trembling with fear, this technique doesn’t work. The further the front goes down the greater pressure I feel from my bike, as mother nature’s force is not going to take mercy on me.

Two helicopters are above me, as I had noticed them circling the area all day. I thought maybe they were surveying the high waters. (I would learn the following day that the reason for the helicopters was because a Civil War had erupted in the Pamirs that morning.) I look up, now one is hovering over me. Do they see me, and are they worried for my safety?

The next few minutes would feel like hours, a lifetime, an eternity.
I trudge further into the water so I’m standing next to the left front pannier, pressing my body against the bag in hopes to steady the bike and push her back up the bank. Looking up into the sky, watching the helicopter hover above me, I realize my body isn’t going to be able to stand against this pressure for much longer. What do I need to do to survive this situation to the best of my possibility?

It’s very difficult to make a fast, drastic, life altering decision when fear has taken over your senses. Colors are more vivid, sounds more intense; your heartbeat is pounding in your head while your mind is sitting in the bottom of your guts. Your reality, and world, is spinning out of orbit and you have no idea where you will land or how you will fall. One is left, merciless, to the innate instinct; I can only hope that mere 30 year of existence in this lifetime have taught me a few things for survival.

Continually trying to push the bike up the bank, from the side, is not going to work. Gripping for life on the handlebars, knuckle bones, tendons, muscles wanting to break through my sun cured, leathered, skin from the desert sun. I move my body very slowly and carefully to the front of the bike. Attempting to awkwardly straddle the front wheel between my thighs, but still a bit lopsided to the left. The water is well up to my waist, as I stand at 6’ tall. Breathe, relax, concentrate, PUSH.

NO.

Looking up. Am I praying for the helicopter to drop a ladder like I’ve seen in rescue shows or for the Gods in the heavens to save me? Wanting to raise my arms to wave for help, I know this is impossible as I will lose the bike, my stance and will be swept away before my palms leave the handlebars.

Do I let go of the bike? Do I sacrifice all my gear and let her go? The only possessions in my life for years only to be swept away because of a complete ignorant and irrational decision.

Did Ego come to play with me by the river that afternoon?
The camera! Not just the camera…my digital files! A year of photos and files are in that back rack bag. The water is not over the rear bags, yet, but if I press my front wheel down the water is rushing against my bar bag that has my DSLR, passport, and cell phone.

I look downstream where the river crashes against stone cliffs and then turns left at a nearly 90 degree angle.

Turning my face to the sky and scream “Help” like I’ve never screamed in my entire life. I am going to die…my life is going to end, right here, NOW. There is no way my body will survive that abrupt bend in the river. I imagine my body hanging onto the floating bike until it crashes against the stones. How long would I go down the river with my bike…imagining my greatest possessions in life being bashed against stones, thrown around the river, until my lifeless body gives up and nothing would be recognizable?

Long, loud, and wailing screams of help are being released into the canyon, echoing and bouncing around the mountaintops. Finally I see three men watching from the mining area I had been earlier.

“Please, help me, I’m going to die!!!! Help me, PLEASE!!!”
They stand there and I know there is no way I can hold this up even if they do come to help.

“PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAASE!!! HELP ME!!!!!!” I had tried to bring up my Russian to clarify my meaning but I couldn’t grab the necessary words from the air spilling from my terrified body.

I begin to have images of my mother and father. There is a feeling rushing over me, almost like their presence is near. The images alternate between them; my childhood home and town. It’s more a feeling than imagery. I am going to die, this is the end. With another near death experience in my past because of a car wreck, I know this feeling and it’s growing stronger every moment.

My personal fears are overtaken with the realization my parents will NEVER see me again. They will never be able to say goodbye; not one last hug or kiss. The crashing water will dismantle my undernourished body and they will never see the physical presence of what they had created. I am not fearing my disappearance but the pain I will cause my dear mother and father. Losing my life WILL kill them. I must figure this out, not for my own livelihood but for the sake of those that made the sacrifice of their own lives for mine.

It’s guilt that overwhelms my consciousnesses during those last moments of life. I’ve been selfish. Leaving my friends years ago, ending a long love affair, and not being closer to my parents. Not being a better daughter, sister, friend, girlfriend…a better person. This would be the ultimate of selfishness, to let my life be taken away and leave those behind to suffer.

