Monthly Archives: September 2015

Tajikistan Pt. 4 – The Yurt

My tent is great. Spacious, comfortable and in my eyes – even pretty. That most things are realtive is a widely accepted fact, and one of those mountain nights I learned that this is also totally applicable as it comes to mobile homes.

My day had been sort of amazing. With ingredients like a clear blue sky, a stunning mountain pass, a whole lot of tailwind and a bicycle in a good mood I had enjoyed myself ever since I zipped my sleeping bag open in the morning. I appreciated all of these ingredients for sure, but as they were all familiar ones it wasn’t exactly like this day would qualify into the Memory For Life-category.

The evening of this particular day wasn’t neccesarily more spectacular, but definitely more memorable as it ended up including a whole bunch of something that I am head over heels in love with – Firsts.

I’ll keep this one short, but just imagine this:

– A grandmother.
– Her adorable granddaughter (who even knew a few words of English!)
– Their Kyrgyz – completely handmade – nomad yurt
– Bread, tea and absolutely delicious cream and kefir made of the milk from their animals
– And most importantly. Big smiles that not for one second would disappear from these ladies’ faces

I know that many parts of this trip is not for everyone. The cycling. The uncertainty. The feeling of endlessness.

This however.

Sitting in the warmth of the burning fire, zipping on a cup of tea and just letting your eyes wander along the walls of the yurt. Each time you blink you will find some detail you didn’t see before. Some detail telling you just a little bit more of the story of the people living there.

And when you finally look down you meet the eyes of this 8-year-old girl, looking at you with just the same curiosity with which you’re discovering her home. Her eyes glimmer with a peculiar blend of shyness and strenght. She smiles innocently, but will confidently keep the eye contact until you decide to break it.

She likes tea as well, but before drinking hers she will always make sure your cup is filled. Actually, she will make sure to do whatever an 8-year-old could possibly think of to make a guest comfortable. As the sun sets, she rides the donkeys under roof for the night like it’s the most natural thing in the world. But is then so, so proud to show you that she too has her own bicycle.

This girl is shining like the brightest star of the mountain sky.

At the same time her grandmother is silently and constantly working – just like the women always do here. She’s cooking. Fixing up one of the walls of the yurt. She keeps the fire steadily burning. Prepares the blankets on which we’ll sleep at night.

She…

–

Oh.

I said I’d keep it short, so I’ll just stop here.

All in all. The memories of some meetings you carry closer to your heart than others. This was one of those.

This really was my best night in a while. But of course – what goes up, must go down. And the inevitable goodbye is always waiting just behind the corner. The more you connect with people, the harder it is to leave. I guess I’m used to them by now, but that sure doesn’t make these Goodbyes any better.

Photos make me happy though. These small digital memories proving to myself that those moments I cherish actually took place in reality. They’re all dreams, of course. But with these I know for sure that I experienced them with my eyes open.


Two girls and their bicycles

All the best,

Fredrika

By |September 28th, 2015|Asia, Travel Logs|
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Tajikistan Pt. 3 – Glimpses From the Road

Leaving Khorugh, there are two main options cyclists choose between for their continuation through the Pamirs. No matter what you do, you’re in for some serious (and seriously scenic) cycling, but you have to make a decision. You either stick to the M41, which is the actual Pamir Highway and the main road through the country. Or you keep following the Afghan border through the demanding but oh so picturesque Wakhan Corridor.

Both extremely appealing alternatives, and after having thought about it long and hard I decided to go with… Neither.

During a couple of rest days including a whole lot of map gazing, me and my current companions Karin and Fritz finally decided to try out a third option – the Shokhdara Valley. The more we looked into it, this alternative only seemed to become more and more intriguing compared to the others. There was one catch though. Noone ever really talks about this road. Let alone decides to ride it.

The reason for this was everything but clear to us. Were we missing something obvious here?

We decided to take a chance and find out.

…

If the whole thing turned out well?

Yes.

I wish you could all just crawl into wherever the memories of this place are stored in my brain. Or better, actually go there to see it for yourself. I have no way to share this experience in a way that would even come close to doing it justice. My words are too insufficent for me to even give it a try. And it’s not like my photos are doing a very good job either.

I did snap a lot of pictures though, and it would be a shame letting them go to waste.

So, here they are. Some small glimpses from the road.

First day’s ride from Khorugh was an easy one. The road was still in decent shape, and all day long we rode pass small villages with people curious about the clowns rolling through town.


It’s not only the donkeys that are carrying too much weight in Tajikistan

That quickly changed though. Soon we had left civilisation and for a few days of hard riding we had the world completely to ourselves. Slowly we gained altitude and our surroundings went from simply being incredibly beautiful to… Well. Insert whatever superlative you can come up with here. I won’t do it, because it won’t be enough anyways.

Despite of being up on some serious altitude, the sunny days were still warm and riding in a t-shirt was usually enough. Evenings started getting chilly though, and as soon as the sun disappeared behind the mountain tops, the temperature instantly dropped.


The temperature and the cozyness of my sleeping bag have a perfect reverse correlation…


…and the crisp morning hours reminded me of those I had through northern Europe this spring

We kept on going.


These little guys were everywhere! Cheering us on from beside the road

…And eventually made it up the plataue. The Pamir mountains are widely known as ‘The Roof Of The World’. Here for the first time, we really felt like that was exactly where we were.

