Asia

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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The Turkmen Desert Dash

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

By |August 15th, 2015|Asia, Travel Logs|
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Iran Pt. 5 – Leaving on a High Note

Riding into big cities is one of my least favorite things ever. Especially in a country like Iran where drivers really don’t take me into account as they fly past, often so close that I instinctly pull my elbows into the sides of my body (as if that somehow would make the space between us any bigger).

Going into Mashad – Iran’s 2nd biggest city – with it’s 3 million people was no different. As I was picking up my visa for Turkmenistan, I had no choice but to head into the very heart of this busy city. And since it also holds the Imam Reza Shrine – the largest mosque in the world, as well as the holiest site in all of Iran – I would absolutely have gone anyways.

In my handlebar bag I had a note with an adress to some people waiting for my arrival. Friends of friends to a family I had been staying with a few days earlier. Since I’m riding with a GPS, finding the place shouldn’t be too difficult, right? Well. It probably wouldn’t have, if it wasn’t for the fact that it was written down in Arabic script.

This wasn’t the first time I was looking for an adress I couldn’t read myself, so I kept focusing on the traffic around me instead of thinking too much about how to find this still unknown destination. It always works out anyways.

This time – it worked out particularly well.

A man on an old motorcycle was about to race pass me, but in the last second he almost came to a halt right next to me, leaving just enough space for me not to be immediately pushed of the road.

‘Hellooooooo!’

Now this happens all the time.

9/10 times this greeting will be followed up by a question – either in English or in Farsi – about where I’m from. However, this man didn’t follow the ususal script at all.

‘My name! Ali!’

‘I am! Your bodyguard!’

I mean I have had people present themselves as everything from my interpreter to my new husband before. But usually it’s not shouted from a motorcycle in the middle of a busy highway. And bodyguard? That was a first.

After his very sudden appearance, my new bodyguard actaully did a pretty excellent job. Riding next to me all the way into Mashad, he forced the cars coming from behind to give me some space. And even better, he kind of knew where I was going. When his knowledge of the city no longer was enough, he just couldn’t think to leave me to take care of myself.

No, that was simply out of question. Someone (read: some man) had to take over. Someone safe. But who? Hm…

Ah!

Rushing out in the middle of a roundabout he grabbed a hold of his successors. Two policemen.

Shit.

Of course none of them knew that I really had had enough of the Irianian police by this point. Luckily though, these guys were great. Nothing like their colleagues I had previously bumped into just a few times too many. Who knows, perhaps this was all thanks to Ali who gave them clear directions on their new mission: get the tourist wherever she’s going.

And sure enough, they did.


Leaving whatever they were doing they spent almost an hour directing me to the right place


Living proof of that there are nice police men in Iran!

Once in Mashad, I had a few really good days. Most importantly – I got my visa for Turkmenistan.

But far more exciting – I managed to sneak in to see the Holy Shrine of Imam Reza. As only muslims are welcome there, I was lucky to get in without trouble. And it was all thanks to my hosts – two amazing women who I still get goosebumps just thinking about.

Unfortunately (and I think understandably) I won’t post their names or photos here.

Living together mother and daughter (about 70 & 40 years old), they long ago made it their life’s mission to stand up for their human rights as women, and to their right to religious freedom. And to put it short, they were more than reluctant to dress me up in a chador and take me to the Shrine of Imam Reza.

Now this is the most sacred site in the country. The biggest mosque in the world. People pilgrimage from all over the planet just to get a glimpse of the golden tomb of Imam Reza.

But to them. It is nothing but a symbol of everything they hate about Iran.

In the end, they did take me though. Well, the mother did. I don’t think the daughter would set foot at the shrine even if her life depended on it.


From dress rehearsal the night before.

There is a strict photo prohibition at and inside the mosque. But this was such a strong experience. Coming from the outside to watch people overflow with emotion, as they fulfilled their lifelong dream of coming here, really left me with mixed feelings.

It was all absolutely beautiful and equally tragic. Touching and provoking. People in tears of joy and heartache. Seven-year-olds in full niqab. Hope. Oppression. Total calm and sheer panic. All within the walls of what could be the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.

I still can’t wrap my head around my visit at the Holy Shrine. All I know is that I’m glad I was there to see it.


From outside the complex.

In opposite to the visit at the Shrine of Imam Reza, the remainder of my stay in Mashad can be boiled down to one word:

Girl power.

Haha OK, two then. Stupid auto correct – ruining my flow.

As oppose to so many other women in Iran, who cover up as soon as the camera comes out – these women took their hijabs right off. They are independent. They make their own money. They are athletes. Wear clothes in bright colours. Manteaus that in mosts’ opinion would be too short.