What’s the most important thing on my bike? I’m going to have to try and remove the bags and throw them up on the bank and hopefully lighten the pressure of nature beating against me.

The bar bag: it holds my passport, camera, cell phone, and money. How am I going to manage this balancing act and release the bag to toss onto the river bank? Am I even going to be able to get enough force behind the launch of these essential items. I’m no longer even thinking about the hard drive and year’s worth of files in the back bag. Thousands of photographic images of the persecuted Uyghur minority of Xinjiang, would now be lost and destroyed forever.

In a split moment after I release my hand to reach for the bar bag release, the bike is thrown on top of me and I’m pinned under with the top tube against my collarbones. All my gear is completely submerged and visualize all my photo gear and files being flooded by the brown silt filled water. The current turns me counterclockwise and I’m facing my death, straight to bend of the river and against the unforgiving stone wall.

My parents are now standing before me in a grayish and hazy cloud, arm and arm as I remember them from my childhood. This is the end, you will never see me again. It’s over. This is going to kill you both, so much more pain for you two and I will realize none of it. I can’t…it just can’t happen this way.

Two meters down the river I’m pulling myself out on my back,with my eyes finally opening, onto the bank with my face to the sky and bike still on top of me.
The plastic bin that holds my food, cooking supplies, and a book had been pushed out from a tight bungee cord and are now moving swiftly down the river.

Within a second the bike is clearly out of the water and I’m examining myself for serious wounds and see the water line on my shirt nearly hitting my shoulders.

There is no time to cry, no time to panic, not even a chance for recovery and to smack myself to see if I’m actually still ALIVE because the bags have been flooded and I have to get my gear out to dry. Unloading the bags trembling, shaking, teeth chattering, absolutely exhausted. This shouldn’t be happening, but it has and it’s my fault. I should have known better, I’m an idiot. Beginning to cry, the first in years…not heavy and heaving because I’m too exhausted…but silently with big crocodile tears rolling down my sunburned cheeks.

A coal mining truck eventually comes to my rescue and takes me across the water explaining to me they saw my friend earlier. They would leave me at the base of the pass that was a meter wide stone path. Pointing up, telling me that’s the direction I must go.

We unload and they leave, after plenty of “rexmet” and my right hand over my heart. The first friends, a meeting of souls, I would have for this second chance at living. Or, were they simply angels that had descended that mountain in a steel chariot on massive wheels to only escort me safely over Sytx to the “other side”? These days, dreams and reality intermingle too much for me to ever make sense of the dividing lines.

Dumping all my bags next to a pile of rusted mining equipment for the hot Tajikistan sun to dry, I let it out. The tears are running down my face, all over my shirt, losing my breath because of exhaustion of nearly drowning and now the emotional melt down.

There is no longer a fear of death, was there ever? Perhaps my fear has been more directed at living? What do I fear? Fear prevents movement, progress, growth…this is not me. Maybe I don’t define and experience fear as many do.

I’ve pushed the limits, and beyond, more than most will ever in an entire lifetime. My fear is of the torment I would cause others; I nearly lost my life to only cause others a lifelong mental and emotional death. Near-death stories often tell how the hero sees fleeting images of his lover, his children, and his close friends and feels grief stricken that he will never see them again. This was not the case. I saw the only two people who gave me life out of love, lose one of the greatest things that they’ve created and nurtured in their lifetimes.

Momma and Pops raised me to believe that I must live life for myself but I learned that one of my responsibilities is to hold onto this life for those that love and need me. This simple existence and lifetime isn’t for my benefit, but for those that my soul has intermingled with. To continue to travel within this life, full of passion, conviction and using my personal power and inner strengths to overcome whatever obstacle may stand in my way. Whether man, beast, machine, or my own inner demons…I must go on for there are those that are counting on me, and my many safe returns.

22 Jan 2015

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Summer 2012, Tajikistan With No Comments Permalink

Tajikistan, Part 2 (July 22, 2012)

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On January 22, 2015 With No Comments

Descending into a valley together, Chris-Alexandre and I would part ways around 10:00 am in the morning. In Central Asia, I had noticed that when accompanied by a man I don’t have opportunities to talk with locals as all conversation is directed to the man. Chris-Alex would wish me luck and make plans to stay in touch and meet up ahead, then I was off on my own, as I know so well.