Soon enough we found ourselves on top of the Maisara Pass, our first one ever above 4 000 meters (4237 to be exact). We were all more or less affected by the altitude, but too in love with the place to get down. At that moment oxygen was not nearly as appealing as the magical atmosphere around the lake that had welcomed us at the top.

Eventually we did work out way down the other side. Something that prooved to be easier said than done.

Going up these kind of roads is extremely time consuming. And going down, you’re not that much faster. After what was surely the most exhausting downhill I’ve ever ‘ridden’, we reached the junction that connected us back to the M41.


A happy reunion with an old friend of mine – pavement

To kick off our ride along the highway, we had another high pass to climb. This one on 4271 meters.


On top of the world. Emotionally even higher.

Late one evening we rolled into Alichur. A poor village high up above, right in the middle of the clouds. We stayed an extra day and got yet another first hand look of just how different the lives of the people are here, compared to what we experience in the safe and comfortable bubble we’re all embrased by back home in Europe.

No running water. No heating. The possibility to get a hold of something fresh to eat is next to none, except for maybe some potatoes and a few onions. And on occasion, a tomtao or two.

They did have electricity. 25 or so years ago. But since the dissolution of Soviet that piece of luxury is nothing but a memory. In recent years most houses have been provided with a small solar panel, thanks to which they are now able to carry mobile phones and keep a small light lit at night. Though usually they don’t. When the sun goes to sleep, so do they.


One of many morning chores – fetching water from the village well


The night sky of a mountain village without electricity


A blue hole, randomly popping up on almost 4000 meters altitude

After one day’s rest we were ready to hit the road again. Already the Pamirs had given us the cycling of our lives. All our dangerously high expectations had been exceeded time and time again. But our minds were already set on the road we now had laying ahead.

We never talked about this. Simply because I don’t anyone of us really dared to believe it. But what if? What if what we had been told was true?

What if maybe, maybe – we still had the best to come?

Fredrika

By |September 26th, 2015|Asia, Travel Logs|
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Tajikistan Pt. 2 – A Midnight Surprise

Long ago I lost count of the number of times I’ve been cycling riverside. Usually it’s something I enjoy immensely as it generally means having a calm, beautiful ride without the need of ever worrying about navigation.

As my newfound companions and I began our ride along the Panj river, the feeling was different from that typical river ride. It was beautiful for sure. But the serenity that the rivers usually bring me was lacking. Partly because the incredible force of the fast moving Panj is creating a completely deafening roar, as if to remind anyone close to it not to come too close.

That was not the thing though. There was this unmistakeable pinch of adrenaline in the air, but the river was not the source of it. What was on the other side of it was.

Afghanistan was.

Panj is not only a river – it’s the border between Tajikistan and Aghanistan. And it’s weird, isn’t it? How what media chooses to feed us is affecting us all the way down to the core – regardless of whether we like it or not. I mean, we were cycling in the middle of nothing. 100 meters away, we could see another patch of nothing. Where we were, we felt completely safe. But the mere thought of setting foot on the other side of the water made our hearts beat faster.

Afghanistan.

Boo..!

Those villages we passed have absolutely nothing to do with the Talibans or what’s going on in the country. Nothing to with the portrait that we’ve constantly have had painted in our consciouses, at least for as long as I’ve had a mind to shape. You know it – but still you can’t help yourself. (Completely made up) danger was in the air. And anything we could see happening on the other side of the water was more intriguing for us than anything that could possibly happen on ours.

This is embarrassing, but we even used binoculars (yes, Karin & Fritz are carrying everything) to get the closest look possible on what was going on in this frightening, closed off world.

‘Look. I think that donkey is… eating! And the woman over there! She is carrying… a child!’

Mindblowing stuff, huh?

Never before have I felt so close and yet so far away from something. At times the river is no narrow, the other side is just a stone’s throw away. Still there were light years between us.

At times people on the other side saw us, and they always greeted us by friendly waving to us across the water. Shouting was no use, the Panj would drown the sound before it even made it halfway. We waved back in silence, endlessly curious as to what were the stories they would never tell us.

After days of riding south along the border, we were getting close to Khorugh, the one major pit stop before the ‘real mountains’ begin. We had been going pretty steadily on around 2000 meters, and soon we would be heading up passes more than doubling that altitude.

Gorno-Badakhshan, where we were now cycling, is an autonomous region that requires a special permit to enter. Every now and then you’re passing military checkpoints were you need to proove your right to be in the area.

Tajikistan has the reputation of being horribly corrupt to a far greater extent than any other country in Central Asia. I know cyclists who are bringing everything from cigarettes to handwritten negotiation letters to help them get through the country without loosing to much money in bribes. Having heard all these stories, we were always a little bit on edge as we were passing these control points. Just waiting for some officer to find an excuse to get us in trouble.

So far we’d been lucky though. The only real interaction we’d had with the always so stern men in uniforms were they giving us stuff. A bag of apples. A piece of bread. Water.

Where were the bad guys?

We passed the last checkpoint before Khourgh late afternoon the day before we’d actually reach the city. We quickly had our passports and permits checked, and were ready for one last hour of cycling before calling it a day.

But we weren’t really allowed to leave. One of the officials who spoke some English were very insistant on us letting him show us where to set camp for the night. Now had I been cycling alone, agreeing to this would be completely out of question, but as we were now three, the situation was another.

He showed us down a small road and into a closed off meadow. Just next to their office, but in a place that would never be seen by anyone on the road. Somewhat dodgy, sure. But noone could deny the fact that the spot was absolutely incredible, and I think if anyone of us had a bad gut feeling, it was ignored completely in favor for the great evening we would definitely get there.

