The border crossing from Turkiye to Greece set the tone for the last country. Lined the bike behind the cars, passport stamped and I was on my way. I headed down to Alexandroupolis on the Aegean Coast. The municipal camp was still open with a camp site beside the beach, and a restaurant to save me from the staple pasta and tinned fish diet. My neighbours were a fellow cyclist from UK and a Moroccan motor cyclist, who kindly delivered some key supplies.

I quickly adjusted the GPS course to hug the Aegean Coast for as far as I could. The narrow twisty lines on the map turned into rough gravel. Gravel frees the mind from the metrics of the ride, taking the focus off the GPS (how far, how long, where next) to focus on the lines across the gravel. Time flies as do the kilometres. The deep blue sea draws the eyes to the unfolding coastline. 

Ahead were a group of people off the road. Amateur archeologists. There was obvious excitement in the group. The meticulous rhythm of sifting through the dig probably running a little faster than normal. I noticed they had uncovered a full cellar of intact amphoras. I asked if I could taste the wine, stoney stares indicated they hadn’t got the joke. I was in Greece with thousands of years history buried everywhere.

My target for the day was foiled by two big climbs, one away from the coast and the second back out. Fortunately found a bed in the village of Xilgani, a short walk to the square allowed a change to my new staple diet of squid and Greek salad plus pizza for carbs.

I noticed the road verges and bush alongside were covered in thousands of while fluffy balls, far too early for snow. I was in the middle of cotton harvest. Huge truck loads of newly harvested cotton started to share my quiet road. Once I got to the hills, the same thing was happening with olive harvest. Huge fine mesh nets spread out around the trees, and mechanical tree-shakers dropping ripe olives onto the nets.

Another dirt track connected me to the road into Delta Nestor National Park and Lake Vistonida. I followed the causeway across a heron sanctuary of real beauty and was treated to formations of thousands of migrating herons flying south. The day ended in Xanthi, a big town which fortunately had a well stocked bike shop allowing me to replace my second back tyre which had given up the the battle with hundreds of thorn holes. Tubeless sealant is good, but 10,000 kilometres of constant hole-plugging had reached its limit (as had my supply of sealant). My brand new tyre rolled beautifully for the rest of the journey.

Back on the the Aegean Coast, villages were summer focussed so most where shuttered up for winter. Camping options were limited. I hit Mirtafitu very ready to stop peddling and saw a sign for a restaurant. I stopped and walked around the front to a grassy courtyard leading down to the sea. Hrsoula emerged from her room. No the place was closed for the winter. “Would you like a coffee”. She must have noticed my eyes drifting back to the smooth grass under the olive trees. “You can put your tent there, use the restaurant kitchen and bathroom” my generosity angel was still at my back. Probably my best equiped camp site of the trip.

I avoided the big city of Thessaloniki in a big loop to the north, ending in Alexandreia. The diversion was cycling joy though rolling country on quiet roads. I was about to get a further morale boost, when my sister Andrea and husband Des interrupted their own European trip to meet up with me in Platykampos. After months on my own, meeting my sister in a totally out of context setting was weird but wonderful.

The final leg was headed south with a short ferry hop onto the Long Island of Euboea. Euboea has a sharp mountainous spine which the road winds backwards and forwards over multiple times. The flatter road around the coast was closed with roadworks. As I zoomed down after the first big climb my generosity angel had spotted a 2 star hotel in Rovies. Cheap bed was my first thought. I arrived at Rodi Boutique hotel and realised It had a galaxy more stars than two. Evaggellia was the leading one, a hostess with extraordinary empathy. As I drank coffee and ate apple cake she was sharing my story with multiple friends over the phone. I guessed from the look of the wine selection alone that my entire Greek travel budget could disappear in a night. I choked back tears when she gave me a room for nothing. Both she and her friends offered genuine power to my cause with their comments. Good people.
Euboea was not going to let me off lightly on the bike, but climbs and gusty winds on the hills lead down to classic pretty villages on the coast. I looked down at the last, Marmari was that tiny dot on the map that months ago I had planned as my finish point. It hit me suddenly that I had done the job. Finished.

The celebration was enhanced when I was met by my other sister Sheryl who had flown out from London to meet me off the ferry. She and husband Bill completed the special celebration with a long time friend Sophia and her sister Peggy in the Acropolis Restaurant. Joy and a classic Greek red to toast a lifetime journey.

