I am sitting in Bishkek airport once again, in fact, for the third time this week, sipping on white wine and waiting with much anticipation for a steak to arrive. It’s two in the morning, and I thought….why ever not?
It’ strange to be saying adios to Bishkek, although it has mugged me, rid me of my husband, and made me broke, I feel rather fond of it, and shall miss it. Of course, I shall miss little Grettle a great deal more, who will be hibernating here for the winter. I went to visit her yesterday and it seems she is being well looked after and in good hands. I had a fabulous past week and thoroughly enjoyed my time in the UK. I was greeted by Olivia Acland, who was looking her birthday best, and clutching three peacock feathers as a greeting gift. One of which was sadly stolen on a rather long walk home, by a drunken Halloween trick or treat, but the surviving two made it back to Sony’s flat (Olivia’s new man) where we were to be staying. I became wildly over excited about London buses…fabulous machines; I had never really fully appreciated them before. Another exciting aspect of London living was of course that everybody spoke English. It almost felt too easy when we got hideously lost on route to Sony’s and fully understood the directions given by everyone passing by. The city looked spectacular by night; the great London Bridge lit up in the night sky, its lights and glamour reflecting in the waters of the Thames. I appeared to be looking at London with fresh eyes, and having never thought much of it, in fact, I rather disliked the crowded, cold hustle and bustle on the smoky streets; I noticed now, the fabulous buildings, incredible architecture, and the friendly people. It was almost as though I were a foreigner in my own capital. In fact, the tube system was so foreign, that when Olivia and I approached the ticket barriers, I confidently pulled her Oister card from my pocket, and thrust it into the card slot. Well, I thought it was the card slot, but it transpired to be the ticket slot. Oh dear, I thought, as I turned sheepishly to Liv, who stood in disbelief, as the ticket man began to dismantle the machine and retrieve her oister card. I was kept out of sight, and inside after this, once I had finished photographing all the London buses, and speaking English to every Halloween freak that passed by. We spent a happy evening her new man’s flat, drinking wine, and smoking marijuana until the night turned light, and morning drew upon us. I had arrived much later than planned because my flight from Bishkek took a horrific 24 hours, instead of ten, in fact, it was without doubt, the worst day of the past 6 months; a grueling affair, with countless delays, and perverted Kyrgyz men at every turn. Having finally boarded the flight to Istanbul, I eventually managed to drift off into the world of nod, only to be woken by the man next to me fondling my breast! Out of instinct, I lashed out, and hit the man, asking him ‘what do you think you’re doing?’ With his wife in the opposite isle, the man took one sheepish look to his left, and accused me of being mad. Since nobody spoke English and everybody understood Turkish, it was hopeless; they all clearly thought I had lost the plot and was busy telling porky pies- the whole thing was outrageous! All in all the flight was without a doubt, a much bigger challenge than a 6 month Vespa escapade across Europe and Central Asia; which really was a piece of cake in comparison. The only enjoyable factor really, was the birds-eye view of my route- I could see the little desert road that I chugged along in the 65 degree heat; the black sea that I cruised over with the mob of drunken Georgians, and the fabulous peaks and mountain ranges that I tackled with little Grettle only months previously- quite a spectacle! I applied for my new passport having finally arrived, and met the Dorset rabble for a delicious Sunday roast in a London pub, before bidding them all farewell and taking the train south to Dorset to see my dear old stoats. For those of you who are wondering, the name stoats emerged in retaliation to a childhood referred to as weasel. Dorset was fabulous fun, filled with James Bond viewings, lampshade sales, walks along the cobb, Champaign and general celebrations. During this time, my mother baked my father a hat to eat since his famous last words were ‘I’ll eat my hat if Grettle makes it to Kyrgyzstan!’ This was very a merry occasion and since the hat was so large, and surprisingly delicious, the remainder of my meals at home consisted of nothing but hat; hat and humus, hat and eggs, hat with ham…the list was endless! The passport arrived as if by clockwork. Having begun to worry about how long it would take, I called the passport office who confirmed it had been sent, and moments later, the postman appeared at our front door with the important parcel. I hopped back on the train to London…spent a strange night with two Romanian men, one with liv, and feeling ever so slightly worse for wear, boarded the flight back to Bishkek to pick up my work Visa. I stayed in Sukara hostel for a couple of days. There was only one other man staying- a complete oddball is the only way to describe him. He said very little, stared a lot and frequently concocted strange looking potions in the kitchen. At one point, he appeared with a gruesome looking grey colored stew, pronouncing proudly to me ‘this simple meal is in your honor’ at which point I fled, and hopped in a taxi to the airport. So here I am, awaiting the final leg of my journey to Ulaanbaatar! Seven months of teaching to come….wish me luck! Flight was incredible…. Greeted by baatar….use email to the staots….
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So…things, once again, have taken a turn for the worse… The evening before I set off for my Mongolian escapade; the escapade I was so excited to finally begin; the escapade that I had finally got all the required visas for; the escapade to see the Gobi bear, the moose, the weasel, the wolf, and the stoat, I was mugged outside my hostel. A bloke crept up behind me, grabbed my bag, and made a run for it. I tried to catch up, and I blame smoking for the fact that I couldn’t… Firstly, the mugging came about because I forgot fags in the local shop, and ventured back to get them. And secondly, if it hadn’t been for smoking, I would have caught the bastard…as it was, I ran out of breath, and lost him in the forest! I had been walking back from the shop with a nice Dutch man, who was so away with the fairies, that he hadn’t realized what had happened, until he witnessed mugger and myself, both sprinting across the deserted bus station, and leaping over the old wall into the forest. He soon followed suit, and we both split ways in an attempt to track the bastard down. Failing to do so, a local couple called the police for us, and three officers arrived a while later. It was an eerie place, and a mugger’s God-send. A rundown neighborhood, half filled with trees, and half with narrow dirt tracks, timber