Travel Logs

China. The Middle Kingdom. The world’s most populated country. Sizewise the 3rd biggest on the planet. A place with never ending diversity as it comes to everything from culture and history to nature and climate. China is a whole world in itself. One I’ve never even set foot in before, know embarassingly little about – and whose language(s) I don’t speak a word of.

Sounds like made for a good bike ride – right?

After a chaotic ride to the border, I arrived to get my Kyrgyz exit stamp just in time not get turned down at the door. The day I entered China was the last one the borders were open at all, before they closed completely in favour for the Chinese national holiday & ‘The Golden Week’.

When you’re limited to never moving any faster than your legs peddle, timing can sometimes be tricky – to say the least. This time though, everything truly worked out for the best.

The border into China has a reputation. And it’s not the most flattering one of those. After all the headaches of crossing borders in Central Asia, I was a bit nervous about this one. Apparently – the Chinese customs was even stricter than the ones of the hardcore bureaucracies I’d already been struggling so much with.

In the end, this would not turn out to be true (for me). The crossing did take like 10 hours in the end, but they were only 10 slow hours, not difficult ones.

The first thing that happened as I reached the initiating Chinese border point was that a guard stripped me off my passport. This is standard. Every foreigner who shows up at this border, has his or her passport confiscated. Passports are then handed over to a waiting taxi driver, and the only way to get it back is to pay him for a + 100 km transport to the actual customs spot.

I still have never really gotten a proper explanation as to why this particual border area is so sensitive, but there is simply nothing you can do about it. Do you want to get into China? Do you want to see your passport again? Ok then. Shut up, pay for that overpriced taxi ride – and you will.

True maffia style.

At the border I met the French cyclist Peps, and together with a couple of backpackers we went with the taxi driver who were holding all of our passports hostage. What could have been a couple of hours drive ended up taking just shy of forever. This due to everything from repeating arguments about prices to waiting for the controllers at some military checkpoint to finish their 2.5 hour long lunch break.

When at last, we got dropped off at the customs, we were all pretty tired – but nowhere near relaxed. I mean, sitting in the back of a taxi is only that demanding. Getting pass customs officers though, that’s a whole other story. This was where the actual hassle would take place.

…Or so we thought. In reality, this would turn out to be the smoothest customs since crossing into Turkey (of course, with the exception of Kyrgyzstan).

After all the stories I’ve heard about this border, with people having everything from their chain tools to Swiss knives taken – I was ready to argue my case, play dumb and do some serious kissing up in order to get my stuff across the border. But noone cared about us at all.

In the end we just had to make a quick x-ray scan of our panniers, and I don’t even think anyone was watching the monitor as they went through. So 10 minutes after filling out the declarations forms, Peps and I were standing by the door to exit the building. Still with everything from pepper spray to fresh fruit in possesion. Peps even still had his pretty impressive stash of cannabis on him.

‘Do you think this really could be it?’

‘I have no idea. But let’s go before any of them change their mind!

And we were out.

Still I had just known Peps for a few hours. We had both had our completely different paths up until here. But right then and there – we were companions celebrating like life long friends.

China. From our front door to China. That his was in France and mine in Sweden didn’t matter. We had both gone through deserts and over mountains. Both been fighting ice cold blizzards and frying under tormenting sun. We had made it. China. We had cycled to China.

China. China, China, China.

Say it enough times and even the name starts to seem just as absurd as the ride there.

We were both childishly excited, and laughted, shouted and danced (yes, of course you can dance on a bicycle) our way to the road that would eventually lead us to our first city – Kashgar. After a good night of camping, we started off our first full day in China. And this was a particularly good one to have company.

The Chinese made sure to give us a proper welcome to the country

Can’t even remember the last time I rode a road smooth like this

Peps – the ornithologist – in his element

My first few days in China could make up a book in itself. But I’ll keep it short.

Kashgar, Xinjiang. This is China. But still not really. For me it was a whole new world – but at the same time I still had one foot in Central Asia. This is Uighur region. Where Uighur people live. Speaking – and living Uighur. This is a muslim people with their very own culture and history. The only thing that they really have to do with China, is that they happen to live within it’s borders.

Riding into Kashgar. A lot of Uighur – and a tiny bit of China

For me this was the perfect introduction to the country. Coming in from Kyrgyzstan, there was so many things just screaming China. But still not. Still I could get by with using my Turkish, Uzbek & Kirgiz vocabulary – as Uighur is also a Turkish language. Still there was plov and lagman served as the main meals. Still I felt at home.

Kashgar night market. A hungry cyclist’s dream.

Staying in one of the youth hostels, I ended up spending a couple of more days than planned. Meeting up old friends from Central Asia, and making new ones travelling in the opposite direction. This was a good time.

Once the Kashgar people were also cycling. Now they have upgraded.

Sold outside a pharmacy. I wonder for what they’re used?

A lot of the times I feel kind of like my mind is falling behind my movement. Constantly there are so many new impressions and experiences. And before I’ve had the chance to wrap my head around the first one, the second and third have already come and passed.

In hindsight I felt like the time I spent stationary in Kyrgyzstan was so good for me. It give me time to actually digest what had been going on the last couple of months. My head had had time to catch up with reality, and I was entering China with what I can only describe as a clean mind.

Instead of thinking back on what actaully happened yesterday, the day before that – or even last week. I was now in the present. Completely in the experience – as it happened. I don’t think I had really realised it before, but in Kashgar I could really tell that it was a long time ago since I truly could do just that.

Now. I just had to start cycling.