My original estimate was 11,000 kilometres. I was close.

Riding through Kavali on the Aegean Coast

Aegean Coastline near Mesimvira

Lake Vistonida

Cotton “snow” on the road

From acres of cotton fields

Ferry from Glyfa to the island of Euboea

Leaving the final camp at Marmari

The finish line at Marmari ferry

Farewell Marmari

Two of my generosity angels

The words of Kemal Ataturk above show the power of healing after war. An inspirational leader streaks ahead of the mindless war lords of today. The ANZAC site was powerfully emotional for me. Book history turned to stark reality. So many lessons still not learnt. As I sat in the small Shell Green cemetery, the ironic roar of fighter jets above.

“Silent stretches of riding alone punctuated with people and connections” As my daughter Karen eloquently put it. The distances in Turkiye have made more of the long silent stretches, but I enjoy ending up in small villages, tiny narrow alleys, lots of bright colour and the odd motor scooter at full Speed down the narrow alley to practice quick side steps. I have ridden from east to west across the entire country, but ending on the peninsular which is closely tied to New Zealand.

Eceabat is the perfect place to rest and look back. Quiet, peaceful, water all around, an ancient stone hotel right above the water. Sealant crammed into the rear tyre with vain hope that it will last the last thousand kilometres. Liman Restaurant has provided fresh squid and a beer every night.

The people of Turkiye have been unfailing friendly, but also with a sense of self contentment.  Life is good. Groups gather in cafes for endless delicate curved glasses of tea, time rolls by no need for rush. Probably it is the country where I have most missed knowledge of local language. My one new word a day doesn’t cut it here. 

I have enjoyed the country unfolding from the seat of the bike. From the frenetic Black Sea coast, to the mountain passes, high barren wind-farm rolling hills to the classic Mediterranean feel along the Marmara Sea Coast. Just a short hop to my final border.

Classic farm houses 

Endless roadside stalls always with the cay (tea) brewing

Always tempted to Lokum (Turkish Delight) and a classic coffee

Above 

The spectacular Canakkale 1915 Bridge​ and below Canakkale waterfront

Lone Pine cemetery 

Turkish Cemetery 

Ataturk briefing his new section commander

Chunk Bair trenches

The impossible terrain up from ANZAC Cove

Turkish and New Zealand monuments Chunuk Bair

Down the Black Sea coast the nature of the ride has changed markedly. The only route is the highway squeezed between Black Sea Coast and the Pontic mountains rearing immediately up from the coast. Towns are also squashed into the mountain slopes and isolated from the sea by the highway barriers. No chance here for Mediterranean style villages on the sea shore. The only access is steep steel stairways across the highway or dark overgrown underpasses. Options for camping have been limited, so cheap Otels have been the base for the last few days. Fortunately the summer season has all but ended so room rates are typically halved.

Having said that the highway is not too busy and verges are a full lane for cycling, every town has good cycleway around the seafront so cycling has been comfortable and safe. That is apart from the many tunnels where the noise level is intense. Fortunately many have service road by passes around the seaward side, so I have managed to avoid the longer tunnels. With almost constant tail wind and flat surfaces the rides have been a cruise, with interruptions only caused by great looking cafes.

Riding the coast is a little unnerving knowing that across on the northern shore the Ukraine war is raging. This coast is an escape for many Russian tourists on late summer vacations. I was heartened to meet a Russian immigrant from the Far East Kamchatka Peninsular (home of the Siberian tiger). He had left Russia in response to the war - despite being as far away the trouble as it is possible to get in Russia.  We met a couple of times on the road as he headed back to his new home in Batumi.

The coast has been fascinatingly busy. Fleets of trawlers line the horizon. A large number of fish farms also dot the coast.  Surprisingly many produce trout, I discovered that the sea has relatively low saline levels allowing trout to thrive. Seafront villages constantly line the route, houses perched high up the sides of the steep slopes. Narrow streets and colourful bazaars clammer for attention. Findik (hazelnuts) dry in great areas of every car park, a huge export market for Turkey.

