The Bike Ramble Blog

So, what do you know about Turkmenistan? Not all that much, I would guess. I know I sure didn’t before I went there. This is not that strange though, as Turkmenistan generally is considered to be the 2nd most closed up country in the world, after North Korea.

Now this is a weird place, with the most odd rules and regulations you can (or can’t) think of. Photography being illegal in the capital, is an example that can probably give you an idea about the level of things.

Officialy tourism is welcomed, but layer upon layer of bureaucracy effectively discourages most people off from even trying to obtain a visa. And considering the fact that this is a very poor country consisting 90% of desert – I’m not too sure that many people would like one, even if they were handed out like flyers.

Cycling across Turkmenistan has been done before. Too many times to count. This is the center piece that connects the Middle East and Central Asia, and the 500 km stretch through the Karakum Desert is a classic route taken by long distance tourers going between Europe and Asia.

This could be a great ride. One where you’re slowly pedaling through the solitude desert in complete and utter peace. Just you and your bike. Spending long, silent campnights on the sand dunes. Sunsets to die for. Having the world, and the most mesmerizing starry skies you’ve ever laid eyes on, all for yourself – just as long as you want it.

In theory, that is.

In practice – it’s hell on earth.

Why?

These are a few things to take into account:

1) Time. You have a mere 5 day transit visa on which to complete the ride.
2) Heat. It’s summer – expect daytime temperatures around 45-50 degrees.
3) Shade. Now this is a concept that still doesn’t exsist in the desert.
4) Wind. Going West to East? Sorry – the sandstorms will not be working in your favor.

All in all. Cycling through Turkmenistan is not why you took up bicycle touring. This is not about rambling around the countryside, getting to know locals and experiencing new cultures. This is not about letting your mood decide when and where to stop for the day.

This is bootcamp. A race against time.

This is – The Turkmen Desert Dash.

My last day in Iran I found myself some company. A Swiss couple – Iris & Reto – was entering Turkmenistan on the same date as me, so we decided to team up and take on the challenge together.

By this point all three of us were quite happy to leave Iran, and more than ready to take on this new unknown country. Iris and I even a bit more than Reto, as none of us could wait to finally get to take off our hijabs.

‘Can you imagine? Tomorrow, we’ll finally be cycling with the wind in our hair again.’

It really is true though, you should be careful what you wish for. What none of us yet realised, was just how much wind we were actually in for…

–

Even starting the desert crossing was easier said than done. First challenge prooved to be crossing the Turkmenistan border.

Officials did everything from measuring our body temperatures to x-raying our equipment before we were finally trusted to step foot into Turkmenistan. A bunch of valuable hours had already passed on our first day, and we quickly jumped onto the saddles in order to start knocking off the kilometers.

Heat, an inhumane headwind and a bunch of nothing was what we had to work with.

Things were a lot easier than we’d all expected though. The road we were working had by others been described as ‘the worst road you’ll ever ride’. But it really wasn’t too bad! And that talk about no shade? Nah. I mean after all we did find this lonely bush/tree thing that (kind of) protected us from the sun as we stopped for lunch.

It wouldn’t last though. Quickly after our break we realised what all those people had actually been referring to.

Both as it came to the no shade…

…as well as to the crappy road

It would take a lot for us to stop smiling though. We had all known what to expect – Turkmenistan is simply not supposed to be easy. We kept cranking and soon enough the heat and the wind calmed down for the day.

Sunset riding – no doubt my favorite part of the day!

With sore legs we pitched our tents after a long first day, and spent a really nice evening together. I’m not sure if we were mostly celebrating our arrival in Turkmenistan or departure from Iran, but it was a pretty fab night.

Soaking and using our old hijabs in an attempt to cool down the evening beer (something none of us had even seen in more than a month) really felt like the ultimate symbol of us all turning the leaf and beginning a whole new chapter of our adventures.

Unfortunately this would be both our first and last camp night together

Despite of putting in hard work – we had only managed to cover 70 km on our first day. We were already behind. After another day of pushing against horrible wind and trying to remain sane despite of the heat, we reached Mary just as the sun started to set. Still behind.