Spending the day riding through a hot and arid valley, but where the small villages are tree lined, I pull over to rest under some trees on the western edge of a village in the late afternoon. It’s currently Ramadan, which explains the quiet and calm through the days. At sunset, Muslims will quit fasting and have a meal together. It’s considered rude to eat and drink in front of fasting Muslims and I take consideration in hiding myself a bit when eating on the side of the road. At this resting point, I’m not eating but rather just sipping my water and trying to figure out what my plan will be for the night as it’s nearing 6pm.

There is a fence separating me from a front yard with trees and between the house and trees is a small garden. An older woman wearing a traditional Tajik dress and pants, similar to a shalwar kameez, as vivid green as the short trees surround me walks up to me with a young blonde boy holding her hand. Exchanging smiles, her mouth of gold glistening in the Pamiri sun as she says “aleikum asalaam” after my greeting of “asalaam alkeium”. She looks at me and my bicycle and directs me to bring my bike and to return to her home down the dirt road that leads behind the garden.

I would be greeted with children and one of the most beautiful Tajik girls I would ever meet with her perfectly henna died eyebrow. She is all smiles and I can feel the love among the women while the children are still apprehensive about the lonesome traveling woman. Many villages through Tajikistan have few men, as I was informed that many men work in Russia where they have a family there and one here in Tajikistan. Images of hippie communes flood my imagination here in Tajikistan, happy and beautiful women and children living off the land. Children running around playing in the dirt, a toddler in a crib made of crudely welded steel you would see about construction sites, and the young woman chopping fresh vegetables from their garden. This might just be “the life”…

The gold toothed older woman in green, the most elegant camouflage I’ve ever witnessed, begins to pantomime to be about taking a shower and washing my clothes. It has been awhile and I’m wondering if she can smell the odor of travel, woman, and just the scent of a foreigner. It’s a hot afternoon, where temperatures can get close to 50C in the sunshine during midday, and I’m not going to deny a cool bath and after a few minutes trying to communicate she let’s me know she will heat up some water for the bath. Then I’m led to a corner of a mud packed building, where my bike leans against.

Following her out of the shade and into the cooling Tajikistan air, I’m led into a dark room with light entering from a single window and she directs me to undress and get into the tub. I remove all my clothing except for my delicates. She looks at me, not even flinching and somewhat serious with no concern, directing me to remove EVERYTHING. I look into her eyes and I know in my heart she’s a good woman and mother just seeking to help and accommodate the strange traveler that has fallen into her life. Taking a deep breathe, I drop all my clothing along with my modesty and I step naked into the tub. She pours water over me that is the perfect temperature for this hot July afternoon and she uses the bar of soap that’s splitting to wash my back and hair. I have gone years without affectionate, and innocent, human touch and I feel my body slump over in ease and enjoy the gentle and intimate touch of her hands running through my hair and over my shoulders.

Stepping out refreshed, I follow her into the garden where more women are arriving and I’m handed fresh vegetables such as cucumbers from the garden to eat. Cooled down, clean, snacking on vegetables and being served a never ending supply of chai.

There is a woman that appears that seems to be around my age, and she is. It turns out she used to be a teacher and she can speak a little English along with some Russian so we can communicate a little bit. She explains her husband lives in Dushanbe and she is childless…I can’t imagine what that must be like in an area where child bearing and raising is of the utmost importance in the culture. I take an immediate liking to her, her warm and comforting brown eyes, and I watch her tend to the children as they are her own.

Shortly after her brief explanation to the other women about me, we go inside the main house, passing a teenage boy sitting near the entrance. We enter a room directly off the side where I’m accompanied by a few young male toddlers and about a half a dozen women. The woman with the henna eyebrows is in the room, with about 5-6 more, and is accompanied by another younger woman carrying the brunette baby from the yard. It’s explained that they are married to the same man and using wash cloths, those two women along with the gold tooth matriarch, invite me to become the third. Hysterical laughter breaks out when I smile and nod my head “no”. But after months in Central Asia, and my first time among a commune of women, the thought of sister wives doesn’t seem like such a horrible idea.

After the joking and the conversation, as women slouch against the wall pulling up their pants and dresses to cool down, the matriarch shouts to the teen in the other room to turn up the music. She shuts the door and begins dancing as any beautiful Tajik woman does. I’m pulled up off the floor and it feels as if I’ve returned to a dance party from my university years. Talking, dancing, laughter…the children are enjoying themselves as well.