houses, rubbish heaps, and derelict houses. We searched the forest, and retraced our steps with the police offers. It was all rather alarming to tell the truth, and clearly the police have a somewhat ‘special’ way of doing things around here. During the search, they would periodically brake into houses with guns, pulling out any man that might have met our rather feeble and unsure description of the mugger. We would then um and arh, analyzing his backside, in order to decipher whether or not, he fit the frame. My Dutch friend had seen him from a distance hobbling along behind us, but thought nothing of it; he was just another by passer. Unfortunately, I hadn’t seen his face, only a brief view of his backside in the dark, and I have to give it to him, for his method, precision, speed, and strength; It was a perfect mug. They arrested one chap on suspicion. I don’t feel all that bad if it wasn’t him, since he had at least 5 driving licenses in his bag, and was clearly a dab hand at mugging. Unfortunately however, no bag was found, and I am consequently stuck in Kyrgyzstan with no passport, no money, no driving license, no registration, and no visas! Anyway, long story short…it transpired that the only option was to return to the UK, and fast track my new passport. Unfortunately, the fact that I have seemingly had three passports stolen in the last two years, means that I will now have to have an interview in London before I am issued with my fourth. Having made a rather mad plan to drive across Mongolia in the depths of winter, and spend a merry Christmas in a nomad yurt camp somewhere between Ulgii and Ulaanbaatar, in order to reach my students by the January term, I reconsidered after speaking with a nervous wreck of a mother, a school director who clearly thought I had lost the plot, and a father who insisted on forwarding several grave email exchanges between himself and the British Ambassador of Mongolia. So the plan as of today is to tuck Grettle up in Bishkek until the summer, and fly to Ulaanbaatar once I have sorted out my passport. I will be late for school and have my fingers crossed I will arrive by mid-November. I am told my apartment is ready, and the kidliwinks are waiting...EEK! I fly home on Friday, and will be greeted by my dearest darling Olivia Acland at the airport, then spend a few days in London, before heading down to Dorset to visit the stoats. Extremely excited about the prospect of a Sunday roast… Until then, adios X Well, things are all rather exciting once again. I am back in Bishkek, having done a visa run to Almaty, the capital of Kazakhstan, where I was given 10 days to transit through Russia. The plan is to drive up to the north east of Kazakhstan, cross the border into Russia on the 28th October, and journey over the Altai Mountains into Mongolia. From here, things get a little trickier… The roads through Mongolia are non-existent, and signposts are few and far between. Instead, several dirt tracks run through the country, linking the little villages, towns, and nomad yurt camps. I will be driving 1600 kilometers through the country in November, and I have my fingers crossed that it will not simply be a blanket of snow and ice. (A Dzuud is expected) I have not yet decided whether to take the southern route through the Gobi desert, where the very rare Gobi bear is said to live; the middle route, said to be swamped with marmots and mountains; or the northern route, known to host wolves, moose, and weasels. Having been nicknamed Moose by my dear mother when I was young, followed by weasel through my teenage years and into early adulthood, I must say I am tempted to go north, but regretfully this is the coldest part of the country, and temperatures of -50 are not unknown! Anyway, as always, the unknown is what makes these adventures what they are. If I knew it were all one perfectly tarmacked highway, free from wolf, weasel, moose, bear, and ice, I would probably not bother at all…no fun without a bit of a challenge eh? I am sipping coffee and smoking a morning fag in a delightful little hostel. My tent is pitched next to a yurt in the garden, and I have finally got going with my scrap book. I look a little mad, sat in the corner, surrounded by mountains of scrap paper, drawings, paints, coffee, fags, photographs, and hundreds of torn up maps. I had a very productive day yesterday, and managed to find a lady who could replace the zip on my Nepalese wooly coat, a shoe maker who managed to fix my saddle bags, a lead to connect a new smart phone to a USB attached to Grettle, a woman who agreed to print several small photographs for me, and a color copier for some drawings I was keen to turn to collage. I had an amusing couple of days in Almaty, where I was invited to join an off land motorbike tour to the singing dunes, and the Aktau mountains. The six big blokes arrived, where Marat, the tour leader, had all their bikes ready and prepared. The men had not ridden for a good 15 years, and were all trying to fit back into their old leather pants…a splendid spectacle! Two fell off on route, but no damage was done. I rode in the support vehicle, as I considered Grettle may slow the tour down slightly, but the scenery was spectacular, and the company was good fun, which made up for it. One of the men, named Michael, gave me an old smart phone of his, when it became apparent I had no navigation system, which was incredibly kind, and will no doubt be invaluable for my journey. Until this point, I have relied solely on the locals when it comes to navigation, particularly in the cites, most of which end up jumping on the back of Grettle, and back seat driving. Anyway, it was a fabulous weekend, and we stayed in a little farm house, with horses, foals, sheep, and chickens, ate lots of plov, and drank a little too much scotch. V much looking forward to arriving in UB, meeting all the dorks, and beginning the teaching. It sounds like an interesting city, despite its reputation as the coldest in the world! Today I am on the lookout for pogies (some kind of hand warmer you can attach to the handle bars of your bike), and a good woolly jumper. Until next time, Adios https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TMGnkFSbPr0 A Video depicting the journey of a mad artist, her beloved Vespa Grettle, and side-wing Travel Frog, travelling from England to Kyrgyzstan. 10 000 miles, 106 days, and 19 countries marks only the beginning of the adventure..... Sadly, the quality decreases when put large screen for some reason, so best to keep it on half size...hope you enjoy it...its been a blast! Ps. I have not yet got my head around youtube, so leave a comment, and let me know if it works... thanks! Hello all,