Highway riding and hotel accomodation has limited interaction along the way. I have become a bicycle tourist, not enough Turkish for decent conversation so I am looking forward to my route ahead on smaller roads with a chance to choose a campsite in some beautiful spot and people more disconnected from their phones

Thousands of trucks line the route waiting to cross the Georgia border

Beautiful mosques are a feature of every town

Heading into Gorele

Classical modern architecture - complemented by the not-so-modern

Cycleways through every town

The Georgia bear was a little more tired than his Canadian counterpart

The jump from Samarkand to Tbilisi Georgia was forced by difficult/closed borders into Turkmenistan and Azerbaijan which was always on the plan. So after a day of stitching two small bike boxes together with cable ties and reams of packing tape I was ready to fly. Two days later the bike box and I arrived into Tbilisi airport safely together. I had pretty much finished reassembling the bike when I noticed the front wheel wouldn't turn a full rotation. The front brake disc rotor was horribly bent. Something had penetrated the bike box with such force it had burred the head of one of the rotor bolts. I muttered something about airline baggage handlers then got to work. Three hours gentle metal work gradually put the rotor back into the millimetre perfect shape required (after a trip to a nearby hardware store for vice grips and two steel rulers - perfect tools for straightening disc rotors).

On the road again quickly out of Tbilisi city traffic Georgia began to captivate me. Leafy tree lined roads, ancient stone and steel cottages with a river glimpsed through the trees. No long run corrugated iron here, this was 6mm heavy rusted steel plate.  The villages had rough rustic character, not pretty but continually interesting. 

I had revised my route to link up a series of camps I had found from various sources. First day followed the river Kura into Dzegri, a tiny village on the wine trail. Google maps lead me on the most convoluted back lane path to an unmarked steel gate. Underneath the gate I could see the noses of 4 Alsatian dogs, I timidly knocked on the gate, immediately drowned out by the Alsatian chorus. At that moment Dimitri, the owner and winemaker pulled up in his vehicle with son Michaele. “No the camp is not open yet, you need to ring in advance”.

Within moments the tone had softened to “Please come inside and rest I will ring a neighbour who may have a bed”. Then another quick shift as Dimitri looked at my load “Do you have a tent?”. Minutes later the tent was parked under the laden fruit trees in the little vineyard/orchard courtyard.  By the time my tent was up, Marina, Dimitri’s Russian wife had laid a small spread for afternoon tea, cheese, bread, grapes, jam, yoghurt, and a large red wine. Dimitri produces 20 wines under the brand of Bantle wine, very good wines. I tasted 6, including a beautiful sweet dessert wine and a cherry liqueur. I was quite happy.

The winery itself looked chaotic, with blue plastic barrels, huge glass bottles and various chemistry lab instruments. Dimitri lifted a lid on the floor to reveal huge urn like cavities containing 2000 litres of new harvest each. Despite my 6 glass tasting, I  could see a lot of passion and expertise at work.

Next morning I was up early and had just cleaned my billy after cooking my usual oats and nuts, when Marina arrived with breakfast. Fortunately I have no problems when food appears as the daily bike burn takes care of anything I can eat.

My ride through Georgia continued to follow the Kura River deeper and deeper into a narrow twisting gorge dotted with villages on the steep banks on either side. Small swing bridges connect the far side of the river at each village. I camped at Gori then Borjomi on the edge of the Borjomi Nature Reserve.

A stomach parasite took the edge off the next few days, including a gnarly climb to the top of the 2000 metre plus Goderdzi Pass. A group of lightly loaded Italian riders passed me on the climb, and started a series of leap-frog meetings on the road all the way to Batumi on the Black Sea coast. It lightened the days with a bit of international banter and fun.

The descent from Goderdzi Pass well and truely deserves its place on the list of the world’s most dangerous roads. It started innocently enough with new smooth seal in sweeping zig-zags. The seal ended, the road narrowed, in places to a truck width (as long as you didn’t mind a couple of wheels hanging over the edge). The edge plunged at least 1000 metres down a steep valley, chunks of the outer edge simply dropped into nothingness. Heavy water runoff frequently gushed down the centre of the road, churned into deep soupy mud. Roadworks and workers lined the entire route with trucks jammed into impossibly tight passing bays. Cranes lifted heavy concrete blocks over my head as I rode past. But the real danger was the people mover Mercedes’ vans, drivers with chronic impatience, thumbs glued to the horn overtaking inside outside, intimidating oncoming drivers with a burst of speed to clear a path. Sometimes there simply wasn’t a path so drivers would sit tooting and yelling until someone backed out. I was saved when two big articulated trucks heavily loaded with reinforcing steel simply couldn’t make it up a very steep hump. Traffic from both sides quickly came to a stop, and I was able to cruise quietly round the edges to enjoy a pure mountain bike descent.