There is an advantage being a woman traveling alone, I have been allowed to see and experience moments that are usually behind closed doors or in the kitchen. We have jokes in the West about women being barefoot in the kitchen. Well, as a feminist, I’ll tell you I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else besides behind those doors or kitchens…it’s where all the fun happens…and gossip…and just behaving like all women around the world.

The matriarch, blonde boy, and I take a nap in the room after the dance party and neighbors leave.

Around 7pm we get up and she takes me for a walk around her land, showing me a new storage building that’s being built out of stones and through the gardens. The children play and we go to a fence dividing the neighbors where I meet a young girl. The adults shout back and forth to one another, along with explanations of who the visitor is.

The sun is setting and we return to the woman’s home where the two sister wives are preparing food and the teenage boy is still listening to music acting indifferent to the entire situation. The matriarch serves me food separately from the family unit and then they begin to share a large platter of polo/plov, eating with their hands which is the traditional and standard way. The daily fast has ended and they will eat and then pray. The teacher that I warmed up to returns, the television is on and we all lazily lounge around having a very gentle conversation.

They will see my exhaustion and offer me to my sleeping mat as they will stay up later to continue eating and praying. I’m led back to the room where the dancing happened earlier in the day and directed on the mat next to the wall, furthest from the door. I will be sharing it with the matriarch and the small blonde boy that never leaves her side.

Little would I know what the next day would bring…some of you do…and perhaps it’s one reason I have been stalled to finally write this story out for you.

11 Jan 2015

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Summer 2012, Tajikistan With 2 Comments Permalink

Tajikistan, Part 1 (July 9-22, 2012)

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On January 11, 2015 With 2 Comments

I had arrived in Dushanbe, the capital of Tajikistan that translates to “Monday”, on the late afternoon of July 9th 2012. It wasn’t until Uzbekistan, a month earlier, that I had began to meet other travelers and long distance cyclists. You must realize how this can be somewhat of a shock to someone that has lived on the road for 2 years and would go months without a real conversation in English…and at times catching oneself thinking in Mandarin.

Witnessing generosity, kindness, sympatico, ego, and jealousy…I would’ve preferred to be back out on the high plateaus or desert basins of China. What is “exploring” when you pass a dozen other cyclists on the road and Land Rover’s loaded down with backpackers, spinning up dirt in your face. Not to mention the public thermometers reading a 48C in the sun.

Through a contact, I met with a French girl Christine, and we looked over maps and routes. Another strong willed, independent woman that had been living as an expat for awhile. I was determined to find somewhere to go where I would be off the beaten path…and I found a little route that no one seemed to know much about. I had received a message from Chris-Alexander from Uzbekistan and I would await his arrival…as I sit out the sun and heat under apricot trees or roam through the maze of mud packed homes or visit the local bazaars and watch the people and common day happenings. Also, I would arrange for my permit for the Pamirs which I should of taken care of in Kazakhstan.

The Dushanbe heat is nearly unbearable, awaking at sunrise and feeling the heat take over your body leaving you with the inability to move and sometimes think.

Chris-Alex would arrive around July 16th 2012 and we would prepare to ride together for a bit. I had originally planned on awaiting for his arrival and then would set off on my own but thought why not give it another try…cycling with company. It had been awhile and maybe I needed other thoughts entering my head. Showing him what route I had planned on trying to take, he agreed to give it a try with a smile and reassurance it would be great.

We would set out on the road together on July 18th 2012. The heat is unbearable and the city is grey and hazed. On the edge of the city limits we would stop for some water and a snack and sit in the shade of an abandoned building on the side of the highway. We would get our strength to carry on and within 30km of the city Chris-Alex’s bike would give us some problems and we pulled under an covered area so he could try to fix his bike as I took a nap on the cold concrete with brief moments of relief when a breeze brushed along my sweaty and steaming body.

(You can read Chris-Alexandre’s post at: http://www.allschoolproject.ch/?p=2106)

After Chris fixes his bike we both settle in for an early afternoon nap and as soon as the weather begins to cool we drag our lethargic bodies to our bicycles and carry on.

Photo by Chris-Alexandre:

Photo by Dhieu (https://www.facebook.com/dheiumading1)

Dhieu wouldn’t have a map of Central Asia so I passed along mine to him…as I hadn’t any plans to continue through any other ‘stans this go around.

July 19th, the sun rises early and we head out as soon as we can.