You will be pleased to hear that since my last post, things have improved beyond recognition. I left Grettle in the hands of a man named Raman, a local mechanic here in Bishkek. Rather like the Turkish chap who welded and hammered her back into shape, post Istanbul-Crash-Fiasco, Raman, by some stroke of genius, has reconstructed her entire engine from scratch. Furthermore, he has done the entire job for a total of $100, as appose to the colossal $3000+ I was expecting to pay, for the shipping of a brand new Vespa engine, from the UK to Bishkek. Having said this, she has become a little more whiny, post operation; she has someone else’s parts inside her, but I am assured they are neither new ,nor old, but good enough to get me to India, which is certainly saying something! I moved into Yas’s flat for a couple of days to find my feet, and decide how to overcome the sticky wicket touched upon in the previous post. Bad mood and manic mind lightened during my days there, and I got offered a teaching job in Ulaanbaatar; the capital of Mongolia! I have accepted the offer, and now prepare myself for an extremely cold drive through Kazakhstan, Russia, and the majority of Mongolia, where I will start teaching English to a class of 30 6 year olds at The Hobby School! It will take one month for the business visa to process, which means I will be driving through the mountains in late October. I hear the roads are appalling, the snow blizzards frequent, but the landscape, and the people are said to be stunning. The director of The Hobby School has voiced his concerns in regards to driving through the country this late in the year, and has offered to come and meet Grettle, travel frog, and I near the Russian Mongolian border. I have just been through rather a grueling ordeal in order to get my TB test results; one of the many documents required in order to obtain the business visa. I got lost on my way to the clinic, and a nice young Kyrgis girl showed me the way, and stayed as translator. We were taken into a small room where I was asked to strip. There were many other clients all loitering around topless, waiting in line, to step into a metal chamber, where one was made to press one’s breasts up against an aluminum wall, rest one’s chin in a chin cup, and spread ones arms as though about to be patted down thoroughly at airport security, before being hoisted sharply upwards, to a level appropriate for the procedure. The young girl was not at all surprised by all of this, and watched me casually as I undressed for the X-ray. Rather relieved to have escape d, and to be fully clothed once again, I bid farewell to the nice girl, and hopped in a taxi to the little hostel I am currently living in. The taxi driver spoke some English, and would begin each sentence with a very bossy ‘Listen to me…’ before trailing off into an undecipherable mumble about single women without babies. I am told the women here marry at 16, and have babies soon after, and so the idea of a single female traveller in this part of the world, is unheard of. We then got on to the subject of cigarettes, he told me his brand, and asked me mine. I explained I usually smoke tobacco. He misunderstood my rolling gesture and promptly offered me some extremely potent pot, inviting me back to stay with his family, if I was unsuccessful in finding a job. Grettle got her first puncture since 2013 a couple of days ago. I was attempting rather a rocky path without a working headlight, and must have run over some sharp building materials. Memories of Tajikistan and water melon trucks sprung to life, and it felt like home, hopping into the back of an open truck with G to find a mechanic. I have just gone to collect her once again from Raman, who has fixed her headlight, back rack, and replaced a missing valve, as well as fishing out a new front tire! The tire has large Chinese letters all over it, and is a great deal thinner than my back tire. Knowing what I do about anything made by the Chinese, I am not filled with confidence I must admit, but fingers crossed it will do the job, and get me the 4,400 kilometers to Ulaanbaatar! It feels fantastic to be back in the tent, I am camping with a few cyclists in the garden of ‘A House’ hostel. It’s getting pretty chilly at night now, and so I’m on the lookout for a new sleeping back, and a mat, in preparation for the Mongolian adventure. My current sleeping bag leaves much to be desired; I remember taking it to sleepovers with me when I was 8 years old! I plan to take the month to catch up on sketching, writing, and continuing my very hefty scrap book. I have been asked to write a feature for motorcycle news which is great, and the journalist who got in touch has given me a direct email address for Piaggio, which is fabulous, and so I plan to get in touch, and wheedle some sponsorship of some sort from them…perhaps in the form of spare parts. Who knows how long G’s handy-downs will last! Until next time…Adios Hello all, well, to put it lightly, things have taken a turn for the worse.... Without going into the turn itself, for reasons best kept quiet, the current situation has left me in a bit of a sticky wicket… On top of the wicket, poor old Grettle needs practically an entire new engine, which I may have to order in from the UK, at a colossal price, and John, my desert husband, has taken up a post as a medic in Iraq, leaving me surrounded by nothing other than business men in suits and ties, high-rise flats, and lifeless, empty space. I am getting booted out of my flat this weekend, and so I now find myself without a house, without a Grettle, without an income, without a husband, and without sufficient funds to make it over the Himalayas before the winter kicks in...EEK! My water has just been cut off, which is v annoying; I can’t wash up, or flush the loo, have a shower, or make a coffee. My phone died in a small pool of split vodka last night, whilst catching up with Daniel, one of the many chaps who helped heave Grettle over the Wahkan landslide a month ago. My laptop has a large, black whole, and several criss-crossing lines in the middle of it's screen, so I currently have it attached to a large, and rather impractical monitor. And I’m desperately trying to work out a way of disguising the cigarette burns in the carpet, covering the duct tape marks on the walls, and washing up the mess, without any water. Other than this, the flat is pretty much in working order....with the exception of my key, which is bent rather badly in the middle, and one needs to be familiar with a special knack, to get the door open; a knack which I fear the owner may not appreciate quite as much as myself! Until next time...Adios Well, the next day was probably one of the best of the entire trip. Grettle climbed to a record height of 4650 meters, against all the odds, without any pushing, lifting, shoving, towing, or hitching, and I experienced some of the most breathtaking views I think I have ever seen. So well done G, is all I can say! Having made it up the final and infamous mud slide slope of the Wahkan, Grettle began to deteriorate rapidly. The landslide-lift saga the previous day, had caused the metal rack attached to her bottom, to split clean in two, and the only thing holding the entirety of my luggage, to the bike, were two bolts found in the Home-Stay at Jlangar, and some quick-fix super glue, hurriedly applied before I set off that morning. One pot hole too many, tipped the precarious balance, and without warning, the entire rack, along with top box, tent, petrol canisters, and watercolour pad, tumbled off the bike, and into the rubble. I jammed the rack, and baggage between my knees, and began hurtling off down the highway, in the hope that I might catch up with John in his taxi 4 x 4. 