Travel Logs

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|

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|

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|

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|

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|

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|

Iran Pt. 2 – Garden iftars & a special delivery

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

By |July 13th, 2015|Asia, Travel Logs|

Iran Pt. 1 – A warm welcome

Well hello there!

It’s been a while since last. Writing this, I’m about two thirds into my month long stay in Iran, and I’ve never had more stories to share with you.

Unfortunately though, the really good ones will have to wait until I’m out of the country. And sadly, for the safety of people involved, the most important ones I will probably never be able to share on the internet like this.

Anywhere you go, you will always find both the good, the bad and the ugly. But never before have I experienced this to be as clear as it is here in Iran. These weeks have been emotional for sure, and over and over again I’m thrown back and forth between feelings of absolute euphoria to total hopelessness.

As I’m still within the borders, I’ll stick to the good stuff for now. The rest we’ll catch up on later.

As I’ve been telling people that I’m planning to go to Iran, I’ve generally gotten two responses. First the one coming from people who’ve never been there, usually going something like:

“Oh my God, are you mad?! You’ll be dead within minutes.”

And then the one coming from people who’ve actually travelled the country themselves:

“Oh my God, can I join?! You’ll love it.”

I don’t think I have to tell you which one I’ve decided to listen to. But nevertheless, I’d be lying if I’d say that I’ve been completely immune to the other one. Heading for Iran – I was not as calm as I usually am crossing borders.

My final day in Turkey I spent getting the last stuff ready.


I found myself a personal shopper who helped me pick out my Islamic cycling wardrobe


I tried to find out how to actually use it


And lastly I realised – This. Will. Be. Hot.

As I left Dogubayazit and headed for the border I was equally excited and nervous. Excited to finally get to enter the country which has one of the best reputations in the world among bicycle tourers. And nervous about practical stuff. Would make it across the border alright? Was I wearing my hijab correctly? Would the Iranian Ramadan really be as strict as people kept telling me?


Military vehicles. Always a clear sign you’re getting close to the border

As expected, the people at the border had a bunch of questions for me. Mainly revolving around the fact that I showed up as a solo female. Luckily I came prepared, and knew that a Swiss touring couple had crossed the border just a few hours before me.

‘Of course I’m not travelling alone! I’m just the slower companion in our European cycling trio. Swiss, Swedish… You know. Basically the same thing!’

It all worked like a charm, and I was in.

As I rolled down the hill from the border crossing, and passed the famous line up of trucks, the heat hit me like a wall. I really didn’t need the road signs in Arabic script to tell that I was in a new place. Suddenly everything felt so… rough.

The drivers were even more aggressive than in Turkey. The green and mountainous surroundings was exchanged by a yellow, brown and grey kind of nothingness. Dust, heat, honking trucks and a fierce headwind. What had I come to?

I spent the day trying to get as far as I could from the border. Super concerned about Ramadan, I was hiding away in gas station bathrooms simply to get to drink water. In hindsight, this desperate attempt of doing stuff correctly is so comical to me.


Haha! I’m laughing out loud looking back at my so uncomfortable and insecure self during this first day

As I crawled into my tent at night, I was totally beaten. The headwind and dehydration had surely gotten the best of me and I was so relieved to finally get to take of my scarf and just stuff myself with whatever I had to eat in my panniers.


So this is it? One month. This is gonna be a long one.

The second, and so far every upcoming day in Iran have been completely different from the first one. The wind had calmed, and the famous Iranian hospitality stepped forward in all it’s glory. People stopped me to take photos, give me more fruit, drinks and food than I could carry, and simply to welcome me to their country.

Over and over again they were stopping, getting out of their cars, and coming up to me with a big smile on their faces.

‘Hello Miss! Welcome to Iran. What do you need?’

‘Hellooo! Welcome to my country. How can I help you?’