We would head up over a pass after a tunnel and Chris-Alex was leading the way. An old Russian van would pull up to the side of me and offer me a hitch. Looking at the few tourists inside, I notice one is Chinese, looks like a good opportunity for a chat and I haven’t been cycling for so long that my body is just not wanting to move. The door is slid wide open and two sets of hands easily pulls my loaded bike inside the truck and I take a seat next to the Chinese man. He’s here in Tajikistan for business, specifically working with the roads. We pass Chris-Alex and I shout to him I’ll meet him at the top.

Finally, that evening we would turn off the main highway and head directly East towards the Pamirs. The legendary Pamirs…one of the most famous roadways in the world…the far Western edges of the Himalayas…it must be magical, of course.

I distinctly remember setting up our camp that night stripped down to our undergarments because of the sweltering heat and the sweat soaked clothing we had. The water running through our camp was not fit for drinking, nor boiling.

July 20th, 5:47 am
Camp:

We would be on the road by 6:30 am and the tarmac, like many roads of Central Asia, have melted deep crevices in them so you have 2 lines going along the road way. (See video at the end of Tajikistan posting to see examples.) Passing shepherds, goats, and small villages through the day. We would stop for your basic Central Asian style lunches of naan and mutton and perhaps some salad. We would search out water “nyet gas”…no gas. I was noticing how I was treated, or not, by locals when accompanied by a man. I was ignored. No eye contact. Everyone talked to Chris and I was his shadow. Experiencing this before, I knew it’s because I am the lesser sex and culturally you’re just expected to speak to the man only. I felt that I was beginning to miss out on experiences because I had a man with me.

Besides this, the landscape is getting more beautiful, the weather cooler, and the people more amazing.

Chris and I had decided to meet at a point ahead later in the day to set up camp. The road was pleasant with little to no traffic. A man had driven by in a construction vehicle and passed me a 1 liter bottle of water. There were boys climbing trees picking fruit while elders sat on the ground on cloths. It was peaceful, very quiet, and had plenty of time to think and wander off into my head. It begins to get dark and wonder when I would see stone markings I directed Chris to make to let me know where camp was to be set up.

Around sunset, a Russian pulls up to me in an old Soviet era 4×4 and tries to talk to me. I can’t understand much except about bees, honey, and a place to sleep. I continually explain, and apologize, as I can’t because my friend is up ahead. I must hurry as it’s turning dark very fast. I don’t like to be out after dark in Central Asia just for the simple fact I’m not accustomed to it and my Russian is extremely poor. At least in China I can usually talk my way out of trouble or into safety. I can begin to make out the beginning of the Pamirs in the distance.

I’m riding, then walking my bike, well past sunset. It’s been dark for about an hour and I am scanning the landscape for a sign of Chris, whether camp or a light from his headlamp. I see nothing and know I must continue on. Hearing dogs barking, the humming of farm vehicles making their way home, and the blackest of nights…I push my bike further in hopes of finding Chris.

Headlights appear behind me and within a few minutes I have Chris-Alexandre looking at me with a smile, being driven by the Russian man I had met earlier. I had missed the markings Chris laid out and the Russian had found Chris’ camp and somehow was able to work out the confusion and lost friend. Chris explained to me to set up camp around the bend and he would return with his bike and gear, after packing up camp, to find me. Luck.

July 21st 2012

Awakened by the shepherds and animals we pack up our camp as neither of used a tent the previous night and just lied in the open field. We were able to sleep a little later than usual as the hills blocked the rising sun from hitting us at sunrise.

Past those hills we would break off the small road and hit a main thoroughfare.

We would ride until lunch time where we would feast and then nap under a big tree.

Over the past few days we had cycled through some amazing villages. I would see groups of women collecting water at wells, men sitting around chatting, children playing everywhere. Chris and I had a good time together, sitting on the sides of roads, looking, talking…taking it all in. Chris had explained to me his understanding donkeys and was fortunate enough to watch him get on one and nearly break the poor thing, which I couldn’t help but tease him about that. All I can do is kiss them.

Fortunately, that evening I would not miss Chris’ road marking for camp.

A beautiful sunset yet extremely windy at the top of this pass.

July 22

Morning and one of the most amazing sunrises I’ve ever witnessed…we are nearing the Pamirs.

Chris and I would descend down the pass and into the valley. We would pass farmers waving us over from their snacks in the work fields.