Quickly our tents were pitched, and an epic evening including everything from bathing to a delicious camp dinner followed.


Now, whoever is claiming they could say no to this is lying

As the sun set, we crawled into our tents and all fell alseep without a worry in the world.

But of course, it didn’t last long.

–

It was just around midnight when I abruptly was woken up by the bright, blinding ray of a flashlight shining straight into my tent.

‘Hello!? Mister? Hello??? Miss? Sorry!! Mister! Hello??!’

I knew this voice. And though my body still thought it was sleeping, my mind had already had more than time enough to figure out just what was about to go down.

This was it then? The time for us to have our first experience with greedy and corrupt Tajik authorities who would go to any length to rip us off of our cash. Just barely awake I reached for my head torch while trying to remember the advice someone in Dushanbe gave me on how to handle situations like this.

‘HELLOO?! Sorry! Mister!!’

Still unsuccessful to locate my torch, I could hear the zipper of Karin & Fritz’s tent being opened.

‘What?!’

‘…Oh! Hello. Karin, come here!’

The first so firm tone in Fritz’s voice had immediately been exchanged to a soft, almost apologizing one.

I gave up on finding my light and got out to see what was going on.

I stumbled out barefoot in the grass, and saw Fritz standing by his tent …with a big plate in his hands? The officer guy was already on his way, and just gave me a quick smile before disappearing into the darkness towards the road and his office. I’m sure they didn’t, but with my zombie state of mind things were going way too quick for me to catch what was going on.

Fritz smiled his big smile at me.

‘Hey Fredrika. Grab your fork. We have to eat.’

…And that’s it. The most dramatic story I have involving the assumed so ruthless and corrupt control point guards in the Pamirs. A story that started off with us being shown to one of the best camp sites imaginable. And ended with us being woken up in the middle of the night – only to be served perfectly cooked rabbit.


The next morning our friend came just to check if we were alright

In the twisted minds of most of us this post could, or even should, have been super dramatic. Overflowing with Afghan talibans and corrupt Tajik officials. Right? That sure would have been something. It’s absolutely true that serious stuff is going on in these regions, it would just be ignorant to deny any of that. But those articles you’re reading is so far from painting the whole picture. Of course they’re not. I mean, how could they?

Intellectually we all know this, but I think it can be a good thing to remind ourselves about it sometimes.

Kids playing football on the street are not news. Neither is a father riding his donkey home after a long day of working at the potato fields. Women greeting strangers by giving them a whole bag of newly picked tomatoes. Smiles. Everyday life. None of it will ever make it’s way to the western news feeds.

The world we read about is not the one I’m visiting here. In fact it’s the absolute opposite. So with the risk of being disappointing, this really is as thrilling as it gets.

Some people friendly waiving across a river. And a man offering his food to three foreign strangers.

…

We really underestimate the world sometimes.

Fredrika

By |September 23rd, 2015|Asia, Travel Logs|
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Tajikistan Pt. 1 – Into the Wild

And then – finally – I was there. Again. Back to that one special place I’d visited so many times before. To cycle the roads I’d already pedalled back and forth too many times to count. I was in Tajikistan. What made the difference from before though was that this time my visit didn’t take place in a daydream. It wasn’t made up as an imaginary light in the tunnel to make those long last months at home pass just a tiny bit faster.

This was for real.

If at any time in my life I would actually pinch myself, this would be it. I didn’t. Instead I just stood there outside the border point, with this ridicolous smile on my face, and a heartbeat as if I was already up on the high altitude passes that I knew laid ahead of me.

‘Tajikistan…’ I let the name play around in my mouth for a bit.

‘Ta-ji-ki-stan.’

Yeah. This would be good for sure.

I spent a couple of days in the capital Dushanbe. Yet again at ‘The’ place for cyclists. And let me tell you, in Tajikistan there are many of us. The big (or pretty much the only) attraction – the Pamir Highway – is somewhat of the Mekka of bicycle adventurers, and people fly in from all over the place to take on the majestic mountain range stretching its way through of the country.

Before leaving to kick off the actual ride, I’d hooked myself up with the company of some old friends from the road. Ever since Bukhara our paths had been criss crossing, and when we caught eachother with good timing in Dushanbe, we decided to join forces up the mountains.

Karin & Fritz are German and in many ways like heavy duty bicycle tourers are most. In love with the outdoors. Endlessly curious about new cultures and ways of living. Fit like animals after months and months of pedalling. And ready to get down and dirty to get the experiences they’re looking for.

There is one difference though. They rock an average age of 60!

Every now and then I recieve emails from blog readers who in the back of their minds dream of adventures of their own. Obviously among many of my readers these dreams take form in two wheeled travels. But also in other stuff, including everything from saling across the Atlantic to opening a small cafe in their hometown.

Some are already in the planning stages of making their dreams reality, but most have one, two or a hundred big But(s)… as to why it simply isn’t possible for them.

Maybe when I was your age… But now? Impossible.

Careers stand in the way. Houses and apartments are chaining people to home. Savings are not enough. The body is not what it used to be. Risks are simply too high. And yeah! If I leave, then who would stay to… water the flowers?

For me, kicking off this completely new chapter in my life was easy. I’m young enough to not yet have the responsibilities of kids, pets, morgages and old parents to take care of. I could simply quit my job, sell my stuff – to then pack up and leave.