Fredrika

The border separating Tajikistan with it’s neighbour Kyrgyzstan consists of a mountain pass. A high, steep, gravelled and windy one. One that I was not happy to pedal. Reaching the top requires work, something I’m generally not hesitating to put in. This time however, I didn’t want the result it would get me.

Still I was peddling. From the effort I was sweating like a pig, while simultaneosluy being freezing cold from the harsh wind that kept me constant company. Even though the lack of oxygen left me completely out of breath, I was still swearing and muttering my way up to the border control at the summit of the pass.

It all just felt so… stupid.

Working hard is one thing. Working hard for something you don’t want is another. I wasn’t ready to leave the Pamirs. Sure, this had by far been the most demanding leg of the journey, and my body was in desperate need of some proper rest. But more than any of that this had also been the number one experience I had had in my life.

I had truly found my thing, and life among the clouds had been so much better than I had ever dared to even dream of. And now it was all coming to an end. I was headed back towards civilisation.

Paved roads. Fresh food. Warmth. Beds. Even showers. All great things!

But I had found greater ones.

Of course. It’s not like I was about to step across the border only to suddenly find myself on sea level, standing in the middle of a crowded shopping mall with a Starbucks cup in my hand. The opposite really, as Kyrgyzstan is known to hold some of the best mountain adventures the world has to offer, be it by foot, bicycle or from the back of a horse.

I knew this. But in some way it still felt symbolic to get that exit stamp and – together with by travel buddies Karin & Fritz – head on down the other side of the pass.

One thing is for sure though. It’s difficult to stay grumpy when you’re welcomed by this:

And when I still wasn’t smiling big enough, the adventure Gods quickly decided to send down a welcoming committee that would take care of the rest.

Two high fives later – and I was back in game!

It’s not like I ever said that I’m an adult!

Lucikly I realised how absurd it would be not to enjoy the awaiting 3 day ride down to Osh. We still had some great passes between us and the city, and more importantly – a 3 000+ meter descent.

Bye bye Pamirs! See you next time.

My seasons this year have been extreme. I experienced a spring on steroides as I rolled south through Europe. A summer unlike any other, wrapped from head to toe in 40 degree Iran. Then in the up to 50 degree desert of Turkmenistan. And before I had even had time to cool down, I was camping next to snowcapped mountain tops and waking up to an in tent temperature around – 5 °C.

As we made our way down the high mountains, the climate was no longer extreme. It was still werid though, as the seasons now kind of came in the wrong order. I had gone from high summer to immediate winter, and now rolled straight into… autumn?

A lot had happened while we were gone

Maybe that hat look funny to you, but in Kyrgyzstan they are totally stylish

Kyrgyzstan is the land of horses and apparently not only according to the travel guides. Everywhere we looked people were living up to the Kyrgyz stereotype in great style.

We enjoyed our last few passes. Something which of course was easily done as a 300-500 meter climb would be rewarded with stuff like this:

Loosing altitude and peeling layers

And then – we came to Osh. The second biggest city of the country and one of the big hubs among Central Asia travelers. After a few days rest Karin & Fritz continued north, and after spending almost an entire month of eating, sleeping, cycling and… surviving together – it was one of the more difficult goodbyes I’ve had since leaving home.

Our routes from here are complete opposites. They are flying to India to then make their way along Eastern China to Japan. I’m going straight for China and will stick as far West as the police will let me. But who knows. Maybe, maybe – we will bump into each other somewhere in South East Asia.

(Adventure Gods? Please?)

While they headed North, I didn’t go anywhere. I couldn’t. Because my Chinese visa was still being processed.

…In Stockholm.

I won’t go over the details of the how’s and why’s, but in the end I was stuck in Osh for almost three weeks.

Or well. For one week I was there completely voluntarily. Hanging out with fellow travellers and eating shashlik like there was no tomorrow. I was this lady:

Maybe only with less gold in my mouth

The 2nd week, things started getting itchy. It was all still OK, but still not really. Something like these guys:

The 3rd week, I was climbing on the walls. My passport had been sent ages ago, but it simply refused to show up. This year, the three big national holidays of China and Kyrgyzstan were taking place with horrible timing, all lining up just after each other.

I’ll skip the details, but basically this meant that the borders between the countries would only be open during a 2 or 3 day window within a 3 week peiod. And if my passport didn’t arrive in time – I would miss it.

Day by day I could feel myself turning into…

…whoever you think is more miserable. The man, or his sheep about to be slaughtered.

What happened?

Well, we all know how it works by now. Just as my last hope was crumbling down – BOOM!.

Yeah, that’s right – our beloved Adventure Gods stepped in for the rescue! Sure, this was a rescure that included a whole lot of practicalities, stress, rushed cycling and funny situations I really hope to tell you about some day.

But this was basically what happened.

1) My long lost box including my passport & Chinese visa showed up

2) I was cycling like a mad woman towards the Irkeshtam border to China

So, so happy to be able to get across in time. But not without regret for having to rush past a landscape like this way too quickly. I guess you can’t always have it all.

It’s funny isn’t it? For weeks I’d been so desperate to get the heck out of the country and into China. But now when I finally got the chance to do just that, I kind of didn’t want to? Gosh. Sometimes I really feel like smacking some sense into myself.

But then again. Sensible is probably the last thing one wants be on a trip like this.

So for now, I’m leaving myself unsmacked.

Fredrika

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

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

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

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

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

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

This however.

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

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

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

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

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

She…

–

Oh.

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

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

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

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

Two girls and their bicycles

All the best,

Fredrika

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

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