As the valley widened below the pass, a real tourist buzz kept locals busy with rafting, high zip wires, food and coffee. A beautiful scenic area. Reaching Batumi at the shores of the Black Sea was a milestone of 100 days riding and over 8000 kilometres covered. It also coincided with another meeting with the Italian riders, who elevated the celebration for me. For them a week of cycling over, for me two countries to go.

I found the Georgian people a little more reserved and self contained, especially after Uzbekskistan. Tourists on bikes don’t raise an eyebrow or warrant a selfie. There is a strong anti-European (EU and NATO) political movement. Posters line every village wall (elections are in November). Anti-European also means a pro-Moscow move “for prosperity” says the poster rhetoric. Individually, as my experience in the winery showed, people are still essentially good generous and open.

Riding alongside the Kura River into wine country

Typical village lanes

A lot of these old Soviet trucks are still on the road

I love the elegant simplicity of Georgia script

Swing bridges connecting villages up the Kura River Gorge

Celebrating arrival at Batumi on the Black Sea coast with the Italian riders

Crossing the border into Uzbekistan hit me with a sense of definitely being in a different country. All my other border crossings have been through remote border outposts, no hint of the change in culture language or people other than brief interaction with  border officials. The Osh border is in the middle of the city and the Uzbek side hustles with an airport bazaar. My sense was a gentler feel, a familiarity which I attributed to the sudden change from crylic alphabet. I could read the letters if not the language.

The ride out towards Andijon was on busy highway, and most of my ride through Uzbekistan was limited by the narrow corridor between the Tajikistan and Kazakhstan borders. My initial attempt plotting a route towards Samarkand were foiled by two non-international Tajik border crossings.

My second day finished at the foot of the high pass heading into Tashkent. I didn't have the energy to tackle the pass so stopped at a local store for a drink and mull over options. The storekeeper kept me enterained with some fun interaction, gradually gathering a small crowd of local men. The small crowd gathering where ever I stopped, became a theme of Uzbekistan. A few days later I stopped to cook breakfast unknowingly outside a school. Until the two teachers eventually dispersed the crowd I was surrounded and bombarded with questions.

Back at the store I had noticed a environmental reserve down the road which looked like camping territory. I had just headed off when two park Rangers pulled alongside. Within minutes I was set up to camp in the park office, which was used for the night shift officer to sleep. By the time I had unpacked, the officer had arranged a shower with neighbour's across the road and fresh bread from another neighbour. My shower hosts were delightful people, with the daughter training to be an English teacher delegated as translator, I discovered her mother was also a teacher. Another brief encounter but rich in simple generosity and courtesy.

Next morning I headed up the climb to the Kamchik Pass, slowly in the heat. Ahead I could see a big toll gate structure, buzzing with Police. I was immediately pulled aside "no cycles allowed over the pass, you need to get transport". I had barely finished my pleas with the officer when his colleagues had pulled over an empty van. Protest over the bike was bundled into the back of the van. My driver was as hyper as the other traffic on the road. Music blaring, Uzbek, Russian, Kazakh, Turkish, beats across most of central Asia. Periodically my phone would be commandeered to translate another question. A fun but hair raising ride, however the long dark tunnels at the top would have been a huge risk on the bike, so I was marginally safer.

The road to Samarkand was a forgettable brush with continuous heavy and noisy traffic. Then into Samarkand itself. Off the busy highway into whisper quiet ancient narrow twisting streets, ending at the traditional guest house I had found just a short walk from the famous Registan Square. Everything about the majesty and architectural beauty of the mosques and monuments exceeded expectations, despite my reluctance to be a "real" tourist. But the bonus for me was the historic charm of the guest house itself and the sense of history in the twisting lanes as I wandered in fascination.