Karin & Fritz on the other hand? Who had (have) everything listed above, including impressive careers as a doctor and communications coach? And who definitely (sorry Fritz!) can’t still qualify into the ‘young, reckless & without responsibilities’ category?

According to them – not that much harder. Scarier – definitely. And their To do-list before leaving sure was longer than mine. But in the end, it all comes down to making the decision. That’s the difficult part. And once you’re past it, the rest comes naturally.

So to those of you, stuck at home with that big wall of But(s) blocking the way between you and whatever it is you’re secretly dreaming of. These are the people to be inspired by.

So. One sunny morning we left Dushenbe together. Headed out to get our first glimpse of the mountains we’d all been looking forward to more than any other part of Asia. All excited of course, but though noone ever mentioned it, you could tell there was some kind of nervousness in the air.

I had a similar feeling as before I started this journey in the first place. My expectations were dangerously high, and I really felt like I was setting myself up for huge disappointments. And you could tell the others were thinking just the same thing.

It didn’t take too long before we could relax tough. The first leg of the Pamirs, from Dushanbe to Khalaikhumb is a pretty demanding one. A small gravelled road leads you up to the Saghirdasht pass on 3250 meters, by far the highest one I’d climbed yet. The ride took us a bunch of days to complete, and let me tell you – it was a good one.


All inclusive camp site. Swimming pool, laundry, dish washer, water cooler. Just name it!


You know those vibrating work out machines? This is the real life version


Possibly the least neccessary road sign in the world

Slowly we climbed our way up the steep dirt road sprinkled with fist sized stones, to finally reach the most scenic pass I’ve ever been on. And once up there, it was like I finally let go of my worries.

I had gotten it confirmed. All those other times I’d been cycling the Pamirs were nothing. My imagination hadn’t nearly had capaticy enough to picture these surrounding in a way that would even be close to doing it justice. We were still only on 3 000 something meters, but I was already soaring high up on Cloud 9.

I had finally arrived.

In my Pamirs.


Woohoooooo!

Until next time,

Fredrika

By |September 22nd, 2015|Asia, Travel Logs|
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Uzbek Cotton Fields & Swedish Nudity

So I had reached the ending part of my time in Uzbekistan. And in the last post I mentioned the monotonous cycling the country offers its rolling visitors. I’d just like to stress that one more time – just to be clear you all get what I mean here.

The cycling in Uzbekistan is pretty boring.

…

So. Cycling in Uzbekistan is not superexciting.

…

The cycling in Uzbekistan is pretty boring.

…

Did you hear?! Apparently cycling in Uzbekistan is Boooooooring!

–

You get what I’m going for?

The cycling is not just (yeah – you got it) boring. It’s repetitive. Read this from the top again, but now imagine your reading being cycling – and each line being another cotton field, pretty much identical to both the previous and the next one you’re passing.

And then you do this for days.


Ok – this is not a cotton field but it IS a hand painted road sign. Just had to post it!

–

Now. This is how most bicycle tourers I talk to seem to be describing Uzbekistan. Like a dull, unappealing swamp in the middle of the otherwise so beautiful and exciting Asia. One where you enter just to become horribly sick, to then go through the least attractive cycling imaginable, on roads so bad they shouldn’t even get to be called as such.

And eventually – finally – you’ll be rewarded for your suffering, by getting to enter the magical mountain lands of Tajikistan or Kyrgyzstan.

One thing is true. The landcape in southern Uzbekistan is monotonous. You basically only pass one tiny village after another, in between which your surrounding consists of huge cultivated cotton fields you can’t even see the end of.

But I wonder. How fast do people really pass these villages to be able to miss out on the lovely atmosphere inside them? Do they not notice the locals catching up with you on their own bikes, just to keep you company for a couple of kilometers? And maybe most of all. Do they not ever look to what was in between the bad road and that cotton field they don’t like to look at anyways?

In between, there are people. Everywhere. People who came to be my best friends and cheerleaders all through their country. On this road you’re never very far from a village, however tiny it might be. And close to the villages there is always someone – often times many – sitting in the shade beside the road to sell their crops.

Melons, grapes, corn, tomatoes, pears – whatever their family is growing, they have a bucket or pile in front of them, hoping to sell what they have to passing car drivers. Or cyclists one would think, right?

At least a couple of times a day I let myself be waved in. By smiling kids, old wrinkled up men, whole families and big groups of women. Few would ever let me buy anything, instead they just cut up some of their fruit and acted like old friends / mothers / little brothers before I’d even learned to pronounce their names.

A lot of dark things are going on in this country. The people are far from free to live like they want – and for most, life is not easy. The problem with forced child labour on the cotton fields is still a big issue. Domestic violence is considered to be a family matter. Censorship is strong and since before I was even born, the president/dictator Islam Karimov has been ruling the country with an iron fist.

However. As I’m sitting there by the side of the road, munching away on melon in my newfound company – none of this is to be seen. The people of Uzbekistan has this charisma of warmth and sincere friendliness that I wonder if and where I will ever get to experience again.

Who cares if the views are not super dramatic? In Uzbekistan, the landscape consists of its people. And take my word for it, this is a landscape that won’t make itself justice on any postcard.

I think and hope I’ve gotten the point across. To me, Uzbekistan is nothing short of amazing. Sure, the Silk Road cities Bukhara and Samarkand are very, very nice. But when I think back on this country, it’s not the madrasas or mausoleums that pop into my head. It’s the smiles of the people I met there.

On the ride from Samarkand to the Tajikistan border, nature actually started to shake things up – and I had a few days of really nice days from a pure cycling perspective. Many times the road was still horrible, but it was all okey as my slow speed gave me time to appreciate the surroundings a little extra.


I was surprised to see the landscape rise before I had even really left Samarkand


Yep, it’s official. Uphills are worth it.

…And then one early morning I reached the border and it was time to leave.

I’ve mentioned Uzbek bureaucracy before, right? And in a couple of posts ago you could read about me slipping through the entering border controls and customs remarkably easy, especially considering the fact that I was caught with not declaring my cash correctly.

Going out I wasn’t as lucky.

If you’ve ever toured yourself you know this, and if you haven’t I think you can imagine. You can fit a lot of stuff into the panniers of a bike. I mean it.

After a bunch of paperwork and weird questions at the customs, I found myself standing as an audience, watching this super stern customs official go through every little piece of equipment she found in my bags. Really. Down to the point that she even took a closer look at my tent pegs, this lady was taking her job seriously. This was gonna take some time, for sure.

Playing out charades to show her the purpose of my medicines (diarrhoea, anyone?), or answering questions about what the books on my Kindle are about, were not my main concerns though. That would be the other officials. Spread out in the room, I had one searching for files on my laptop, one simultaneously going through my phone and camera, and one was sitting by his desk with my external harddrive plugged into his computer.

Now it’s not like I have tutorials on how to perform a prison break or construct newclear weapons on my gadgets. But still, there is something a bit uneasy with having random people investigating your stuff. Especially when you don’t really know what they’re looking for.

As I was watching the female official disassemble my kitchen, an upset voice suddenly cut through the silent room like a machete.

‘Huh! What is THIS?! No good, NO good!’

My heart sank. They eyes of the guy holding my phone pierced straight through mine as he accusingly glared at me from the other side of the room. His look was the one of a Dad finding booze in his teenagers closet, and I could tell I was in trouble.

Since he was still holding the phone away from me, I obviously couldn’t answer his question. And before I knew it the other officials had gathered around him to take part in the discovery. They were all looking at the phone. Then at me. Then back at the phone again, saying somthing in Uzbek I had no chance of understanding.

Since they didn’t seem to have any intention of showing me what exactly it was that was ‘No good’, I kind of had to squeeze myself into the circle around the small screen. Within a split second I went from being clueless to knowing exactly what was my crime.

They had found porn. Something which in Uzbekistan and many Asian countries is strictly forbidden.

But it wasn’t just any porn.

The screen lit up a bright shining close up photo of my ass.

Ranking all the socially awkward situations I’ve been in so far on the trip. I think (and hope) this will qualify as the top one for a long time to come.

So this is the story:

Do you remember me cycling through Iran this summer? A summer that was insanely hot. And as any woman in Iran, I had to follow the dress code which basically means wearing twice or three times as much clothes as what would be reasonable in those temperatures – and I was sweating accordingly.

This, combined with me not using bicycle shorts, left me with some incredibly uncomfortable saddle sores. And in desperate need of having someone feel sorry for me, I once snapped a photo of my swollen, aching butt and sent it to my mom.

…aand then life continued, my backside made a comeback and I forgot all about this.

Until this particular day when I was unexpectedly reminded all about it.


Yeah, something like this…

Well. What do you say? Obviously this whole border crossing ended up taking ages, but already then I enjoyed it as the whole situation was just. so. weird. In the end they were satisfied with just deleting the photo, and eventually they gave me my exit stamp so that I could leave – equally amused and embarrassed.

Coming out from the customs building I took a deep breath. I had officially completed my 16th country, and the one that I from the start had been looking forward to the most was up next.

I was going to Tajikistan. Financially the poorest country I had set foot in so far on my travels. But in terms of mountains and nature, the richest one I might ever come to. I was excited to say the least.

With one last look over my shoulder I said goodbye to Uzbekistan and got onto the saddle. Then slowly, almost hesitantly, I started pedalling my way towards what was sure to be the most challenging, but hopefully also most rewarding leg of the trip…

More about that next time.

Fredrika

By |September 20th, 2015|Asia, Travel Logs|
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And the ‘Best People Award’ goes to..!

I truly enjoy rambling around the world on my bike. I really do. Sometimes though, I’m excited to the point of madness. So far I haven’t really had any ‘downs’, or times when I’ve been doubting whether this is what I should be doing or not. What I have had though – are ups.

As I was leaving Bukhara for Samarkand I was cruising on one of these extreme highs, when I just can’t see myself ever doing anything else ever again. Once again I was in the company of Iris & Reto – and we set of East. I was going for Samarkand and they for one of the national parks a bit up north.

Most of the actual cycling in Uzbekistan is in all honesty pretty dull. The roads tend to be more or less crappy, and when you have the chance to look up from all the pot holes, you basically only have the one view of never ending cotton fields. Despite of this, I really only remember Uzbekistan with love and smiles.

The homestay we had the first day after leaving Samarkand was the ultimate first encounter with the Uzbek hospitality I’ve come to love more than any other I’ve experienced.

As per usual, when the sun was about to set we started looking for a place to set camp for the night. As most of what surrounds the road are cultivated fields, wild camping aren’t always that easy in Uzbekistan. So soon enough we found ourselves rolling into this tiny village to ask for someone’s permission to pitch our tents.

Once we found some people, the language barrier made even getting our question across a bit tricky. And once the Dad of the family actually understood what we wanted, he just looked at us with this ‘Are you MAD?!’ look on his face.

‘NO! Noooo. No, no, no.’

Pretty obvious. We would not be camping on his grounds tonight.

What quickly became clear though, was that he didn’t mean ‘No’ as in ‘Get the heck out of here’. This was a ‘No’ as in ‘You’re sleeping in my house tonight’. And before we knew it, we were sitting down in the main room of their home – watching the children of the family running back and forth, setting the table with everything from tea and bread, to soup, melon and sweets.

This was something all 3 of us had experienced before. Countless times in Iran. What was so interesting though, was to see the small changes that made up the differences of the culture and hospitality of Uzbekistan in comparison to the one we’d all both loved and gone crazy by in Iran.

We all agreed – there were many similarities. The overwhelming generosity was just the same. Only this was a bit (a lot!) more… laid back. It’s so difficult to put this to words, but once again it simply felt like there was nothing behind things but geniune friendliness.

Don’t get me wrong here. Iranian hospitality is out of this world, and the love I’ve been recieving from people there are completely unmatched to what I think I will ever experience again in my life. But all too often in Iran this – in some weird way – feels forced.

It’s like the pressure of living up to the ‘Persian hospitality’ is an anchor the people are constantly dragging with them wherever they go. Sometimes helping out and giving of themselves comes more from duty than their own will – and taking no for an answer simply isn’t part of their concept of hospitality.

Sure. In this house we were also pampered with way too much food. Especially considering what one could guess is the economic situation of the family. But – they asked before refilling our plates, and after 2 or 3 ‘Njet, spatsiba’, they accepted.

And yes. They also had the whole neighbourhood come to see and have their picture taken with the tourists. But after 10 minutes the family more or less pushed them out to give us space.

They did invite us to stay so we could attend the wedding that was in two weeks. Or at least stay for another day or two. But they didn’t become upset and make us feel guilty when we declined their offers.

If we wanted to – I’m 100% certain that we could stay up all night to learn Uzbek dancing, get to know all their animals and look through every family photo they have. But when we said we were tired – they let us sleep.

Again I’m comparing this to Iran. Where you will recieve everything. I mean absolutely everything. People will give you the shirt of their back if you’re looking at it for too long. However, if you want anything that’s not part of their itinerary for being a good host, you’re in for a difficult time. Be it privacy, sleep or no food – just forget it.

Here, it didn’t feel like the people were attending the world championship in taking care of guests. They were simply being nice. I mean, in European standards it’s still a completely flabbergasting version of nice. Something you could never even dream of back home. But for us then and there, it was magical in the other way around.

So with full bellies and smiling faces, we could all fall asleep – without worrying about being woken up in the middle of the night for ‘2nd dessert’ or a guided tour around the village.

–

After a great night’s sleep on the same floor where we sat to have dinner in the evening, we all woke up to kick off the new day. The night before we had decided to get up really early in order to be quickly out, before our hosts would have the chance to spend any more of their food on us. Not very surprisingly, this plan failed miserably and soon we were sitting down – spoiled to a huge breakfast which probably left some of the family completely without.

Before we left, a full blown photoshoot took place outside the house. The oldest daughter of the family posed like a superstar – while wearing my helmet and showing off her new ride. She was really the sweetest girl and it was equally entertaining and heartwarming to watch her and her friend work their magic behind and in front of the camera.

It was a great morning.

It wouldn’t last for long though.

Iris, Reto & I had just barely made it out to the road, and less than 1 km into the days ride I was standing hauled over my handlebar, throwing up like if my body had suddenly decided to turn itself into a fire hose.

Crap.

For sure I wasn’t feeling particularly good. But really not too bad either. And after a couple of zips of water and a few jokes, we were back in the saddles, all trying to ignore what was obviously about to go down. We just had an hour or so of cycling together before our paths would part – but this hour quickly turned into two as I was pretty constantly stopping to throw up.

As we said goodbye I had realised that this really would be a lousy day for me, and it was actually a bit releaving to go on by myself so that I could manage it all in my own pace. I still really wanted to arrive in Samarkand the next day, which would only be possible if I managed to get in at least a decent distance before giving up for the day.

After laying down to sleep for an hour, right on the ground in the shade of a bus stop, I pushed on.

Or haha, who am I kidding?

Everytime I got back up on the bike I intented to go for 30 minutes, or at least 5 km. But in reality my intervals ended up being something like 2-3 km of cycling (including puking breaks) – and then at least 30 min of sitting by the side of the road feeling sorry for myself.

Of course I knew that cycling like this is stupid on so many levels. Not to mention simply a waste of time as I didn’t really get anywhere. Summer was still going strong and the heat was exhausting enough even without the dehydration from not being able to keep water.

But then you have to remember that I’m not home. Deciding that I don’t feel well enough, ‘and need to go and lay down’ is a bit more complicated than in my old world. I think you get it.

Let’s just say that this stretch of Uzbek countryside didn’t offer too many spots of shade, or opportunities for me to do anything but pretend like I was actually fit enough to go until something actually did show up.

Something that took a bit longer than one could wish for.

Then at last, in perfect time before I would try to run myself over with the bike – things turned out alright. They always, always do. An old white-bearded man, sitting by the side of the road selling water melons, was my first savior.

Without thinking twice about it, he let this stinking – non russian speaking – zombie of a stranger into his home. Quickly he pulled out the blankets I’m sure he himself usually used during night, and with his hands he told me to relax and go to sleep, before he rushed back to his melons.