We had encountered a part of the route that had been broken down by the river and the locals at a cafe (kofe) had told us there was no way to go on…but we did. The road had been completely demolished and we both struggled with one bike at a time. As our reward we jumped in the river and had a bit of a bath, with soap and all. Then afterwards we napped in the heat under a tree, only to cool off again after our naps.

There was a time at a cafe in a town where Chris caught the boys pretending to beat me with a pool stick behind my back. I watched him as he reprimanded them for their behavior. Chris-Alex was great company but I still felt like something was missing having a man around and I was also holding Chris back because I was simply becoming exhausted and felt I was missing photography opportunities.

After catching up with Chris in the late afternoon and see his face, I could read he was getting disappointed in my lag and I explained I wanted to stick behind for a little while and see what I could discover photographically. I am always so reserved about this speech as I never want to hurt anyone’s feelings. He takes it well and we decided to meet up ahead, after we see how it goes.

I’m falling in love with the Tajik peoples and the small villages speckled along the route. I want to discover more…so we carry on solo and I would face one of my most scariest moments of my life ahead, alone.

03 Aug 2014

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in China, Featured Blog Posts, Inner Ramblings, Landscape Photography, Tibet With 1 Comment Permalink

Mercy

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On August 3, 2014 With 1 Comment

Hours spent sitting along the banks of Namucuo, the highest alpine lake on Earth, watching the current bring the most crystal clear water to my feet. Complete silence except for a single heartbeat, the pulsing of my own blood, and the water gently rolling and crashing to accompany the beat of my own rhythm. No one around for as far as eyes could see, small schools of fish coming to the surface, massive black ravens along the bank tending to themselves, and thousands of insects silently skimming across the lake. The waters and skies merging into one along the horizon, unable to differentiate between earth and the heavens. We are one and at the mercy of it all.

Lake Namu in Tibet Autonomous Region

15 Jun 2014

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Central Asia, Uzbekistan With 2 Comments Permalink

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

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On June 15, 2014 With 2 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am now all alone on the golden road to Samarkand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

05 Mar 2014

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Brooks Saddle, Publication With 2 Comments Permalink

The Brooks Bugle 2014

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On March 5, 2014 With 2 Comments

I have a bit of exciting news for all of you.

During the first week in Dhaka, as I was preparing for the adventure over the next 3 weeks, Brooks England requested I write an essay for their annual publication The Brooks Bugle. At a coffee shop, under a dupatta and snuggled into a bright batik shalwar kameez, I pecked out a piece that felt as if I released a part of my soul into the universe. It felt good to write, like this, again. It felt great to relive those experiences but at the same time reminding myself who I am and what I stand for.

The Brooks Bugle is a publication of 150,000 and distributed through shops, subscribers, and each saddle and bag sold throughout 2014 will include one. I’m so humbled by the response to this piece. It was almost 4 years ago I embarked on this physical journey, and it’s been an emotional one since.

I am not sponsored by Brooks and it was a delight and honor to be asked because of my previous accomplishments. I’ve added the text below this blog post to make it easier to read.

Currently going through these files from last month, I have a couple of stories that I feel are just incomplete. This is why I’m not sharing them publicly. Sitting here in awe of the people I shared life with in one of the most horrible conditions I’ve ever seen. I’m using all my possible resources to try and find funding to continue this very important work. I’ll be privately emailing folks soon, with a few limited edition prints available in hopes to raise funds to continue this work. This really gives me a punch in the pride, but I have limited options right now. There were so many of you that donated generously to my Kickstarter because you believed in the work I was doing, and this current body of work is equally important. There were so many of you that didn’t want a reward, you just wanted to see me succeed, you wanted to see the faces that meant something to me. My eye and technique has developed so much over the past few years and I feel like that the stories I am trying to tell need to be told. Humbly yours, forever – Moseman.

(Now we read the news about supposed terrorists looming through Xinjiang. There is no proof yet that Uyghurs were responsible but it’s already been publicized that they are at fault. You can bet I won’t be wearing headscarves around China any time soon.)

Meet Shabana. She’s an adolescent living in the slums of Dhaka. I went with her to her home where she showed me a photo of her future husband. When leaving Dhaka, I did not get to say goodbye to her because she now works in the garment industry. Her mother was a cook and cleaner where I was staying, so the message has been passed along that I will return and hopefully get to see her again. Shabana was my Bengali teacher for the first week in Bangladesh.