Beautiful bread at every stop

The vibrant market immediately across the Uzbek border

Somas became a lunch regular

My slightly quirky hotel in Buka - a pity reception forgot to give my passport back on checkout

Leaving Jizzax and a rapid transition into desert

Courtyard of my beautiful old Samarkand guesthouse

History and beautiful architecture of Samarkand

​Kyrgyzstan (above following the Kyrgyz horses into Osh)

Many hours in the Tararuas in my early days taught me never to trust alpine weather. Those peaks were 1500 to 1700 metres. In high country which has the highest peak north of the Himalayas (7400m) Kyrgyzstan has that effect amplified. Sitting in my cowshed camp at nearly 3000 metres, it was spectacular watching the storm sweep up the valley which minutes earlier had been bathed in sunshine. The temperature plummeted 20 degrees and visibility dropped to 20 metres. Ahead was an even higher pass with a 200 kilometre off road trail with much of it over 3500 metres. For once wisdom prevailed over stubbornness and next morning I did my first U-turn. The downhill blast back down to Lake Issyk Kul was a fast blast, with sprays of mud from the heavy rain.

My first impressions crossing into Kyrgyzstan had been set by the easy border crossing, requiring nothing but a stamp in the passport and a “Welcome to Kyrgyzstan”. The main road towards Karakol  set the tone for the hard roads ahead. Fifteen degree slope over gravel the size of small boulders. An unfortunate young boy was directed by his Mum to lend a hand. Two kilometres of hard pushing earnt him a cake of chocolate and my very grateful thanks (he was not so happy with his Mum when they collected him in a creaky old Lada at the top of the climb).

Kyrgyzstan also has discovered tourists (or vice-versa). After encountering 3 cyclists in the previous 6000 kilometres, I met 5 on my first day. A French/German couple had been on the road for 3 years. They offered a lot of good advice for my route ahead ( including a useful note that a couple of roads on my route didn’t exist). Karakol was a shock, from being sole tourist I was now amongst hundreds. Karakol has become a centre for hiking and dozens of groups were coming or going from various hikes in the area. Tourist talk abounded, have you been there, you must see this.

I found excellent food in Karakol to supplement the daily pasta and canned fish. Lighthouse Cafe was also congregation point for passing tourists including a Belgium couple. They were able to solve the first of my Tajikistan permit problems with a credit card that worked on the government e-visa site. The conversation also resulted in a reroute over the 3800 metre Arabella pass (boldly attempted but resulting in the U turn described above). The final route used a 3020m pass but at least on a tarmac surface. Enjoyed a few days cycling the shores of Lake Issyk Kul, where I added two Belarusian cyclists to my growing list of cycling nationalities.

I arrived in Naryn in time to coincide with the international Silk Road bike packing race. Unfortunate to miss Kiwi Joe Nation who eventually won the race, but encountered a number of drop outs from this incredibly tough race.

From Naryn to Osh believe it or not the road had two huge passes to conquer. On the first I was lucky enough to find a sheltered camp site half way up with magnificent evening and morning views. Midway between the passes was Kazarman which had a guest house whose owner assured me he had driven the main highway to OSH 5 times on “good road”. Off I set on another route diversion. I began to get nervous with almost no traffic on the route. I stopped a downward headed car and the driver assured me “OK to Osh” (at least thats what I took from the Russian/sign-language exchange). Four hours of climbing later I was confronted by a very aggressive road worker, this time there was no uncertainty, road closed turn around and go on the gnarly dirt pass road. The compensation was the flying 40 kilometre downhill that fooled my track followers into believing I had jumped on a truck.

The next climb was hampered by stomach problems and slipping gears in the 3 vital lowest ratios. Seven kilometres from the summit I was reduced to a slow walk and gladly accepted a ride to the top. The day ended in a beautiful bush camp, sheltered from the strong wind if not the rain. Two days later I emerged onto the plain leading to Jalal Abad and onto Osh. Landscape turned very urban. In Jalal Abad I had a long pleasant conversation with a local welder. Great to have Google translate to have a little depth in a conversation with no common language, although I am beginning to remember some Russian.

Kyrgyzstan has been impacted by tourism. There is a noticeable increase in cost for similar accomodation I have stayed. Local children have picked up some habits (blocking the road asking for chocolate or money and most dangerous, little ones grabbing at handlebars). Fundamentally the people have been kind and generous, with a sense of fun. On Monday I cross the border to Uzbekistan.