Stopping at a road side restaurant, asking to fill my water bottles, I was invited to sit down for lunch with the owner who then let me take both a shower and a nap before continuing. Of course refusing to let me pay for it.

Halfway through this second day I had gotten a glimpse of the true face of Iran. The one I had heard so much about, but probably not really had believed actually excisted.

Best of all? It was about to become even better. The next post is coming right up, and in it you’ll read about my time in Marand. Yes, Marand – the city of Akbar.

Did I find him? Of course I did. Or to be exact – he found me. Though what made things a little complicated was that someone else had kind of found me first…

Fredrika

By |July 12th, 2015|Asia, Travel Logs|

Going out with a bang!

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

By |June 23rd, 2015|Asia, Travel Logs|

The Anatolian Highland

As I was leaving the house of Ahmet and Hatice, I had the dog incident from a couple of days earlier fresh in mind. I was climbing the same gravelled road, the fog was heavy and really limited my sight. I was just waiting for the next – or the same – mafia clan of dogs to come and eat me for breakfast.

Soon enough I could see the silhouettes of a couple of dogs showing up from the woods. Shit.

They looked at me. And I at them. Both waiting for a reaction from the other. And… nothing. Better than nothing actually. These couple of cuties just decided to join me up the mountain. Patiently they strutted along as I slowly climbed my way to the pass.

In the downhills naturally they couldn’t keep up, though trust me when I say they were really trying. However, by then I had gotten to like my new travel buddies so much that now I was the one waiting for them to catch up.

Our joint forces lasted for some three hours, before we finally parted ways. Guess they finally realised that they weren’t gonna get any food…

From here I had a clear goal in mind. Erzurum.

Why in the world? you might wonder. Well, first I had to get there to collect my Iranian visa. But more importantly, if I got there in time I would recieve a sweet visit from home. My dad! Talk about good motivation.

The road to Erzurum was really nice. Epic scenery, good climbs and flawless road quality. For days on end I rode along great mountains, and as I got closer to Erzurum I gained more and more altitude.

Soon enough the mountain tops were all snow capped and I climbed my first couple of passes above 2 000 meters. Feels so good to have had a first taste of riding in the mountains. I really can’t wait for what I know is coming up in Central Asia this summer.

I’ll let the photos do the talking on this one.

Apart from full days where I literarly felt like I was cycling through a real life screen saver, the road to Erzurum wasn’t all about the views. As usual, it was also about the people. And some pretty unusual campsites.

This one was actually really nice. Until my new neighbours started munching away on my tent that is. Luckily though, my Bergans Compact 2P prooved to not only withstand rain and wind, but also sheep teeth.

The closer I got to Erzurum, the more beautiful I experienced the surroundings to be. As I’m cycling through these landscapes I really wish that I could have all of you sitting in my panniers. These are places one have to see in reality, not on a screen. Trying to capture the magnificance of the mountains seems so silly – because it just can’t be done. Not by me anyways.


I’ve passed so many of these. Who will tell me what and who it is?

After a bunch of days I was there. In Erzurum! And I still am.

I’ve spent a few days sorting out my Iranian visa. And finally having it my hand felt so god. damn. good. I think most tourers reading this can relate. I still have a bunch of bureaucracies and paperwork ahead of me, but at least I now have this first one done.

And today – finally – came that awesome day. The one where my dad jumped on a plane and flew down to meet me! And he is just as cute as always.

The plan from here is pretty epic. While waiting for him I managed to get us a second bike – so tomorrow morning we’ll continue on my route East together. I’m so excited to get to share a tiny bit of this experience with my dad. To later have the memory of some of those views in common.

And obviously, I’m also looking forward to get to watch the poor man huffing and puffing as he’s working those hills. Sure, he works out from time to time. But I mean. He is kind of old.

(No offense, Dad. But we all know it’s true…)

This is gonna be interesting for sure. Wish us (him) luck!

Fredrika

By |June 18th, 2015|Asia, Travel Logs|