I knew that Iris and Reto since the start had been considering throwing in the towel here. From Mary – a city popping up in the middle of the desert – you have the opportunity to catch a train all the way to Turkmenabat and the Uzbekistan border. I knew that they – like me – were tired. We were behind. The wind was stronger than any of us had been ready for. Of course it was a tempting option. And in many ways, the only reasonable one.

They decided to go for the train.

Damn.

I didn’t have to decide anything. My mind was made up a long time ago. Turkmenistan could hit me with all the heat, wind, sand and horrible roads it wanted. I was gonna cycle this stupid desert, and that was it.

We said our goodbyes, and they headed off for the train station. I headed off to catch up with the ticking time bomb that was my visa. The upcoming days were long. I mean really long. Though the road is completely flat, the winds many times didn’t let me pedal any faster than 9 km/h. Covering distance took time – a lot of it.

The key to making it through the desert are the roadside cafés. Every 70-80 km, there is this very simple café where you can hide away from the sun and stock up on enough water to get you through to the next one (12 or so liters in my case). Without these, doing this ride would be impossible. With them – it’s just seriously difficult.

My days in the desert all looked the same:

Getting up at 4 AM I started cycling just as the sun rose. The mornings I pedaled with only one thing in mind – to make it to the next café before becoming desert BBQ. As I didn’t have much time to rest in the nights, I used these hot hours inside to catch up with some sleeping.

Then, as the most brutal heat and wind let go for the day, I cycled again. Covering just enough distance to be able to make it to the next café in time to not become BBQ the upcoming day either.

And at last: Stop. Set camp. Eat. Make a half-hearted attempt to get rid of the sand you have everywhere (for real – everywhere). And finally set the alarm 4 hours later – only to repeat the whole thing again.

Sounds like fun?

It was! …for a while.

This pretty much sums up my Turkmenistan experience:

Day 1: Setting off feeling like this totally badass hardcore adventurer

Day 2: Realising that OK – this will take some work.

Day 3: Halfway? Are you kidding me? And where the hell are my friends?!

Day 4: (Haha OK. It never really got this bad.)

Day 5: …can someone please just come and deport me?

Overall Turkmenistan was a really cool adventure. In a lot of ways I feel like I didn’t experience the country at all – but I do enjoy the physical part of this too. By the end of day four I rolled into Turkmenabat – the desert finish line. Equally happy and exhausted I pitched my tent for the last time on Turkmenistan grounds.

How I’ll remember Turkmenistan?

Sand. Heat. Wind.

Five days of madness. Complete and utter madness.

Madness in the very best of ways.

Fredrika

It’s crazy how weird stuff, if they just happen often enough, can become normal. In Iran this was truer than ever before, and in time it seemed like nothing came as a surprise anymore. Especially as it came to the hospitality of people.

One of the big challenges I had was to not let myself become numb to the never-ending flow of kindness I was receiving. I mean. If you’ve been invited to spend the night in different people’s homes for 10 days in a row, it’s pretty easy to take the 11th family kind of for granted.

The 5th time you get stopped that day, because yet another person wants to give you fruit and soda – it’s easy to just feel slowed down rather than to actually acknowledge what just happened.

When another random stranger on the street suddenly hands you his phone, and he has called up his only relative who speaks english, just to find out what you might need help with. And you firmly have to explain to yet another person that you don’t. need. anything. It’s easy to even get annoyed by peoples’ overwhelming willingness to make your day better.

And I don’t want to be that person.

So I had to constantly remind myself.

Being handed so much food that you have to start transporting it outside your panniers, is not in any way normal or reasonable. Spending night after night as the long lost daughter of new families is not something that a lot of people are fortunate enough to ever experience. Someone reaching out to help you is a good person, not a distraction.

‘You are one lucky girl, Fredrika.’

To expect the unexpected is pretty much the only way to go about life on the road. In Iran more than anywhere else. So even if I feel like I managed to stay humble and grateful – the element of surprise disappeared pretty quickly.