First morning Kyrgyzstan

Lake Issyk Kul

And the mist rolls in towards Arabela Pass

Following the lake shore on route option 2

A very empty Otta Tokay reservoir on the way to Kochkor

Donkey corner on the climb over the pass to Naryn

Nomad Kyrgyz stalls along the gorge leading into Naryn

Racing some friends down the Naryn River valley

Camp sunrise  Naryn River valley

Kazarman babushkas

Andijan Reservoir across the Uzbekistan border approaching Osh

Beautiful park camp heading into Osh

And into Osh city

Kazakhstan

As I was riding on the vast plain across Altyn-Emel National Park I was wondering how I could keep the word “generosity” out of the next blog. I rode into the small not-so-well-known village of Altynemel and spotted a store. Not the usual village rough building, but a well laid out well stocked store. Run by a big Russian Kazakh, he was listening to the explanation of my ride to a group of boys, keen to practice their English. I meanwhile was filling my basket for a full five day restock. I got to the counter offering a fistful of Kazakh tenge notes. He waved his arm, “a gift”. Two hundred metres down the street I heard the “ting” on my phone of an infrequent 4G connection. I grabbed the opportunity to message my daughter Julie. Meanwhile across the road unnoticed a young boy was called by his mother. He arrived at my bike with a bag of freshly baked bread and filled croissants. They were a welcome supplement to the nightly pasta and tinned fish.

So no, the word generosity continues. It is a tribute right down the country to the people who just give to strangers. There were other highlights such as being offered the run of the local government office to “camp” for the night. Real fun interaction over the “tea” that magically appeared.

After so much vast open space it was a welcome change to experience the larger city of Taldykoran for a day. A well laid out city with a beautiful central square. I rode in tired and hot with a list of city type catch ups to do. As I stopped, looking for a bike shop a young Russian electrician rode up on his bike. He lead me around the city to the bike shop, then to a bank, finally to a cafe where I was able to shout him lunch (despite his protests). Despite his good intentions I was glad to break away for other necessary basics like washing 6 days dust off.

The hotel also gave a opportunity to talk to two guys from the Kazakh Central Bank. They were returning from a trip to China looking at ways of addressing the imbalance of trade value between the two countries. The bottom line was the raw goods (esp coal and agricultural products) were being sold too cheaply. They also talked about the difficulties the Ukraine war was putting on the relationship with their other major trading partner, Russia. Just another unique opportunity to hear the real big issues of the country.

The north of Kazakhstan had a flood of families heading to their favourite lakes, especially Lake Alakol. But for me it was watermelon time. The family road trips inevitably required a couple of the huge watermelon from the countless roadside stalls. Breakfast time, around nine am, required a family picnic by the roadside. By that stage I had been on the road for a couple of hours and the heat was reaching peak 39 degrees. I knew if I rode slowly enough past the picnic the watermelon would appear. 39 degree heat and big juicy slices of water melon are a perfect combination. I now feature in a couple of hundred family holiday selfie shots, beard dripping with watermelon.

South of Kazakhstan, I noticed a shift in language, from pure Kazakh to a larger mix of Russian and Kazakh. I adjusted my greeting to try and cover both, badly, so the usual response was “hello”. The only link to the south was the main Highway so it was a relief to head out of Taldykoran on a more minor road into Altyn-Emel National Park, with hard riding rewarded with spectacular scenery.


The south also offered an opportunity to experience Urghur hospitality with in-laws of a friend from my Africa ride. When we compared pension payments (USD 340 per month), Mukhitdin ruefully noted that Kazakhstan was a rich country with poor people. The couple were both teachers at the local school, and I was lucky enough to have the English teacher, Mukhitdin’s brother, to translate.  An evening walk also took us past a local wedding celebration, with music generated from 5 huge (2.5 metre) trumpets and drums. 


The final gift from Kazakhstan was the simple and friendly border crossing. The bags stayed on the bike for the first time and I was welcomed into Kyrgyzstan with a glance at my passport and the thump of a stamp.

Typical country in the north east steppes

Classic village scene

Hundreds of earthen jet bunkers approaching Taldykoran

A change from the dry steppes coming into the city of Taldykoran

Beautiful town square Taldykoran

Finally a campsite with natural water high in Altyn-Emel National Park

Rock formations on the downhill blast out of the park

Two new friends leading me to the local store and sharing a slice of fresh melon from their load

Village on the way to make my Uyghur connection

Mobile bee keeper living beside his hives

First morning in Kyrgyzstan 

One of the many welcoming family groups along the way

From Mongolia the crossing into China again had a strange feel. I was aware that the region had a reputation for strict checking on free-roaming tourists so I was determined to stick to hotel-only rules (despite having set an unrealistic schedule to cover over 300 kilometres in two days to reach my VISA-designated hotels).

I bowled into the tiny border town of Takashiken for the first night, paid my yuan for the night, checked my cash supply and realized I needed a bank or ATM before the next hotel (my backup payment options of Wechat or Alipay had disappeared with my lost phone).

Morning saw ever decreasing circles around Takashiken looking for a bank or ATM, terminating in the desperate search for the "glass shop in the market which may be able to change US dollars". No luck.

Google maps had registered a China Post "bank"110 kilometres away in a small village on the road to Qinqhe. Head down, fingers crossed I barrelled through barren Gobi until I came to the tiny settlement. Two boys on bikes guided me to the China Post. Post only, no bank.

With darkness falling my only option was a well hidden free camp. I spotted a small herd of camels up a narrow twisting valley.  The camp was peaceful and perfect, with a small herd of horses grazing nearby.

As I rode out next morning I realized I had two options: 1 to head south to the major city Urumqi, or 2 to free camp and hope for water. 

Then Karma slipped into place in the form of two touring bikes headed towards me. Belinda and Tizian German bike tourers heading for Mongolia. I had the remains of my Mongol cash, they had yuan, problem solved. I had enough supplies and the yuan covered water costs to the Kazakhstan border. My mood lifted.

Along with my mood the whole geography of the Xinjiang began to change. The huge Kalasuke Resevoir began feeding water changing desert brown to green. Huge fields of sunflowers appeared. The border to the Beitun county area had a large modern transport rest stop and shop. I sat in the shade with a dozen or so cold drinks. Local families lined up for selfies and to hear my story. I could hear X?nx?lán being repeated at other tables (probably the only Chinese word I got to pronounce recognisably).

Beitun itself was a pretty town. Not only did it have an ATM but a wonderful lady in the China Agricultural Bank who had a friend in the Bank of China who could also get me Kazakh tenge. Follow me she shouted as she took off in her car unaware of the limited acceleration of a heavily loaded bike. 3 hours of China Bank paperwork later I was cashed up in all necessary currencies.

Then I struck the gem of the region Burqin. The huge green river and tall trees caught me by surprise. Old buildings, wide roads bustling with markets had a feel of unique character and isolation to the rest of the region. I stood in the market looking obviously lost and more obviously foreign. The nearest stall holder took me under her wing, left her stall and walked a couple of blocks to a local hotel. The family were eating dinner in their courtyard. Join us. I did, trying to disguise my raging hunger by dropping several sets of chopsticks on the ground.  I fell into conversation with the hostess. We quickly made a connection that transcended the lack of common language. She was a writer of children's developmental books (one of which is China Posting its way to Otaki). 

Reluctantly I headed out next day on my final leg to the Kazakhstan border. My carefully plotted GPS route was quashed by a road diversion which required me to quickly memorize the Chinese characters for my destination.

The remote border crossing from Jeminay to Kazakhstan was an Alice-through-the-looking glass experience. One side was the tidy border town of Jeminay the other side was the bare dusty wasteland of the China Kazakhstan no-mans-land. 

The desert continued for 30 hot remote kilometres on the Kazakhstan side until a tiny village oasis appeared. In the village one tiny shop and a happy rosey faced Kazakh woman looked at my pile of cold drinks and ice cream on the counter. She rang her daughter who spoke English. "Take this as a gift - welcome to Kazakhstan".

Another country, another gift, this journey keeps on giving.

The dam at the head of the Kalasuke Reservoir 

Character buildings in Burqin

And my great Burqin hotel

The Police checks in Xinjiang were friendly with selfies for every officer

Wake-up scene from my tent first morning in Kazakhstan

Welcome Restday in Zaysan

​Across the Gobi

After Altai the gaps between water supplies got bigger. On the stretch heading out of Altai two guys were stranded with their truck broken down. They had rigged a shelter from the heat with scaffolding they were carrying, but their water supply was finished.  I had a moments hesitation before handing over one of my 1.5 litre bottles. I had encountered so much generosity on the road it was impossible to refuse. In that instant my camp out possibilities were reduced to one. I had to reach water on the next day.