And slept I did.

One hour was the plan – I woke up after four.

I was still feeling far from good, but definitely better – and I decided to pedal on for a couple of hours more before setting camp. Somewhat of a risk but it would make it possible to reach Samarkand next day so I was more than willing to give it a shot.

Everything worked out alright and with enough distance behind me I found myself being adopted by these two amazing women (neighbours) who took over right where the melon man had left off. Again, without even a language in common, they took care of me like I was their own daughter and I still have such endless feelings of gratitude towards these women.

Without either running water or electricity they made me feel like I had come to heaven. They washed me off, wrapped me in their nicest blankets and let me sleep while they were preparing tonight’s plov.

(Plov? Google if you don’t know it, it’s basically what I’ve been eating for the last couple of months.)

Interacting with foreigners and tourists is not completely uncomplicated for the Uzbek people, and that all these strangers decided to ignore the possible consequences, and reach out to help me truly is mind blowing.

If I didn’t have faith in humanity, I would never even have considered starting this journey – but for every passing country my belief in people is constantly growing stronger and stronger.

With all the heartbreaking, messed up stuff going on in the world right now, I’m feeling more blessed than ever to get to do this. To daily have the privilege to first hand be reminded of just how much beauty fit into people’s hearts. Experiencing this, it’s difficult not to believe and take comfort in that in the end – in one way or another – good will win.


Living proof that giving has nothing to do with having

So. What happened next?

Weirdly and luckily enough – after falling asleep on the floor of one of the ladies that took care of me the evening before – I woke up feeling great. The day before it was like my body was going through exorcism, and now I felt like nothing ever happened? I really didn’t understand what was going on, but I sure wasn’t complaining.

After kissing my new friends goodbye I rode the 100 km I had left into Samarkand in what felt like a heartbeat. Just like when entering Bukhara I knew exactly where to go to find the other pedal pushers.

In a comment someone asked why there are so many touring cyclists in this area, and it’s actually pretty simple. Uzbekistan is the big bottleneck that funnels pretty much everyone going between Europe and Asia – with Bukhara and Samarkand being the two main cities people pass. And because of the somewhat limited options for passing the Asian mountains with good timing, most tend to come pretty much at the same time.

I spent a bunch of days in Samarkand, days very similar to the ones I had in Bukhara. Ones where rest, sights and cyclists were the main ingredients.

Some parts of them:


The insane Registan complex. Find a person in the photo for scale.


Planning routes and dreaming about the continuation in the Tajikistan mountains

…aaand I’m sorry to break the spell but I have to. The madrasas, mausoleums and bazaars are great. Stay inside the tourist bubble and you’ll be completely blown away by the panoramas of beauty and magnificance.

But this is also Samarkand:

Not even 2 km from the Registan you will find a completely different world. The real one.

This post is already too long so I won’t go on about it. I just didn’t want to post this otherwise super cheesy Samarkand advert, pretending like none of the actual stuff going on in the city even exists.

Never mind.

Leaving Samarkand, I had my mind set on the next border. I was going to Tajikistan – the one contry I had been looking forward to the most ever since leaving Sweden. Finally, I was heading up the majestic Pamir mountains. A dream come true for anyone who has ever seriously gotten into adventure cycling.

However, I still had a several day ride there. One that turned out to be far more interesting than I’d ever imagined. In another post coming up in just a few days I’ll tell you all about it.

Until then.

Fredrika

By |September 16th, 2015|Asia, Travel Logs|
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Uncovering Uzbekistan

Few times in my life have I been as exhausted as I was, rolling the last bit towards the border between Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan. My legs were done days ago, and my entire body completely worn out. Even the muscles in my face felt sore after days of hard squinting to avoid going blind from all the non stop gusts of sand, trying to shove me all the way back to Iran. As I’m fairly good at ignoring muscles begging for rest, this wasn’t too much of a concern. My biggest issue was another kind of tiredness – I was in desperate need sleep. Lot’s of it.

Crossing borders in Central Asia requires patience and a good poker face in general. But the Uzbek borders and customs are notorious for being particularly horrible for overland travellers. While going through your stuff more tidiously than impatient kids searching their parents closets for birthday presents, the border guards are known for pouncing at any given opportunity to get you in trouble.

As I got to the customs, I was unprepared and simply too exhausted to give a damn. Too tired to even react when the control lady pointed out that my money and declarations form didn’t match up. Or when she for 10 full minutes was ‘reading’ my diary (in Swedish).

Sure – when she specificly asked me if I was carrying a copy of ‘Mein Kampf’, I came back to reality for a brief moment. But mostly I was just nodding and smiling on auto pilot, while simultaneously trying to take some kind of mental power nap while still standing up with my eyes open.

Considering what’s normal – I was quickly through. In less than an hour they stamped me in and let me pass.

I’d say the most probable reason for this definitely wasn’t me cooperating well. I mean I got caught with not even having declared my cash correctly, but they let everything slide. My best guess would be that I was simply stinking up the whole building so badly that they wanted me out before all passing out.

Just as I was about to leave, Iris & Reto – the Swiss couple I’d been starting off Turkmenistan with – also showed up at the customs. With clean clothes, big smiles and an absolutely dreamlike smell of shampoo they for a moment seemed to have made the better choice when deciding to take a transport instead of cycling through the desert.

And man, was I happy to see them!

They weren’t as lucky as me at the border though. After having gone through every single piece of equipment they were carrying – including looking though each and every one of their 1 000 or so photos from their tour – we yet again teamed up and started off our second country together.