(To put this in context: the manteau is the second garment. Your bum is already covered by loose fitting pants.)

Like so many times before when I was starting to loose hope – they showed me that things are not static. There is a resistance. Even if it’s not fast – things are indeed changing. And there really are people out there putting in the work for it.

Every single morning these girls leave their house at 5 AM to go running. That a 70-year-old woman starts her day with pulling off 12 km is impressive in itself, but that’s not the main thing here. Their running is a symbol of something that takes far more than physical strength.

The mother (OK, let’s call her A) – have been running in the same park since 20 years back. Back then, women weren’t even allowed to enter, apart from certain times each week. But she did. With the perfect combination of humour and pride, she told me about how her stamina was a lot better back them – as she daily had to outrun the park keepers trying to chase her off the grounds.

So it might be slow, but things are moving alright. This really is social obedience at it’s finest. A daily demonstration of just how far it’s possible to push the limits in 2015.

Men’s tracksuits. Zipper not completely closed. Pulled up sleeves. Hijab tied behind the neck. Chatting away with anyone they bump into (nowadays including the park keepers). None of these things are still really OK, but they are getting away with it. And it’s awesome.

For sure, the best morning run ever.

I was leaving Mashad with the best gut feeling I had had in a long time. All in all I really do love Iran. But I’m endlessly grateful that I’m lucky enough not to be born there. That I can come and leave whenever I want. And the time had come to do just that.

With my Turkmenistan visa added to my passport, I started working my way towards the border. Like so many times before, through complete desolate landscapes leaving you with nothing but your own thoughts.

And I think that was just what I needed. Two days with nothing to do put to pedal my bike and slowly try to process everything that had happened the last month. The most intense one so far on the journey. Perhaps even in my entire life.

I was more than ready to head out for new adventures. I already knew that the one through the Turkmenistan desert would be one worth remembering. And let me tell you – it was!

But that I’ll tell you about some other time.

Fredrika

By |August 9th, 2015|Asia, Travel Logs|
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Iran Pt. 4 – 1 capital & 12 cops

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

By |August 8th, 2015|Asia, Travel Logs|
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Iran Pt. 3 – Heaven & Hell

Leaving Marand I felt like the luckiest girl in the world. I had gotten the best start of Iran one could wish for, and I almost couldn’t believe I had bumped into what was probably the friendliest and most loving families in the Middle East.

What I still didn’t know then, was that they had some pretty rough competition. During the course of my month in the country, I was in for countless more of these incredible meetings with Iranian families – and my time in Marand had merely been an appetizer for what was still to come.

I barely used my tent in Iran. I almost never cooked or even bought my own food. Pretty much wherever I went, I was greeted with offers of everything from food and places to sleep, to handmade persian carpets (just what one needs on a bike) and even money.

It sounds crazy, and let me assure you – it was.

Isolating the time spent off the bike, Iran is for sure my best experience so far on this journey. The cycling though, not so much. Part of this is simply that the landscapes didn’t impress me much. Coming in from the highlands of Turkey, I had been spoiled with mountains and incredible scenery for weeks on end. In Iran everything was just… boring.

And hot. Too hot in general. And for a girl covered up from head to toe, riding a 50 kg bicycle, in particular.

Heat and boring landscapes I don’t really have a problem with. But by this point I had started to loose my patience with jerks on the road. Now this is not something unique for Iran. Since halfway through Turkey (with a short break during the visit of my Dad), dealing with creepy dudes have been a pretty consistant part of my days on the road.

Men shouting rude stuff. Stalking me with their cars. Trying to get me into their trucks. Masturbating in front of me as some weird demonstration of power. Asking for sex. Whatever sick stuff you can imagine.

In Turkey these stuff still got to me, making me feel insecure, unsafe and sometimes very humiliated. Luckily though, in the same way you learn to deal with dogs on four legs chasing your bicycle, you quickly learn to also handle the dogs walking around on two. Humour has become one of my best friends through these stuff, as if you look at it from the right perspective – a lot of these things are pretty hilarious.

However relaxed I feel with dealing with these people, the moment I crossed into Iran and was forced to put on the hijab, my patience for them immediately became a lot less. Sure. It’s not rocket science to understand how the view of women (western women in particular) these men have has came to be. And to be fair, they were born into this just as much as I was born into believing that women and men should be equals. But knowing that, still doesn’t mean I’ll let them get away with anything.

The day I cycled into Zanjan is very symbolic for my time in Iran. The day was hot. Incredible hot. I was working this really unexciting main road. I had plugged in my headphones to block out some of the loud roaring sounds of the trucks passing, and also to take my mind of the constant headwind that simply refused to let me cover any real distance. Around me was nothing. I was bored. On occation riding a bike really sucks, and this was one of those times.

Afternoon had come and the heat was slowly starting to get somewhat close to bearable. But I had already spent too many hours in the sun, and my brain had turned into jelly hours ago. Too many truck drivers had been giving me crap that day – and blocking these people out were perhaps the true reason for the headphones. I mean, I was tired of the music on my phone already months ago.

Yet another truck driver stopped and got out on the road, waving me in with a smile, a big ‘Salaaam!’ and something that looked lite dried fruit. As usual, I didn’t stop.

In the rear mirror I could see him get back into his truck, and within a couple of minutes he had passed me, and (like they always do) stopped again a few hundred meters further down the road. I passed him a second time, and watched him in the rear mirror as he quickly climbed back up to get in behind the wheel.

Now, this is the classic game with the truck drivers.

The third time I passed him he was telling me a more firmly to stop. Still didn’t. The forth time though, I did. I really wasn’t up to keep the game going, and needed to stop for a drink anyways.

These meetings are usually pretty much the same. He offers water, a ride, a kiss or just starts talking a bunch of Farsi I can’t understand. And I’m rude enough to let him know that whatever he’s doing is not working. From experience, I’ve learned to keep enough distance to be out of reach, and to position myself so that we’re both visible for other cars coming on the road.


So this is NOT the man in the story!


Just some compensation to show that there are also loads of nice truck drivers on the roads

Now this smiling guy had bad energy from the start. As I turned down his fruit, water and offer of a ride he was soon out of stuff to give me. He reached out his hand as if to say goodbye. I didn’t take it. Instead I gave him a short ‘Khodafes (Goodbye)’ and put my right foot on the pedal to start rolling again.

Now – with his hand still reached out, and the same creepy smile on his face, he quickly took the last steps to close the gap between us – and grabbed my breast. All without a word, but still with his greedy eyes locked into mine.

??!?!!?

I mean.

FUCK. YOU.

Now I am not a fighter. At least I wasn’t up until this day. But before my mind had realised what happened, my body reacted. Within a split second, I could – as if from the outside – see my fist work it’s way into his cheek and nose, wiping that disgusting grin of his face.

…

What… was that?

I had just punched someone in the face for the first time in my life. And it was a good one. Perhaps even a bit too good? For a second there I almost felt sorry for the guy, and I watched the terrified experession on his face as he ran back to his truck, shouting stuff in Farsi I’m very happy I didn’t understand.

As he drove off I stood still for a minute. It was all so weird. Everything was the same. Still way too hot. Boring landscape the same. Even the same stupid song was still playing in my ears. Only difference was that now I had this weird pain in my right hand.

I rode the last couple of hours into Zanjan, and arrived just an hour before sunset. I didn’t have any plan for the night, but by now I had realised that in Iran it’s wisest not to make any of those – evenings tend to work out anyways.

As the sun started to set, I heard a man’s voice behind me.

‘So, where are you staying tonight?’

I turned around, ready to start throwing fists around me again. But now I was met by a whole other smile than the one of the guy a couple of hours earlier. With poor English, the pretty sleezy looking guy a few years older than me presented himself as AmirAli, and immediately invited me back to his house. Now on paper, turning down to shake one stranger’s hand, and then hours later accept another one’s bed, doesn’t make sense at all. But as usual, it’s all about gut feeling.

Still. As I was riding behind his car for a few more kilometers than he first told me, slowly leaving the city center and taking us down smaller and darker streets, I had perhaps a little too much time to consider what was actually happening. Laughing to myself, I was thinking how much this was against everything my parents ever taught me as a child. But something felt really good, so I just went with it.

‘OK. If this goes to hell – it’s all on you, Fredrika.’

So what happened?

Well, as I’m writing this, I’m obviously still alive. Not very surprisingly, AmirAli prooved to be my golden ticket to a few dreamlike days in the company of his friends and family, and my faith in mankind was restored just as quickly as always.


AmirAli took me to straight to the fanciest iftar I ever went to. Chandilers and everything!


Weridly noone seemed to mind that the new guest was a stinking girl showing up on a bicycle


And within a minute had gotten food, a seat and a bunch of new best friends


After dinner they took me to the mountains to see Zanjan from above


And as always – to the park for tea, fruits and sunflower seeds until morning

So all in all, the quota remains:

For every bad person out there, there is a gazillion good ones to make up for it.

And I can definitely live with that.

Fredrika

By |August 6th, 2015|Asia, Travel Logs|
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