When talking to with young women, and recent brides, it’s not the arranged marriage that sits wrong with me. It’s not my place as a white Western woman to try and change the culture and tradition. What saddens me is that there is no support or therapy for these young women when they fall into depression and confusion after being put into a strange household, a young husband, and strange parent in laws.

There are nearly 3999 other images I want to share, but I chose this one because she’s a young lady I saw over a course of a few days and I have a bit of an emotional attachment to. She braided/plaited my hair horribly a few times, with me nearly falling asleep in her sweet arms when combing her fingers through my dry, ratty hair.

If you’d like to be taken off the mailing list as well, please don’t hesitate to email me at [email protected]. I’m a thick skinned gal and can handle it. Also I know how these days we are bombarded with emails.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————–

Text from The Brooks Bugle:

A horizon of 360 degrees, the most vivid and rich blue skies you only dream of and at times standing on my tippy toes thinking I might actually be able to pluck a cloud from the heavens. Days would pass with seeing exactly 2 buses and if I were lucky a few lorries and a half a dozen motorbikes pimped out with neon colors and a speaker loaded on the back pumping American hip hop. Washboard roads and sometimes jeep tracks that cut through the plateau in the general direction I think I want to traverse. Locals have lined stones along the edge of the roads in hopes to prevent the tourism industry loaded into Land Rovers from ruining this desolate, dry, arid, and vacant space.

My feet sore from walking, inspecting the soles being worn down in the heels and at times catching my feet dragging. The sun is boiling my skin and I have every millimeter covered except my face and the two top knuckles of my fingers. If I get out of the sun I freeze.

I have no detailed maps, just some crap tourist map of China, as I never had intent of crossing into the Tibetan Autonomous Region. My riding partner of six weeks, that I had randomly met in Litang, and I had a very heated, abrupt, and emotional break up in a the middle of a yak field days after crossing over. Along with the absence of maps there was also no fuel for my alcohol stove as we had come to rely on his gas burner. I would NEVER find myself to not be self sufficient again.

Every night in my camp, marking the weeks since I had a shower, I would examine my feet noticing they are turning more and more blueish. My fingernails are pulling away from the bed, my ears are constantly ringing along with the constant “thud” of my heartbeat felt within my ear canal and all over my head. Lying down in my tent with the inability to sleep, hungry, I wonder if this is what it feels to be buried alive. At times I genuinely feel like I am going insane and even avoid nomads because I do not want to alert them of the mad woman on a bicycle.

This was the time of my life. These weeks and the months leading up to it would mark a major transformation of who I was and who I am today. Realizing how damn insignificant I am in this world, as Eleanor, as a human, and how we all are at the complete mercy of nature. There is no fresh water on the plateau, hail storms can give you a twenty minute warning and beat the hell out of you. Snapping tent poles because of the cold wind blasting at you and there is no wind shield at 5400 meters. Pouring cold water into your instant noodles while you set up your bed for the night hoping they will be soft for consumption in a few minutes. I had to eat as my 6′ frame was already down to 53 kgs a few weeks before and I know it was probably much lower at this point. Looking at my hands I could see the veins, tendons, and bones protruding more than ever before. Catching a glimpse of my hip bones in the tent at night, sometimes I wondered how I even had any strength to carry on during the days. There was NO option.

I have never felt so free in my entire life. People ask if I was lonely these days and I honestly can say the fullness I carried in my heart kept me company every second. If I looked hard enough along the horizon I could spot a nomad and a young child…or a shepherd woman perched on a cliff watching over her flock of sheep. Finding a nomad gypsy camp and witnessing an outrageous Shaman ritual or spending the morning helping a family of 10 children prepare for a journey to a local market. Life is full of richness and fleeting moments of pure bliss, but you have to keep moving forward, keep taking risks, keep placing yourself out of your comfort zone to encounter these seconds that make up an entire journey…of life.

With no maps, fear of water supply, I must trust myself because I have no one to help me through this. When you stand on a slight rolling hill on the plateau and you can see hundreds of kilometers ahead with no site of human life, you have to convince yourself there is no other option but to go forward. I’m not going to lie. It was tough. It was one of the most emotionally demanding experiences of my life but I managed to enjoy every second of it too.