After a while, you accept pretty much anything as ‘normal’. Like that time I was shown into a room and was greeted by this big applause – only to find out that the people inside where waiting for me to ‘give my lecture’.

Well, this one kind of did catch me off guard actually

My odd life on the Iranian roads kept on being extreme in all ways, and I was really starting to get comfortable with it. As I was getting closer to the capital, things were changing rapidly. In one day, my surroundings changed from this:

To this:

I remember riding into Istanbul. That was pretty crazy. Making my way into Tehran was insane. I’m not in any way stating that Turkish drivers are respectful towards cyclists. I’m just saying that Iranian drivers…

Well. You get it.

In short I’m pretty happy I’m here to write this.

In Tehran I did a bit of Visa stuff. And a bunch of pretty crazy (and highly illegal) partying with people who’ll never show up in this blog. It’s really a shame I can’t share them here with you guys – because these are some good stories. Though definitely not good enough to risk my friends getting sentenced to jail, lashes, or bizzarely enough… death.

Leaving Tehran I had had enough of the desert like landscapes I’d been stuck with so far in Iran, and decided to head up to the coast of the Caspian Sea. Good choice it turned out. Crossing the mountain range between Tehran and the sea, was really the only exciting cycling I got in all of Iran.

A pretty tough pass got me both a new altitude record (2700 meters or so), and an incredible sweet ride down this narrow mountain road, decending all the way to the sea.

Can you see it? Down there to the left

The Iranian summer had been hot since the start. And according to the locals, this particular one was even hotter than normal. Like with everything else though, you get used to it.

As I reached the sea, it was no longer only hot. Here it was also incredible humid. I was sweating. A lot. Almost making myself worried I was turning into liquid.

5 minutes after showering, in a desperate attempt not to soak my ‘clean’ set of clothes

As I was cycling into the North Khorasan region, things got strange. During my two and a half weeks in the country, I hadn’t been stopped once by the police.

Then I was. Not once or twice. But 12 times in 3 days.

?

Still have no idea what really happened here.

They all seemed to want different things. Sometimes to check my papers. Sometimes simply to chat (in Farsi..). Sometimes to give me a lecture about how ‘women shouldn’t be on the road like this’. Sometimes to offer me an escort – of course without taking no for an answer (I had one car driving 10 meters behind me for 15 km).

I wanted one thing. To be left alone. As I realised that wasn’t happening, snaping sneak pics of the officers, became my way of entertaining myself.

Entertainment that got a lot more interesting when I got caught

After three days, the cops disappeared just as fast as they came and I had some short but sweet riding through green surroundings. Now, this was great.

Golestan National Park

I kept on being adopted

And took up a short but intense career as an English teacher

In Bojnurd I was lucky enough to stumble upon Hossein. Working as a mountain guide he took me trekking in one of the national parks nearby, knowing exactly where we would find all the cool animals.

After spending a little too much time with people along the way, I ended up having to rush quite a bit in order to make it to the border before my visa expired. I did have one important thing left though – getting my next one.

Where?

Mashad!

This is the 2nd largest city in Iran, and I wasn’t going there only for the visa. Just in time for Eid al-fitr (the ending of Ramadan), I was heading into this legendary city – the holiest place in all of Iran. Now that’s what I call good timing.

But more about that in the next one.

Fredrika

As I was cycling into Marand, I was a little nervous. Anyone who remembers this story can understand why. All the way from Croatia I had been on a mission which would succeed or fail here. I was entering Akbar’s hometown. Would he find me? And if not – how could I find him?

With another 10 km or so to the actual city, yet another car stopped me by the side of the road.

‘Helloooo! What is your name?’

Inside the car sat a small family of three, with kind faces smiling from ear to ear. One minute of conversation and it was settled, I was about to have my first Iranian homestay. Escorting me the last 10 km of uphill back to their house turned their 10 minute drive into an hour long one. But noone seemed to mind as they all were smiling and waiving to me though the car windows.

Then – of course – he was there.

Sure, this unknown man standing with a bicycle by the side of the road could in theory be anyone. But I instantly knew. That’s Akbar – waiting for me. Some of his 100 of so truck driver scouts had tipped him off, and he knew I was coming. What he didn’t know though, was that I had a delivery for him. Like every other cyclist, he invited me back to his shop, but as I was already taken we made plans to meet up again before I left Marand.

Yey. Mission Akbar was a success! (Well, almost. I still had the coin).

On this trip countless people have showed me absolutely amazing hospitality. But this family – taking an hour to personally escort me instead of just showing their house of my GPS – was a first. By now I’ve learned that this really is how things are done here. Hospitality and kindness is showed to a degree can sometimes drive you crazy, and probably would if it wasn’t for the fact that you know it comes with the best of intentions.

Another typical example of this came just as we’d finally made it to their home. For everyone’s sake, they let me jump straight into the bathroom. Mid shower – I hear a firm knocking on the door.

‘Fika? (my nickname) Fika?! FIKA, OPEN!!’

What’s happening’s going? Is the place on fire?! And what about the dress code? Quickly I wrapped myself in my way to small towel, opened and peeked out the door. Outside is Leila, the mother of the family, yet again with a huge smile on her face.

‘Fika. COLA!’

Before I knew it, she had shoved a class of Cola Cola in my hand and quickly closed the door again. And there I am. Soaked, with tears running down my face because of all the shampoo I have in my eyes – holding a huge glass of coke I have no idea what to do with.

Only in Iran.

The next couple of days were absolutely amazing – probably the best ones I’ve had so far on the trip. I’m not even gonna try to tell the stories from them here, but I will share a few photos.

First night, on our way to the family garden for iftar

Puja. The most charming little guy I’ve probably ever met

Neda. Puja’s awesome big sis.

See the scarf? This is one of the coolest things I know. Whether they want to or not, women in Iran don’t have a choice but to wear the hijab or chador, and conform to the rest of the Islamic dress code. But they are pushing it, slowly but surely moving the boundaries. Showing off the most incredible hair styles, wearing open mantaeus, and refusing to be to anyone’s victim.

There is so much so be said on and around this matter. And meeting girls and women in my own age, listening to their stories and struggles, have made a way bigger inpact on me than I was ready for. More than feeling fortunate and greatful for being born in a country like Sweden, I just feel so incredibly sad and heartbroken about the fact that they’re not.

I’ll write about this after I’ve left Iran. But please. If you haven’t already joined the ActionAid fundraiser – please consider doing it. This is important.

New day. New garden.

Sahar. Strongest girl I’ve met in my entire life.

We spent a long day hanging out in Sahar’s family garden

Some with more energy…

… and some with less

Yet another crazy thing. Someone had just found out that the Samsung phones most Iranians use are being sold tapped. With a small add on to the battery, the authorities keep track on the activity on the people’s phones – all without the owner knowing.

Those with Samsung’s of course checked their own phones, and sure enough. Underneath the battery sticker they found something that for sure wasn’t supposed to be there. Scary.

Evening fell, and more and more people showed up at the garden. In the end we were totally between 40 and 50 people, and soon enough I found out that most of them were there to ‘see the tourist’. Haha.

After iftar (the breaking of the fast during Ramadan) the night turned into a big party. Music blasting from the cars and everyone laughing and having a good time, no matter if we were sharing a language or not. Soon enough the rain was pouring down, but that didn’t stop the dancing and singing one bit.

Finally we came home and fell asleep Persian style. Carpets and blankets all the way!

I really miss these people.

Before leaving Marand I passed by Akbar’s shop to officially deliver his coin of luck, which I had been carrying with me all from Croatia. And man, this dude is cool.

I was Akbar’s cyclist No. 599

Now this is what we call a Trail Angel. Perhaps the biggest one of them all

Akbar decided to ditch the shop for a while and join in for a stretch

So. What do you say?

• MISSION COMPLETED.

Fredrika

Hi guys.

This post is written by a very happy girl, sitting in a hotel room somewhere in Doğubayazıt, Turkey. I’m smiling, sneak eating cherries before sunset (Ramadan) and singing along to Swedish music. Things are really good right now.