'Em, you look completely mad' he said, as I ground to a halt at a little café, having spotted the 4x4 parked outside. My eyes were popping out of my head, I felt the most exhilarated I ever remember feeling, completely high as a kite on the altitude, and buzzing with energy. I gave him all of my things, and exclaiming 'I'll see you in Murgab before dark!' hurtled off, on half a Vespa, into the distance. The fact that I no longer had a tent, shoes, helmet, sleeping bag, spare petrol, or any warm clothes, didn't seem to worry me at the time, but as the sun went down, the rain broke out, and the road turned silent, it slowly began to dawn on me, that if I couldn't make it to Murgab that evening, I would have no where to sleep, nothing to wrap up in, no shelter to take cover under, no tools if G were to play dead the next morning, and no spare petrol if her tank ran out. This is certainly not something that ever worried me cruising the coastal paths of Normandy, a couple of years back, when the weather was so splendid, I didn't need a tent at all, but up at 4000 meters, it really was a wee bit chilly, for sleeping rough in the rain! Thankfully I made it to Murgab by about 10pm, soaking wet from driving headlong into floods and mud in the dark, to find John and 4x4, waiting in the rain for me, outside the only hotel in town. Inconveniently, and astonishingly, it was full, and so we found a little hovel belonging to a local Kyrgis family instead, and slept on some rugs, spread out on the floor in their sitting room. The next stop was Osh. John kept hold of my baggage, other than the tent, which I sensibly decided to strap to my seat on this occasion, in case I got stranded somewhere on route. The road out of Osh, climbed higher into the snow capped peaks, and G and I must have been scooting at a speed no greater than 5 miles per hour, by the time we reached the top of the pass, where there was a flat plateau, and an area of no-mans land, between the Tajik and Kyrgis borders. It was the stangest border I have ever crossed; two men sat outside in a bog, peered at my curiously, as I toppled over into the mud on Grettle, who's little wheels couldn't handle the uneven ground, stamped my passport once G and I were standing vertical once again, and opened the gates into nothing. This No-Mans land continued for about an hour, before we reached the kyrgis border, at which point I whooped for joy...G and I had made it to Kyrgyzstan at long last! It seemed the mountain pass had taken its toll on poor old Grettle, and not far into my journey to Osh, she conked out once again. It was that same, dreaded feeling, of a loose spark plug, and despite my attempts to fix it back in place, with duck tape, it was clear we were getting nowhere. As the rain began to bake out, and the light began to fade, I flagged down a lorry, in the hope of a lift to Osh, which was still a good 200 km away from where we stood. The two drivers agreed, rather apprehensively, that Grettle and I could travel in the back, and so we heaved her inside, and they handed me a blanket, and a beer, before closing the big metal doors, leaving us settled and snug, in the darkness. I attempted to keep G stable, as we were thrown from one side of the lorry to the other at every bend, wending our way up and over the mountains to Osh. A sudden CRASH caused the two of us to fall, after which the lorry ground to a halt, and silence resumed for a good half hour. Getting a little concerned about what on earth was happening, I began knocking from the inside of the lorry. After 10 minutes of consistent pounding on the metal doors, one of the chaps, opened the back, put his finger to his lips, and told me to ‘Shhhh’. I did as I was told, still totally at a loss for what was going on, until we gradually began to roll off, once again, down the winding road. About twenty minutes passed, until the two men opened the back doors, handed me a packet of crisps and a fruit juice, and showed me the damage to the back of the lorry. We had had a bad collision, the police had arrived, and I had been kept out of sight, to prevent any further charges….having a young English girl with a Vespa, locked in the back of a dark lorry, was probably not something that would have helped their case! We finally arrived in Osh, and having thought I would be dropped at the address of John's Hostel, which I had scribbled down on a piece of paper, and given to the lorry drivers (clearly wishful thinking), I was rather surprised, when they opened the doors, smiling broadly, onto a large, and deserted lorry park. With absolutely no idea where I was within the city, I rang the number of the hostel. After much confusion, during a conversation between the two lorry drivers, myself, the Kyrgis owner of the hostel, and John, who had been roused from bed, a rescue plan was eventually formed. Ten minutes later, a very unamused hostel owner arrived in his car, to pick us up, and towed Grettle, alarmingly fast (the man was not impressed, and had no intention of making things easy for me), to the Hostel. During my time in Osh, I got Grettle seen to at a mechanics, where she received some tender loving care, at long last, from a chap called Patrick. We even constructed a pair of metal contraptions, to support a new pair of speakers, so that I could play music whilst driving. John decided to sack off his bicycle all together, and buy one of the motorbikes stored at Patrick's (appropriately named as Hansel), and so for the first time since we met, a couple of months back, in the Uzbek deserts, we both set off, on the same mode of transport, to Bishkek. Words could not do justice to the spectacular scenery we drove through, opal blue turquoise lakes dotted the landscape, herds of horses, cows, goats, donkeys, and sheep roamed across the road, and through the lush green valleys, wonderfully tapestried yurts cropped up in every village, offering chai and cheese balls, and the blue skies and sun, lit up the snow-capped peaks in a magically romantic way. Without a doubt the Wahkan corridor, The Pamir Highway, and the final drive over the mountains from Osh, were the highlights of the 10 000 miles, I drove to reach Bishkek. Amusingly, word had been spread that a Vespa was in the vicinity, and consequently, during my drive, many cyclists and families in their 4x4’s, flagged me down ‘You must be Grettle’ they would exclaim excitedly, ‘we have been waiting to meet you!’. And so G made some good friends, and strong supporters during the journey, many of which are now arriving in Bishkek, so it’s time for celebratory brews all around, and of course, a wee bit of teaching! So here I am, in a rather flashy flat, with a large screen television, a comfy double bed, a big sitting room, a kitchen, and some absolutely hideous furniture; grotesque candle sticks and Gothic lamp stems, which I have hidden out of sight, and replaced with Travel frog, and a random selection of other ornaments accumulated over the trip. Grettle is parked loyally outside. She broke down twenty kilometers outside the city, and so John towed me from the back of Hansel, the final half hour of driving into the city. I am hoping it is nothing serious, but I plan to get her to a mechanics asap to discover the damage. Until next time...Adios 106 days, 10 000 miles, multiple landslides, and a fair few floods later, Grettle and I have made it to Bishkek in one piece, and live to tell the tale! I apologize to any interested readers for the lack of communication over the past month or so. Having escaped the heat waves of the Uzbek desert; a horrific 65% Celsius in stretches, I disappeared into the depths of the Pamir mountains, where it seemed one of the worst years to date, saw the catastrophic collapse of the Pamir highway, otherwise known as the M41, as the mountains crumbled before my eyes, the rivers engulfed the roads, entire valleys were flooded, many people were killed, and power cuts plunged the region into darkness. With a boat only strong enough to take pedestrians across the flood blocking the M41, and a 2 mile climb over the washed up remnants of the landslide, it was impossible for any vehicles to cross. Despite the grave warnings in regards to the impossibilities, of attempting the alternative route by Vespa, with only 5 days remaining on my Tajik Visa, Grettle and I had no choice, but to tackle what is known as the Wahkan Corridor. This panhandled strip of land, lies in the far north eastern corner of Afghanistan, it’s northern border separating Afghanistan from Tajikistan, is marked by the raging and wild Indus river, alongside which a bone rattling road, winds its way over the high mountain valley, wedged in between the giants, of the Pamir mountains, the Karakorum, and the Hindu Cush. This nail biting, and dramatic dirt track, is a challenging addition to the Pamir highway, and in this case, the only alternative to the flooded section of M41. It later rejoins the highway in Murgab, after which the road continues into Kyrgyzstan, terminating officially in Osh. The Pamir’s, rather romantically named ‘Bam’iDunya’ by the locals, translating as ‘the roof of the world’, holds host to some of the world’s most remote and awe inspiring scenery; with a special permit required to travel there, and an entirely different language spoken in the region, it is almost a totally different country to the rest of Tajikistan, of which it takes up 43%, yet only holds host to a tiny 3% of the population. Thehighway itself is known as the second highest altitude pass on the planet, one of the world greatest mountain road trips, and in stretches, reaches heights of over 4650 meters. Aside from the obvious problems of attempting such a route by Vespa, there lingered the problem of my current battery… Inside the battery, lies a type of sulphuric acid; an essential ingredient in order for any bike to run. After one particularly challenging mountain pass, on route from Dushanbe, to a beautiful village called Kalaichum, in the high ground of the Pamir’s, Grettle gave up the ghost, and the following morning, simply wouldn’t start. I peered down into her battery, to find with horror, that the acid had exploded through a broken seem in it’s lid, had corroded the plastic covering the fuse, and lay in a pool around the empty electrical box. In hind sight, I suppose her defiant attempts at playing dead, were understandable; the previous day, she had rescued from a river, pulled from a mud pit, and bumped about something rotten, amidst the potholes and boulders, which made up the mountain pass. We had gone for it like a bat out of hell, in order to reach the home-stay before the storms broke out, and the journey had ended with a terrifying ride, without a working headlight, in the dead of night, and torrential rain. In any normal circumstance, I would have simply gone to a local mechanic, bought a new battery, and hit the road once again. Unfortunately, the idea of a new battery in the depths of the Pamir’s, was laughable; not only were we miles from any city, but in the middle of a valley, which no mechanic in their right mind, would attempt to get to, over the mountain pass, in order to help. Having said this, I have not yet encountered a problem in Central Asia, which the local lads fail to fix; there always seems to be a way in this part of the world, and so despite a niggling worry that I would be stuck on the roof of the world for good, I remained hopeful. Having performed the usual game of charades, in an attempt to explain the problem to the owner of my home-stay, I was bundled into the back of his car, and driven to what seemed like the middle of absolutely nowhere, at which point, I have to admit , I was becoming a little skeptical about this particular venture, and considered perhaps the idea of a mechanic, had been someone lost in translation, and we were in fact on route to a long lost aunt, for Yak tea and shaslyk. Sure enough however, 10 minutes later, we wound up at a small hovel, where a family sat eating watermelon under a colorful canopy, and a chap who appeared to have seen at least a century, hobbled out of the house, took the battery from my hands, and without a word, began melting the plastic to seal the seams. He then poured in what must have been an equivalent to the sulphuric acid, and handed it back to me triumphantly. Amazingly the battery worked, Grettle fired up, and I was good to go once, again. I travelled through the Pamir’s, and on into the Wahkan, with, and without, John; the Welsh cyclist I had met in the deserts of Uzbekistan, formerly referred to in a previous post, as my husband, who had begun his journey in Cardiff. We had reunited in Dushanbe, and set off together. I say together, but John was riding a bicycle, and so the routine became that I would scoot ahead, find a pleasant camping spot, buy a picnic, and wait for him to arrive early evening. I would often place messages in bottles, blown up balloons, or piles of plants, on the side of the road, tied to the bushes, as a signal as to where exactly I had set up camp. This method worked rather well, until the point when John got fed up with his mode of transport, and began to hitch hike with his bicycle; as I was crawling at snail’s pace up a steep mountain path, he would steam ahead of me in a 4x4, and send me a series of warning texts. Despite the good intentions behind these, they became really rather of a worry, and I almost rathered remain oblivious to the several river crossings, and landslides, that I would soon have to tackle, single handedly with little G. Having said this, it certainly made for a pleasant, and fun change to solo travel; we would cook pasta on his stove in the evenings, gaze at the stars, and more often than not, discuss how on earth we would fix Grettle the following morning. Not far past Kalaichum, on route to Horugh; the next large town, and the gate way to the Wahkan Corridor, I passed a cyclist heading in the opposite direction. He informed me that there had been a disaster flood on that road, that no vehicles could pass, and advised me to turn back, saying rather red faced and flustered, that the entire area was in a state of collapse, and that he was relieved to be heading out the other side. I had no time to turn back to Dushanbe, and shuddered at the sheer thought of having to tackle the last mountain pass for a second time, so I rang john, who was in hot pursuit on his bicycle, and we decided to scoot a little further down the road, and see for ourselves, the colossal damage that the flood had caused. Hundreds of people were stuck either side of the valley, and heaps of diggers were at work, attempting to make some form of a bridge over the river. The tsunami sized wave had climbed an incredible 300 meters at least, and one could see the mud covering the houses perched at the top of the valley. Two motorcyclists approached me as I arrived, and they, along with many others, had been camping for two or three nights, waiting for the road to become passable once again. By the time John had rolled up on his bicycle, fights were beginning to breakout, the army had arrived, and the entire scene was mayhem. After an hour or two, when it appeared the mud and rubble bridge, would be passible, or at least good enough to hold Grettle and the bicycle, John and I seized the opportunity to scoot down the valley, wiggle past the diggers, and made it to the other side, before the traffic, and mounting road rage, hit its climax. We spent two wonderful nights camping before reaching Horugh, where it transpired that G’s problems, lay a little deeper than the battery itself, which by this point, had been strapped together by band aid from a first aid kit, placed in a make shift plastic Tupperware box, and glued up several times. In fact, it was a problem with the alternator, which overcharged the battery, causing the acid to boil, the battery to overheat, and the explosions to take place time after time. And so along-side the river crossings, the sand pits, and the waist-high mud of the Wahkan, I was forced to stop every 20 km or so, refill the battery, let the engine cool, and picnic with the donkeys, before continuing on my way. Having left Horugh, a couple of days passed, before I came across my next obstacle. Yet another landslide had trapped people on either side of the road. John was waiting for a lift from Ishkashim, but two other motorcyclists I had met previously turned up at the blockage, and came to the rescue, not long after I had arrived. Having tested out the deepness of the colossal mound of mud, and sinking up ourwaist lines, we decided there was nothing for it, but to attempt to heave the bikes over the steep cliff, to the side of the mud mound, and over the heap of boulders, which lay scattered, and nerve rackingly unstable, in the aftermath of the landslide. The few travelers at the scene, had decided to camp for the night, and again, wait for the diggers to finish, but with only 3 days left until my visa expired, I had no choice but to attempt the cliff. Grettle was selected first as the scape goat, since she was easily the lightest vehicle out of the three, and with the help of a total of around 10 local kids, we began to heave her over the mountain, and through the rubble. Any wrong move, would have ended in disaster, and she would have certainly fallen to her death. And so I was amazed, relieved, and exhilarated, when about an hour later, we finally succeeded in getting her down the other side, where she was greeted by a round of applause, as the first, and it later transpired, the only, vehicle to have crossed the landslide for some time afterwards… She even found herself an interested buyer! I had aimed to reach Ljangar that evening; the only village on route, where there was said to be a home stay, but despite the exhilaration I had felt in getting G over the land slide, the final hour of driving, had me on the brink of tears. I was exhausted. It was dark, cold, and I had been at it all day. On top of this, as I approached every little cluster of huts , guard dogs would begin to chase Grettle, and without a working headlight, would drive us headlong, and blind, into the floods and sand pits, which were becoming increasingly frequent, as we disappeared into the depths of the Wahkan Corridor. By the time I eventually reached the little hovel of a homestay, night was truly upon us, and I collapsed, soaking wet, muddy, and exhausted, into bed. To be continued.... I am sitting beside Grettle, perched at a height of 2195 meters, on the edge of a steep and rocky drop, descending into an opal blue lake, surrounded by snow-capped peaks, and blue sky. The fiery oranges, cadmium yellows, and deep reds, of the approaching sun set, play in the startlingly turquoise waters, and dance in the light of the early moon. Iskanda Kul is the name of this mind-blowingly fabulous lake, and apart from the three Tajik men that took an entrance fee from me (cheeky bastards), there’s not a single soul in sight (tourist anyway). I’ve seen a couple of small shacks here and there, but other than that, it’s me, G, and travel frog, with this oasis to ourselves. Having had a bit of a low period over the last few days, craving company, longing for cool air, and wishing I spoke Russian, I could not explain the rush of Tajikistan; the mountains; the lakes; the people; the air; the vast, wild, and crashing rivers, that snake their way beside the rugged mountain passes, spraying cool water over you, as you ride and swerve their serpent-like roads. Having said this, it was a job to get in to, to say the least; I managed on my third border crossing attempt, somewhere near Tashkent in Uzbekistan, having tried and failed dismally, to pass two others, closer to Samarqand. Not only that, but since I have been here, I have had nothing but problems with poor old G; I have seen her inside out, upside down, and well and truly, dissected part by part. The little mishap in my last post, marked the beginning of a long line of illnesses… Having finally made it into Tajikistan, tiredness beginning to take its toll, and the idea of finding, and comprehending directions to a hostel, too daunting to face, I decided to find a spot to camp. There were mountains in the distance, but in general the landscape was very flat, and one could see for miles, which made finding a decent, and secret spot to camp, a little tricky. I was a little more apprehensive than usual about my first night camping in this unknown land, perhaps it was partially due to tiredness, but the memory of three Uzbek men, certainly played a part in this feeling of unease. Three separate occasions lingered in the foreground of my mind, and on each occasion, I had been asked where I was from, and where I was going. 'Tajikistan' I would exclaim happily, after which grave expressions would sweep away their broad smiles, and a machine gun noise and mime, would follow with no further explanation. I tried to block this from mind, and as the sun was beginning to set, followed a small track off the road, and drove as far as I could, before reaching a cluster of mud huts, and a herd of cattle. There was no real differentiation between the track, and the cactus sprinkled ground around it, and so I unpacked my tent, and sat on top of it for a while, deciding what to do. I set up the tent after this moment of deliberation, deciding to sleep and hope for the best. No sooner than I had done, what sounded like a pack of either very over excitable dogs, or wolves, echoed up and around the mud huts, and hills behind me. A little too close for comfort, and failing to bury, both the fear of a hungry mob of wogs eating me alive, and an angry Tajik cattle header, shooting me down with a machine gun, I packed up the tent and found a different, less scenic, but beast-free spot. The following morning, G, it seemed, was not as enthusiastic as myself, in regards to an early start, and with the switch of ignition, remained most definitely dormant. Once again, not even a rumble from her little stomach was audible. I was in the middle of absolutely nowhere, and had scooted a long way from the road, on a small dirt track, in my attempts to be as out of sight as possible. At ease in the realization that at some point the situation would change, I tucked into a crab stick, and waited. Eventually, a chap rumbled along in a truck, jam packed with trees and other debris. Having flagged him down, I followed through the usual charades act, and we came up with a plan. This nice man would go to dump his trees somewhere, and would be back at some point, to pick G and I up, and get us to a mechanics. Sure enough, half an hour later, I saw the truck, and it’s trail of dust, as it sidled off the main road, and rumbled back down the dirt towards us. He had brought one other man with him, and so the three of us heaved G into the open trailer. I sat beside her and remnants of debris, to make sure she wasn’t harmed during the journey, and we set off for the mechanic. By the time we had hoisted poor Grettle out of the truck, the usual crowd had gathered; the entire community, it seemed, had come to see what all the commotion was about, and so the mechanic set to work with an excited audience. Having thought she was good to go once again, I set off for Dushanbe, the capital of Tajikistan, and the gate way to the infamous Pamir highway. Alas, no longer than 10 minutes passed, before Grettle spluttered to a halt once again. Having finally flagged down an onion truck, and persuading the driver to squeeze her into the open boot, on top of a colossal heap of onions, I hitched my way back to the same mechanics, in the hope they could get to the roots of G’s depression. Having been passed over to ‘the scooter expert’, who, from what I would see, was simply a chap who owned a scooter, and a small back yard, G’s dissection began. The old man, part by part, tweaked, and fiddled, with every one of her stomach organs, each time, defiantly and proudly, sending me off on test spins, which inevitably ended up, with us crawling and spluttering hopelessly back into his little yard, time after time. At long last, he came to the conclusion, that it was the Corsa, that was the problem, and this, whatever it was, was broken. He told me to drive to Khujand, the next biggest city, and about 50 km east, where there should be a mechanic who could replace her Corsa. I was instructed to drive slowly, and stop every 20 minutes or so, before continuing, allowing Grettle to rest during the journey. Despite a niggling feeling it may be best to keep the engine going until I arrived at destination, I did as I was told, and twenty minutes into the drive, I stopped for a rest. Having munched on some melon, and taken a snap shot, I hopped aboard to go once again . Nothing. ‘Bugger’, I thought. Frustration brewing, I began to flag down the third vehicle of the day. A bright orange watermelon truck ground to halt beside us, and a long debate followed between the two chaps, and myself (I say debate, but again, the language barrier left us only with visual aids), about whether or not we could heave Grettle onto the roof of the van, or whether it would be safer to tow her behind it. Unfortunately, the inside of it was jam packed with watermelons, and so the options were rather limited. Despite the driver’s concerns, in regards to the safety of towing Grettle, which I have to admit, I have never done, or seen before, it was clear, the roof option was unrealistic, and without any ropes to secure her, would no doubt end in the death of poor old G. And so the towing began…. We looped a piece of rope from Grettle’s head light, to the tow bar of the van, and off we sped. What a glorious way to travel I thought, as I rolled silently behind the watermelons, taking photographs of the mountainous scenery, and listening to the pumping tunes, playing from the stereo, until we successfully arrived in Khujand, at an avenue of small little sheds, with several mechanics all in one place. Another scooter 'expert;' who it later transpired was in fact a car mechanic, and owned an electric bicycle, turned up and got to work. I showed him the slip of paper, with Corsa scribbled down on it, determined this must surely be the problem, and so he, and his many fellow chums, began to dismantle G piece by piece, until there was nothing left, but the small lump of an engine. Her head light, wheels, ears, and shell, lay scattered around the area; as sad a sight as this was, it was fascinating to see how each part fit together, and worked, or in this case, how they did not; I had never seen any mechanical work so up close before. Having come to the conclusion the Corsa was absolutely fine, that it was not the battery, as was next suspected and tested; it was in fact something in the tangle of wires inside her chest. Anyway, the young man appeared to know what he was doing, and eventually, as the day was drawing to a close, he successfully, by torch light, aroused G from her sleepy slumber, and brought her back to life. The man worked wonders, fixed up G's speedometer, rear brake, and miles reading, which had not been in working order since Istanbul, and on top of it all, announced proudly, that his work was a gift, and he would not accept a dime for any of it. It had got so late, by the time the work was done, that he invited me to stay for the night in his mother’s house. He led the way on his electric bicycle, playing music from a set of built-in speakers (a genius idea in my mind, and one that lay the seed for future thoughts and improvements to Grettle) and I followed on behind him, until we reached the flat. I had a hot shower, while he cooked up some delicious soup, before finally hitting the pillows, and slipping into the world of nod. It felt fantastic to be in a bed, after such a hectic couple of days, and I was very grateful to the nice young man, for his hospitality. So here I am, at this glorious lake, post tree, melon, and onion hitch saga, taking in Tajikistan for the first time. The scenery on the way here, was truly stunning, with near-vertical rock faces, on which a magnificent colouration, added a wonderfully wizard magic to the mountain back drop. Tomorrow, I have a choice between attempting what is known as the infamous ‘Anzob Tunnel’, described in the lonely planet as ‘a mind-boggling 5km succession of pot-holes, unlit mid-road hazards, and lethally pinging rebar steel spikes’, or to avoid this, by taking Grettle over the Anzob Pass, which reaches a height not yet attempted by either of us, of 3373 meters. It is renound for being an extremely difficult, dirt, rubble, and dusty ribbon of a road, which eventually re-joins the M34, that dramatically traverses the Hissar, Zefefshan/Fan, and Turkestan mountain ranges, on route to Dushanbe. With this is mind, anyone who does not hear from me within the week, please di al 999, nd send a helicopter without delay!Until then, Adios…. The following entry was in fact written over a month ago, but due to lack of internet among other obstacles, I never quite got around to sending it, so here goes:
I am sitting in a small cafe somewhere between Bukhara and Samarkand, waiting for a kebab, and munching on some salad, while I wait for poor old G to be fixed next door. Exactly the same thing happened as about one month ago, in a little garage in Azerbaijan. I had been driving happily, and fast along the highway, pulled in to stop, in this case, for a cold bottle of water, and simply could not start again. Luckily there happened to be a small mechanics on the opposite side of the road....thank goodness that this had not happened in the desert, where I highly doubt I would have found a mechanic for good few hundred miles! I am wearing a pair of highly uncomfortable, bright orange jelly shoes, with flowers on, brought for me by the cluster of curious bystanders at the water stall, because my already very worn flip flop, finally came to sticky end whilst trying to kick start Grettle. A very large, loud, and slightly repulsive man, has just taken on a lounge and stare position from the opposite bench, so I am staring at this screen rather harder than usual. God I am fed up of eyes on me just all the time. I Suppose I only have myself to blame, for a single girl, riding a pistachio Green Vespa with Frog, is apparently something no one this far from home, has ever seen before, and so naturally, every time I stop, a mere minute ticks by, before the entire community has gathered around to observe this strange, and rare sighting, Maybe it's because I'm feeling worn out, wishing I had company, and longing to understand or speak the Russian language, that I am no longer finding the constant stare, the urgent tapping on my shoulder, and the questions continuously yelled into my ear in Russian, funny anymore; they have become exhausting. The concept of personal space is not something that the locals appear to have grasped, or be in any way familiar with, in this part of the world. I think the heat of the desert has taken its toll over the past few days, the temperatures have been reaching 60+ Celsius, which probably makes matters a little worse, but it's the type of behavior, that with good company, or any company for that matter, that speaks your language, can be a manageable, and even an amusing challenge, but turns utterly exhausting when faced with alone. Which brings me to how much I am missing my recently wed husband, and the team of cyclists I met in Nukus. If I remember rightly, I left you in my last post, waiting for them to arrive at Jipek Jolie Guest house, whilst taking refuge in my little yurt. Well, my yurt was soon invaded by an old lady, who simply would not stop complaining about absolutely everything. She was furious because her book had told her the journey from Khiva would take an hour less than it did in reality. The constant whining in an awful Australian drawl, turned insufferable after about 10 minutes, and so John and I succeeded in drowning it out, and lightening the mood, over a few too many shots of vodka, and some more light-hearted conversation. We soon decided to take refuge in his spacious air-con room, and settle in for a movie. Having just set up however, we heard a knock at the door. We answered, to find the hotel manager poised outside, looking nervous and rather flustered. He told me I must return to my yurt immediately. A bit boggled by this unwarranted and out of the blue behavior, we attempted to explain we wanted to watch a film, but to no avail, the man was adamant. When we protested, he asked us for our marriage certificate. I hastily began to scrawl out a makeshift certificate. It read, 'John and Emma married today', with many balloons blowing randomly over the page. This clearly tipped the balance, and I was escorted back to my yurt, where I was kept rather too close an eye on, from that moment forward. And so, having got rather excited about the first film session of the trip, John and I agreed, we would wait until Khiva, the next stop, where we would pronounce our marital status rather firmly on arrival, and settle in for the movie marathon there. Khiva was a lovely city, with an ancient inner town, surrounded by high, sandy colored castle walls, inside which, were many mosques, mausoleums, and one very tall pillar, with the Uzbek traditional blue tile work, embedded into the roof tops and doors of many of the monuments. We had left the Swiss couple cooking up a meal on a patch of grass outside the hostel, and John, myself, and a British chap called Gary, who talked for Great Britain, and was growing a ridiculous ginger beard, as a result of a bet with his mates back home, set off to explore. It was really rather magical by dusk; the shadows of the magnificent mosques, playing in the light of the moon, and the distant echoes of Uzbek melodic chants, from the odd cafe, bouncing off the walls of the illuminated buildings. By the time we had all packed up to leave Khiva, I was a little behind proposed schedule, having been travelling for the past week at cycle speed, and so sadly, I felt it time to move on, and bid farewell to fun bicycle bunch. I am now missing their company a great deal more than I thought I would, in particular, that of my husband, who I grew rather close to over our few happy days of marriage and movies.... he has those wonderful chimp-like ears that I have always been so fond of, a cheeky, witty and handsome look and manner, and life has suddenly became rather dull, and a little too quiet without him. Anyway, vulgar man in lounge and stare position has now been joined by many fellow chums, following suit, and so I am hoping G will be good to go soon, and company will be found before too long...until then, adios.... |