This part of my tour of 26,000 kilometers is one of a few where it was more than just cycling. It was about self discovery, learning lessons of life, and becoming an emotionally and mentally stronger person. Moments that are brought to mind to get me through the days, where I find myself back in society a little over a year after pausing my tour. I say “pause” because I will never feel that it has concluded.

I watch our society want, and at times, expect immediate gratification and results. Summiting passes sometimes takes days and a whole lot of patience. One reason I cycle alone is because I really enjoy the ride up. I probably take a lot more breaks on the roadside than most and where I can stare out into the beauty of the world and time seems to lose all meaning. There is nowhere to be, no one to meet, no agenda. I’ll get to the top when I’m ready…there is no rush for me and the hours spent on the side of the road thinking and having revelations about life that I will not remember to the next day is what a lot of my tour was about.

Now it’s very evident this is also how I approach life. At 34 my photography career is just beginning to be something I can call a profession and rely on it completely for income. I received my first camera at 14 and was accepted into a program at 19. As you can see, I’m not a kind of person that gives up and I remind myself it’s about developing a stable and reliable grounding. What person can summit a 5040meter pass without weeks of training leading up to it?

There are too often times we can’t foresee or predict the outcome from our actions. We must have faith that something ahead will peak out and our hopes and dreams will be exceeded. Holding a steady pace and carrying on while remaining to have hope will take us far. Expectations? I carry none. Adding that to a load varying between 60-80kgs at time could be very very hefty. I’d prefer to be surprised when I summit that mountain that lies distant within my site.

When I feel like life is just spiraling out of hand and the switchbacks never seem to cease I put myself back on the saddle and return to the mindset that got me through those years navigating around Asia. I continue to take risks, while trusting myself and knowing there are also millions of people in this world that would be more than happy to help you if they can. Reminding myself I am at the mercy of nature but it will be left up to my own strength and will power to survive, or rather, excel.

Life sure is like a very very long bicycle ride. I have no idea what the destination is but I sure am enjoying the journey…wherever it leads.

20 Jun 2013

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Assey Plateau, Kazakhstan, Landscape Photography, Photography, Photos, Photos of Bike, Photos of Eleanor, Solitude, Soma Saga, Summer 2012, video With 8 Comments Permalink

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

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On June 20, 2013 With 8 Comments

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

And a little bicycle and girl pin-up photo for you folks.

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.

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.

06 Jun 2013

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Uncategorized With 3 Comments Permalink

Survived Another

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On June 6, 2013 With 3 Comments

Some people really enjoyed the birthday chronology photos on Facebook so I thought I’d share them here.

Birthday #30 (Gramma’s backyard)

Birthday #31 (Inner Mongolia with a toll gate operator I had met the day earlier)

Birthday #32 (On the roads in Yunnan)

Birthday #33 (On the Assey Plateau – damn amazing!!!)

Birthday #34 (Back at Gramma’s with my Momma)

What did I get for my birthday? Well a little cash to help afford this baby…
She’s a bit sick…haven’t really gotten to ride.

But the view looks a whole lot different down there…first oil change…for both of us.

She will be my sanity this summer, as I’m sticking around to teach some photography courses and hear if I’ve been accepted to a very prestigious photography workshop.

23 May 2013

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in News, Photography, Photos, Publication, Uyghur, Western China, Xinjiang With 3 Comments Permalink

Uighur work published online in The Atlantic

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On May 23, 2013 With 3 Comments

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.

24 Feb 2013

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist Posted in Solitude, Tibet With No Comments Permalink

Sticky Post By WanderCyclist On February 24, 2013 With No Comments

“Therefore, dear Sir, love your solitude and try to sing out with the pain it causes you. For those who are near you are far away… and this shows that the space around you is beginning to grow vast…. be happy about your growth, in which of course you can’t take anyone with you, and be gentle with those who stay behind; be confident and calm in front of them and don’t torment them with your doubts and don’t frighten them with your faith or joy, which they wouldn’t be able to comprehend. Seek out some simple and true feeling of what you have in common with them, which doesn’t necessarily have to alter when you yourself change again and again; when you see them, love life in a form that is not your own and be indulgent toward those who are growing old, who are afraid of the aloneness that you trust…. and don’t expect any understanding; but believe in a love that is being stored up for you like an inheritance, and have faith that in this love there is a strength and a blessing so large that you can travel as far as you wish without having to step outside it.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet