Distance: 105kms
The most gruelling road conditions and terrain I have ever encountered. The fact that I am in Kazarman surprises me as I was absolutely spent at 60kms. My understanding of today’s route was an initial high pass (3000m) and then either downhill or level roads to Kazarman. The first pass was as promised: brutal. It switched back steeply (pictured left) on loose gravel for the first hour and a half and then turned nasty. The road surface and gradient made staying upright difficult and I had to switch from one side of the road to the other to keep my momentum. This would usually be dangerous except there was not a car to be seen. The road had been blasted by Russians in the early 1900s and they obviously weren’t thinking about cyclists when they designed the sharp, steep corners.
At the top of the pass, three hours later, I ran into four cyclists from the Ukraine. They looked like hard nuts and lamented that even in the Ukraine the roads were not like this. The descent was treacherous and at one point I almost washed out the front wheel on stony corner. The bottom came much quicker than expected – and hoped for – and surprise number one for the day: a second pass. It to an hour to climb and by now the sun was blistering. As I crested the pass I was hit with a massive headwind the remained for the rest of the day. At 1.30pm I spotted a lonely tree in the landscape, parked my bike against a signpost and walked down the embankment with water, bread and map for company. I rested for 30 minutes staring high above me at the second surprise of the day: pass number three. A fourth and fifth pass would come later…
With 60kms done I was toasted. I pulled into a small village looking for something sweet. A young kid on horseback took me down a laneway to the back of a house. Two young girls inside appeared with a bottle of creaming soda (Russian style) and charged me 50 cents. I was a sorry sight leaning against a wall with no energy, covered in dust, the wind howling and sipping on a sickly sweet soft drink. On the final climb of the day I oscillated between five and six kilometres an hour with riding, and four when I was pushing. I pushed a lot. For kilometres on end. Slow going.
At the top of the last pass the landscape opened up below me. Kazarman was still a possibility tonight, but I didn’t want to get ahead of myself. The descent lasted 15 kilometres and I hit a top speed of 50 when a massive dog sprinted out from a house and took off after me. The wind was stronger than anything I’d encountered in Tibet or Iceland, and I got grudging respect from a young cyclist who rode with me for a kilometre or two. With his Mongol haircut (left) and steel bike this kid was so different but so similar to me. He nodded approval that said “good on you mate”. A fleeting but deep connection was made.
When I pedalled into Kazarman (pictured left) I had been cycling for 8 hours and 40 minutes. The only café serving food served up disappointment so many different ways. The food was terrible (old horse meat), the ambience frightening (bad central asian karaoke) and service neglectful. I found accommodation after some searching and stumbled across an oasis: comfortable beds and travellers! Two Australians from Geelong were staying there and it was great to slip into effortless speech and familiar subject matter.
Tonight I am wrecked and everything aches. Last night was a restless, eye half open kind of sleep with a procession of vodka-fuelled passers by and a decent sleep is required. I’d hoped to make Jalal-Abad and civilisation tomorrow but know it won’t happen. What awaits tomorrow I wonder…
Distance: 80kms
Not only did I strike gold with two guests from Geelong, but one of them turned out to be a doctor. Robin kindly offered to look at and treat my saddle sore, which by now had taken on status as a passenger on this trip. The gauze patch and Betadine I had applied in Naryn had adhered completely, but was quickly replaced with decent dressings from the strong-stomached Robin. Unfortunately for Robin’s husband Peter he got the job of holding one cheek for the procedure. A debt of gratitude owed. They also donated food (prosciutto no less) and I was also able to source some iodine to purify water.
Freshly bandaged and stocked, I cheerfully pedalled off into the desert again. Despite the initial joy it was clear that I had paid dearly for my effort yesterday. Energy levels were low and the morale quickly followed as the road degenerated into deep sand. The rock and sand was so deep that I could hardly retain traction. After two hours I’d travelled just 20kms and was at my lowest ebb for the trip. To make matters worse the gale of yesterday returned and it reached 40 degrees by 11am.
I resorted to pushing my bike through the sand, kilometre after kilometre. As I pushed the bike up the mountain pass that never ends I started to have real doubts. The past two rivers that had been marked on the map turned out to the dry, and I was feeling vulnerable. At 30kms I stopped to contemplate what I was doing. I was covered in dust, sunburned, dehydrated and exhausted. As I’d done twice before on this trip I set myself the task of getting to the top of the hill before making an assessment of whether to retreat. For 10 more kilometres I pushed my bike uphill – two hours of toil. At the crest I collapsed on to a rock and lay there staring into the sun wondering what to do. I was concerned that if I didn’t find water soon I was in real danger. I hadn’t seen a car for three hours and at this rate it would take three days to get to Jalal-Abad.
My time on the rock was suspended animation. I waited and waited, somehow expecting that something would happen that would give me clarity. I burst the sun blisters on my arm in a kind of drunken haze, falling into a heat-induced delirium. It was high 40s and I was done. With resignation I mechanically stood up, turned my bike around and pedalled back down the hill towards Kazarman. It had defeated me. I felt I’d tempted fate a few times on this trip and eventually my luck would run out. With mixed emotion I pedalled downhill and downwind back to town. At first I was angry, upset and then resigned. I feel a little less superhuman than I did last night.
I arrived back in Kazarman just before 5pm – 7 hours of pedalling and walking. To distract myself I washed my clothes then finished off the book my friend Phil Montgomery had written – “Human Transformation”. The book struck a chord, partly because I’d just been through the kind of crisis that forces reflection, and partly because the book’s core theme was the role of ego. On a day like today my ego was reduced to tears… Today I chose safety. Tomorrow who knows.
Distance: 80kms
A strange, disjointed day with radical changes in landscape and culture. The day would end in the famed Fergana Valley – the most Muslim region of Kyrgyzstan – a lush valley in stark contrast to the desert where it started.
I hatched my plan last night to rescue the situation: find a ride to the point I got to yesterday and continue cycling from there. I tracked down a willing driver complete with 1960s Studebaker, but I would have to share the ride. The first pick-up was a drunk who’d obviously been on the vodka all night. I had to carry him to the car, then transport him to his family home. His wife, father and two kids were waiting and not impressed. Fireworks kicked off when he staggered across the paddock towards them. It was then I realised they had their bags packed – they were joining us! We had 6 adults, 3 kids, a bike, 9 people’s luggage and one dead weight on the end of a vodka bottle for the journey.
Ten minutes passed before vodka boy needed a pee, then another. He fell back into unconsciousness as we retraced the painful kilometres from yesterday. I winced as I passed the rock from yesterday. My fellow passengers were relieved when I got out of the car near the top of the pass, and so was I. The thought of tackling the descent on bald tyres and a loaded rustbucket was not one I relished.
Jalal-Abad is a great little town with a teeming market (left) and different feel. Forty per cent of the residents are Uzbeks and strictly Muslim, which manifests in manner, costume and attitude. I found a great little guesthouse, enjoyed shaslik and was able to buy my first bottle of still water for days. I played a couple of games of chess with some local lads in the market, and in the games I at last found a common language. The way you play chess says a lot about your personality, and I finally got to really know some Kyrgyz and overcome the language barrier. I felt like the fog of Central Kyrgyzstan had lifted.
Distance: 110kms
A phenomenal day. Despite very little sleep on account of the annoying nocturnal Frenchman I shared a room with, and the early start. I easily navigated my way out of the city and was relieved that the bitumen continued beyond the outskirts. Today’s ride could have been anywhere: Australia, the US, Europe or Nepal. Rolling hills were dotted with industrious workers harvesting sunflower seeds, melons and other produce. I felt for the female workers having to endure 45 degree temperatures in full burkhas. A few groups invited me to rest and eat but I was keen to spend the day in Osh.
I took a break in Ozgon at the halfway point, a town that had been the scene of brutal fighting only 15 years ago. The tension between Kyrgyz and Uzbeks boiled over one night and 1000 people were killed. My next stop was by the side of the road at a watermelon stall (pictured above). I don’t like watermelons, generally, but my thirst was sufficient to coax me into devouring a full melon. The family that sold it to me were waiting for me to explode. It was the best thing I ever tasted.
Found a great little hotel in the thick of the action. Osh is Kyrgyzstan’s second largest city and its oldest, at 5000 years old. Older than Rome. The market is famed for its spices, nuts, chocolate, silks and costumes. After a few hours of strolling I turned my attention to supplies and money. Strolling through a park I ran into Sergei, a Russian American I’d met earlier in the day, and joined him for shaslik. It was interesting to chat to him about the old USSR of the 1980s. Osh made a real impression.
Distance: 100kms
Lazy start to the day with a sleep in til 7.30am. It was a restless night’s sleep, with frequent startling and moments of unbelievable disorientation. No sooner was out of town than I hit 15kms of road works: dust, slush and rock combining to slow progress. I had another bad stretch between 40 and 50kms. It was uphill, rocky and incredibly hot. I stopped at a roadside stall and could barely keep my eyes open, and eventually didn’t. I’d fallen asleep sitting up against a wall with a group of guys looking on curiously. Again I awoke disoriented – not surprising when you wake up in the middle of the day in southern Kyrgyzstan with a group of strangers crowded around – and pedalled on over the 2500m pass. The drop down into the valley below was spectacular, and for once the wind was behind me.
At Gulcha I crossed a rickety plank bridge over the river and found a café serving a kind of perogi and Pepsi. I made small talk with the young girls working there, and seemed to incur the wrath of a male diners who was obviously keen on one of the girls. The competition from a foreigner was riling him, and I made an early exit to avoid confrontation.
The plan was to cover another 30 kilometres or so before finding camp, but that plan was foiled when I can across Frank – a Dutch cycle tourist – on the side of the road. Frank implored me to camp with him and I obliged. He was a real character and had been travelling for 29 years, having covered a staggering 480,000 kilometres. He had made his living from publishing books on his travels (in Dutch) and slide nights. He had some great stories, including how he was robbed at gunpoint in Africa and tied to a tree with his own bicycle tubes. He’s also been ambushed with machetes in Central America, but outsmarted his captors by handing over currency from Africa that was worthless. He smiled as he recalled his assailants eyeing each other off over who would get to keep the 50,000 `dollar’ note – actually a 50,000 dinar note from Zaire worth 50 cents.
His years of isolation had also made him a bit cantankerous. He was annoyed that I would risk our safety by writing my diary entry by torchlight. It was like camping with a fun prevention officer.
Distance: 100kms
By far the best scenery of the trip, ranging from red cliffs in the first canyon, to lush green valleys and towering mountains. The final pass to 3600m was also the highest point of the route so far, and the day included 3000m of vertical climbing.
The day started early and I skipped Frank’s offer of breakfast. I knew that today would include a lot of climbing and I was keen to get as much of it done as possible before the heat of the day. Progress was slowed by frequent photo stops – not a bad complaint – but I still managed reasonable progress to a truck stop where I had a coffee and yesterday’s bread. The colours of the cliffs were amazing, with vibrant reds and greens, making a welcome change from the sandy browns of recent weeks.
As I climbed higher it got cooler and eventually rained as I made my way up the long valley towards Taldyk Pass. The valley was dotted with yurts and people begged me to stop and take shelter from the rain. But the pass loomed large and I needed to keep moving if I wanted to make a dent in it. The pass was the steepest and sandiest I have ever ridden and switched back to the top. Trucks loaded with TVs, fridges and assorted electronics from China crawled up and down the mountain in convoy. The dust from the engine brakes was choking, and noise deafening. Some of the trucks must have been 50 years old and had crank starts. Halfway down I saw a young Kyrgyz jump out of one of said trucks, run to the stream with a bucket and then throw cold water on to the brakes to cool it down while it was still in motion. I’m not sure that would have been in the warranty manual.
The crest of the pass was not the end, as I had been warned. After the 5km downhill there was another steep pass that took over an hour. After almost 8 hours in the saddle I rolled into Sary-Tash, a windswept village with limited facilities but some shelter. The guesthouse didn’t have a shower – which I badly required – so did a bucket wash in the backyard of body and clothes. I also painstakingly changed the dressing on my saddle sore which is gradually improving.
Dinner consisted of 5 fried eggs (the only menu item) washed down with a beer. Tonight I dug deep into the pannier for the warm clothes as I venture up over 4000m tomorrow for the first time on this trip.
Distance: 105kms
Couldn’t get breakfast – even bread – anywhere in town and so pedalled off towards the Tajikistan border hoping the 5-egg dinner from last night would do its job. It was with a gulp that I rode headlong into the mountain range of 6000m, snow-capped peaks that awaited me.
First stop was the Kyrgyz border control where I had to get stamped out. The security presence was significant, with AK-47s slung over guards’ shoulders and an overly enthusiastic German Shepherd giving me a hard time. At one point it latched on to my pannier and I suspected my calf might be next. I motioned to one of the guards that he should shoot it.
The next 20 kilometres were stunningly beautiful, with snow-covered peaks everywhere. But the view wasn’t free: I had to pedal to 4300m on a steep goat track. I say pedal but actually there was half an hour or so of pushing in there as well. A fantastic distraction was provided by two eagles sitting on the roadside, then soaring up the mountain valley. Equally distracting was the sight of two English guys in a rally car coming down the mountain. They were crawling along in their Volvo but stopped to find out more about why someone would be cycling this remote stretch. “Hello old boy” the gentleman shouted from the driver’s seat. “Fancy a shortbread?” All that was missing was the cravat and tweed jacket. He then proceeded to pull out a tray of shortbreads that he’s obviously carried from England (they were heading to Mongolia as part of a charity rally), which I gladly accepted.
After a short conversation I continued to the pass and the Tajikistan border control. The border post is one of the highest in the world, and is basically a collection of old containers fashioned together on a mountain-top. I sat at the boom gate for 5 minutes while they finished their lunch and then went through a painless administration process. The next 10kms descended down the valley and followed an impressive electric fence that served as the Chinese border. It was 10 feet high with 32 individual wires (Frank had counted them) and ran for 200kms (pictured left).
I dropped down into an eerie valley with no vegetation, little oxygen and baking sun. The going was made difficult by the fact that the bitumen was literally melting under me. I had to stop three times to remove large clumps of tar that had attached to the wheel and prevented the wheels from turning. Quality road building obviously. Peeling the tarmac off my calves was also unpleasant.
I hadn’t realised there was another pass (becoming a common theme) but sure enough I would rise to over 4300 metres again for the second time that day. Though I had been higher in Tibet, and had no trouble on the first pass, this next climb caused me real trouble. I had headache, dizziness, extreme and nausea that got worse the higher I climbed. Because I was in a valley there was no point retreating, as I would only lose a few hundred metres of altitude that I would have to reclaim. I dismounted and continued on foot to minimise exertion, stopping frequently to rest. I took a fruit chew out during one of my rests and knew I was in trouble when it took three minutes of fumbling to open the packet. I hadn’t seen a car in five hours and I was losing it.
Towards the top of the pass I hit another obstacle – a collapsed bridge. I pulled my shoes and socks off, headed downstream and carried my bike across the icy, knee-deep river. I was exhausted by the other side and still had five kilometres to travel to the summit. At the top I was able to see the spectacular Lake Karakul for the first time – a spectacular body of water flanked by icy peaks (pictured below). I dropped down to the lake at 4000m and immediately dissipated the symptoms of altitude sickness. I was 30kms from my destination but out of the danger zone.
The side of the lake was incredibly barren and the lush green hills of Kyrgyzstan were well and truly behind me. I cycled into 
Karakul, a tiny windswept village, at 6.30pm and found a place to sleep. As well as eating dinner with the family I also put my stove on to get some carbohydrates. The combination of high altitude and cheap fuel meant that it took an hour to cook, and the results were disappointing. It was quite possibly the worst meal I’ve ever had, and definitely the worst I’ve ever cooked. I told myself to eat the fuel while gagging on the soggy noodles….
Distance: 105kms
At the top of the last pass the landscape opened up below me. Kazarman was still a possibility tonight, but I didn’t want to get ahead of myself. The descent lasted 15 kilometres and I hit a top speed of 50 when a massive dog sprinted out from a house and took off after me. The wind was stronger than anything I’d encountered in Tibet or Iceland, and I got grudging respect from a young cyclist who rode with me for a kilometre or two. With his Mongol haircut (left) and steel bike this kid was so different but so similar to me. He nodded approval that said “good on you mate”. A fleeting but deep connection was made.
When I pedalled into Kazarman (pictured left) I had been cycling for 8 hours and 40 minutes. The only café serving food served up disappointment so many different ways. The food was terrible (old horse meat), the ambience frightening (bad central asian karaoke) and service neglectful. I found accommodation after some searching and stumbled across an oasis: comfortable beds and travellers! Two Australians from Geelong were staying there and it was great to slip into effortless speech and familiar subject matter.