The wind obviously didn’t take notice of the country borders, and was roaring in our faces just like it had done the last week or so of cycling. However, in comparison to what that week had included, the last 100 km into Bukhara were like a dream. An overcast sky, no time pressure and us being three people taking turns to break the wind being the main reasons.

First impressions of Uzbekistan?

A-M-A-Z-I-N-G.

I have still difficulty defining this. But the Uzbek people just have this… glow. We rolled through village after village and seemed to be greeted by every single person we passed. Children, middle aged men, teenage girls or grandparents didn’t matter. They all lit up as we rolled passed them, shouting ‘Helloooo!’ as if they had been out there for hours, just waiting for us to arrive.

On paper, this is so similar to Iran. But the feeling was another. In some subtle way this felt more sincere. The smiles all seemed completely geniuine, as oppose to the Irianian (sometimes) forced politeness.

Soon our three person caravan turned into a fully operating office. The front person obviously only had one job – to tackle the wind. The second one was the controller, managing the rotations, keeping the group together and forwarding the internal communication.

Then came the third person, with the most demaning responsibility of all – Public Relations. Waiving back and making sure everyone got a smile and an ‘Assalamu alaikum’ in return when greeting us.

However it was obvious that the workload was completely off, and soon we had to ditch the controller completely in favor for getting a second Public Relations worker. One responsible for the left side, and the other for the right side of the road.

Let’s just say this was a fun day.

Late evening we rolled into the old city of Bukhara and found our way to Hostel Rumi. All by word of mouth, this has become the meeting point of all touring cyclists entering and leaving Uzbekistan. And sure enough, just as the sun set and we were rolling our bikes into the courtyard, we were met by six or so other touring bikes and a table full of smiling people just about to dig in on dinner.

Judging by everyone’s weird tan lines and the ridicoulous portions of their food – it was clear. These people were definitely cyclists.

In the end I think I spent three full days in Bukhara. One just to become human again, and a couple to explore the city and get myself and the bike ready for the rest of Uzbekistan. All while stuffing myself with unreasonable amounts of food to get back the weight I lost in the desert.


Wanna become a millionare? Go to Uzbekistan. This equals 100 bucks.

The one obvious highlight for me in Bukhara was meeting all the other cyclists. Ever since I left Sweden like 5 months earlier I had only bumped into a handfull other two wheeled travellers like myself. Most of the time, I’m looked upon like a complete ailien wherever I come crashing in with my fully loaded bike. And somewhere down the road I think I’ve started to consider myself as somewhat of a weirdo as well.

Here – for the first time, I truly felt like I was part of a community.

Sure. It really is one weird ass community. One where saddle sores is a completely legit topic of discussion during dinner, and one where the top speed of mosquitoes (14 km/h for anyone lacking this possibly vital piece of knowledge) is considered to be truly valuable information.

But however strange it might be, it really is like someone said during breakfast one morning:

‘Guys? I do know it’s a twisted one. But this really is my tribe – and I love it.’

One thing is clear though. While having bicycle adventuring in common, we’re still as diverse as any other group of people. Everyone’s reason for doing this is different. Everyone has their own style. Their own goals. Their own story of how they ended up on the saddle of a bike.

During my days in Rumi Hostel more than 10 cyclists came and went. Noone the other alike.

There was the British guy Nick, who started off from home a bunch of months ago – going ‘until he finds somewhere worth staying’. The silent Italian couple going around Cental Asia for a few weeks as their honeymoon. The older German couple, on the last leg of their serveral stage world tour. And Peter from Belgium, who had a heart of gold – but who hated anyone in a uniform and got in trouble with authorities when doing so shouldn’t even be possible.

There was the Slovenian former javelin-man weighing in on 90 something kg of muscles, always sitting in the same chair with this constant smile on his face – describing everything as ‘Super cool!’ with the cutest lisping I’ve ever heard. Then that loud guy who was travelling with rather than on a bike as he had hitchhiked most of the way from Europe.

Then there was me.

And a couple of dudes who I think can pose as the perfect example of how one touring cyclist does not equal the other. These guys are both in it for the long run, but have – apart from their mean of transport – absolutely nothing in common.

Patrick from Germany is currently on his 8th year of touring – aiming to go to every country in the world with his bicycle. Dressed in lycra from head to toe he has the most light and aerodynamic set up I think I’ve seen, and he covers something like 200 km on any normal day on the bike. Patrick is a sportsman and the world is his arena.

And then there is Olivier from France.

Six or so years ago he left his hometown, and has been on the road ever since. Carrying everything from toothbrush to paraglider, he is the Jack Sparrow of bicycle touring and really has the bike to match it. This guy is a traveller down to the core – and let’s just say he’d need a bit of a tailwind to cover 200 km like Patrick.


This bike really is a pirate ship – parrot and all.

Coming to Bukhara I was drained, in every sense of the word. But leaving, I was filled with this childlike inspiration and motivation I hadn’t had since the very start of my tour. I had been reminded of my reasons for going on this journey, and even gotten a few new ones. Being still, I could feel my love for being on the move stronger than I had done in months.

My body surely would have done well from sticking around a few more days, but my mind just wouldn’t have it. I was packed up and ready to go. Ready to fully explore this new country I was in. To live life the best way I know how. I was ready to head out and create new stories.

And of course. To outrun some mosquitoes.

Fredrika

By |September 14th, 2015|Asia, Travel Logs|
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