Why? I’ve had a 5 day visit from my Dad.

I don’t have to say much more than that, right? What started out as a joke about 6 months ago actually turned into reality. He didn’t only come to Turkey – he actually jumped onto a bike and joined me for three full days of cycling.

From Erzurum to Doğubayazıt – the last outpost before the border to Iran – he has been pedaling alongside me and I couldn’t ask for a better way to end my long stay here in Turkey. I’m absolutely stoked to have gotten to show someone close to me kind of what my days look like.

I wanted my Dad to see it all. The downhills, the headwinds, the people, the weird stuff – everything.

But sure – three days is only that much time to get to see and experience the different aspects of life on the road. And to suddenly afford to stay in hotels every night make things a whole lot more hassle free and eventless than what I’m used to. But still I am so happy with the days we spent together, working the Turkish roads.

The start of Ramadan naturally ment days with less çay than ever before. But luckily that didn’t stop the Turks from being as generous, upfront and talkative as always. And my Dad got to experience some of the never ending hospitality and curiousity from random people.

As well as the constant presence of animals hanging out on the roads

And even a Chinese fellow bikepacker, going in the other direction

My Dad is many things, but an athlete is not one of them. Starting I was a little worried that the cycling would be too much. But without hesitance, he joined in for a couple of pretty cool mountain passes.

…and even got into it enough to join in for the dorky (but mandatory) pass pics!

Of course though. This also meant that he got to enjoy some pretty tired legs by the end of the day.

Not just tired legs, it turned out

Is he …dead?

Apart from cool adults and other travellers, he got to meet a bunch of sweet kids welcoming him to their country.

And then see the same kids being horribly cruel to animals, just for kicks.

Yes, this one is seconds away from getting it’s head badly beaten with the stick

Luckily for me, Dad decided not only to experience Turkey – but to also bring some of Sweden to me. At home people were celebrating the national holiday Midsommar, and he made sure to get us into the right spirit.

On the third day of cycling, we rolled into Doğubayazıt where we had time to spend one day off the bikes.

That we would go to check out Mt. Ararat was pretty much a given from the start. With its’ 5100 meter it’s the highest peak in Turkey, and according to the legend where Noah’s ark stranded. Ahmet – the owner of our hotel joined as our guide and we had a absolutely great day walking halfway up the mountain.

Awesome days to say the least. However, having him leave early this morning was so weird.

‘Thanks for coming. Say Hi to Mum and my brothers! See you …sometimes.’

Quick hug and then he jumped into the taxi and drove off. And that was that.

I usually have difficulty saying goodbye to people I’ve met and spent one evening with. Saying goodbye to my own Dad, without having any idea when I’ll see him again, was something else. However, I’m absolutely thrilled he was here, and I really feel like I’ve gotten just the boost of energy and confidence I needed as I’m taking a new giant step already tomorrow morning.

I’m entering Iran.

With everything from visa to hijab in order, I’m ready to do this. I’m as excited as could be, and next time you hear from me I’ll be on the other side of the border.

Wish me luck!

Fredrika

Even though my week along the Black Sea coast was nothing short of amazing, it was time to shake things up. However, getting off the coast prooved to be a bit more complicated than expected.

As I had taken a right, onto a road leading me inland and up the mountains I was stopped by car after car, with people telling me I was going the wrong way. Their intentions were all good of course, and this was just a continuation of the overwhelming Turkish hospitality and willingness to help out.

However, this hospitality can sometimes become very close to unbearable. Even in the weirdest situations assistance will come, whether you want it or not – and turning down these helping hands isn’t always all that easy.

When for the 5th time I found myself arguing with a car full of strangers wether or not I should turn around, I caught myself thinking ‘WHY can’t just people be like in Sweden? Stay to themselves and simply not give a damn about others?’

Very soon though, I would take this silent wish back, a thousand times over.

The road up the mountains soon became small, graveled and very, very empty. Apart from the occational truck driver passing by, leaving a big cloud of dust for me to pedal through, I was alone. With the dogs. By now I’ve gotten pretty used to aggressive and angry dogs, and on this particular road they were many. However, staying on the lookout and fending them off kept me busy and entertained enough to not think so much about the steep climb I was on. I was happy.

Then – suddenly and from nowhere – a big mob (or perhaps army is a better word) of something like 10 huge and absolutely insane dogs appeared. Coming up from both sides of the road they quickly had me surrounded and scared shitless. I was totally caught off guard and as they quickly closed the distance between us, you could tell. They knew they had me.

It took a couple of seconds for me to get my mind to grip the situation. Shouting like a mad woman, I was kicking gravel towards this one dog going for my left back pannier. All while trying to pick up some stones without letting any of the others go for my hand and arm.

They were everywhere, and I felt like I had been thrown right into the middle of the old Disney movie The Lion King. You know when Simba and Nala are just about to be ripped to shreds by hyenas?

Still shouting, kicking and waving I tried to keep the distance as best I could. But I just had a really bad gut feeling about the whole situation. I was not in control.

‘I did get that Rabies vaccine, right?’

Then, in the middle of the loud, dirty chaos that I still clearly didn’t have control over – it came to save me. The Turkish helping hand. Or Mufasa. Depending on if you want to continue the Lion King reference or not.

Just as the dogs had appeared from nowhere – so did Ahmet. With one hand on the horn, Turkish music bursting through the speakers and the roaring engine of his tractor he made quite an appearance, leaving both me and the dogs startled.

Before I think neither of us had really understood what this Turkish carneval on four wheels was about, Ahmed had gotten out to show exactly why he was there. With the authority of Cesar Milan himself, he gave the mob of dogs the yelling of a lifetime, and in no time they all left, looking ashamed they had even come in the first place.

This is where I quickly and silently appologized to the whole Turkish population for ever thinking they were being too much. Before my heartbeat had even gotten down to its normal pace, I was sitting in Ahmet’s home – having dinner with him and his wife Hatice. It’s funny how things work sometimes.

The dog rescue had turned into dinner. And dinner soon turned into a full night of laughs and friends – and in time also a comfy bed. None of them spoke a word of English, but we still managed to have the best of times together.

The next morning the rain was pouring down. In that stubborn way that immediately let’s you know that it has absolutely no plan to stop. I think the whole house was kind of happy about this though – Ahmet & Hatice was enjoying having a foreign guest, and I desperately needed rest. I don’t even think we ever talked about it, that I would be staying an extra day was a given.

I really enjoyed this homestay. Everywhere I go have pretty much been welcomed like one of the family. In this house though, it was for real. And being one of the family ment helping out with the work.

This was a family living without any extras. They had a few very skinny cows for milk, and some land where they grew most of their food. And to make ends meet they had opened a Lokanta (like a small roadside restaurant) in their house, feeding the passing truck drivers. And I got to help out with all of it.

Cleaning, and milking the cows. Cooking for and serving the truck drivers. Helping Ahmet patch up the leaking roof. I wasn’t just a guest they wanted to feel like home. I was home – and it was amazing.

After a long day, when darkness fell and the last Lokanta guests had left. We all sat down to relax for the first time since waking up. These experiences are still the best thing I know with this weird way of travelling. So utterly rewarding and humbling.

People are working so damn hard compared to anyone back home. And still they have so little. Stuff that is. When it comes to joy and fulfillment – I am probably ready to state that the roles are reversed. You don’t need money to laugh, love and dance. That becomes very clear by spending time with people like this.

To support me in my struggle with the Turkish language, Hatice decided it was only right for her to also learn Swedish

The second morning the rain had finally given in. And after a big breakfast I was ready to leave. Ahmet thought it was too soon. In one month he would have me fluent in Turkish – and then I could continue. Haha :)

This was another one of those goodbyes. Still not used to them. After a bunch of hugs and kisses I jumped onto the saddle, and continued my slow climb up the mountain.

A little sad. Very, very happy.

And – on the lookout for dogs.

Fredrika