The ger camp that night fortunately had a small store of drinks for sale. My dehydration level had crept up, it took 3 litres of fluid before the raging thirst subsided. With the resupply I knew I just had to get as close as possible to the next supply point, Darvi. The night didn’t play ball and I was taught a brutal lesson in the power of Gobi Desert storms. With the wide plain offering no shelter and a wind funnel between two mountain ranges stretching for 200 kilometres, the wind could play havoc.  With my tent flattened to the ground, everything was initially sandblasted. The rain quickly followed. The only option was shelter under a culvert in the road. An uncomfortable night huddled in my survival blanket. Plus side I was safe and warm.

With another storm on its way through, I took shelter in a small cabin in Darvi and set about camping out for double meals in the restaurant that flooded with patrons with each bus load heading to Nadam festivals around the country. Also flooding the road was a convoy of support vehicles for the huge “Silk Way” rally which had just come down through the Russian border. The Lada lead driver had several support vehicles. Fortunately the rally route itself was out on the fringing dirt roads.

From Darvi I had 400 kilometres of pure Gobi. I had opted to cut off the highway heading south through the huge Kushuutin coal mine. The road turned immediately to corrugations and bog.  The storms had sent volumes of water down from mountains, the road had the appearance and surface of a stream bed. A front end loader was struggling to make a path to allow the trucks stranded at the top to move down. More than once I paused to consider turning back. The climb continued at a slow grind.

At the top, I was rewarded with the view down a magnificent valley.  Far across the other side huge walls of cut coal faces towered over the tiny industrial settlement. I raced down into the valley to another pleasant surprise, the road turned to good seal, a path to the Chinese Border for the huge convoy of coal trucks camped down the valley. Another huge bonus was the 5 day Nadam festival holiday which kept all those trucks off the road.

I celebrated the end of that day with a downhill swoop into the tiny village of Tseleg - where a small boy was able to show me to a “hotel”. Sharing the hotel was a family and after breakfast the two sisters crowded into my room to show me photos of the local Nadam festivities, and their climb of the nearby sacred mountain, covered in deep snow. 

Next day was all climbing, I stopped for lunch at the second summit (a few metres short of Mount Ruapehu height at 2795 metres). The campsite for the night was protected by an ancient circular rock corral. My water worries were also alleviated by a fast running stream carrying snow melt from the recent storms.

The last long desert stretch landed me in the small town of Uyench, and this morning I had the company of a young boy riding the 42 kilometres to school in Bulgan, my rest day destination before crossing the border back into Chinas far west. My young friend left me with a promise that in 5 years time he will have achieved his dream of becoming an engineer.

The climb into Khushuutiin Mines was a challenge

Safe campsite in ancient rock stock yard

Gnarly Gobi mountains

Fast ride down a valley with fresh snow melt water

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Lunch stop between climbs

Climb to the height of the highest mountain in North Island New Zealand 2795 metres

Gobi ger camp

A quick ride to school across the desert

Sacred mountain at the entrance to Bulgan

Leaving Ulaanbaatar solo again had mixed feelings. Our base at Eagle Town appartments had been a comfortable one, complete with washing machine to deal with 8 days of dust and dirt on clothes that could stand upright with a sort of cardboard texture. It was a chance to meet with the National Cancer Council people in Sukhbaatar Square, with a media interview with the CEO Tsegi. A strong and busy woman who was also running for Mongolian parliament. Future bike packing charity events certainly have a challenging course to tempt the adventurous. Hopefully we have started the ball rolling for them.

Out on the road I felt the freedom of simply  riding at my own pace until a suitable campsite appeared. The road towards Kharkorin was busy, initially with Ulaanbaatar campers heading for peaceful gers in the areas west. Kharkorin had been on my original route for its unique history as a previous Mongolian capital, however my hasty reroute in Ulaanbaatar had failed to notice the 80 kilometres of mountain climbs into the town and 80 kilometres of rough dirt track back out. With a howling headwind on the day I made a decision to continue south west on the main route.

Thankfully after the Kharkorin turnoff traffic eased considerably. The weather provided routine thunderstorms and a few wet tent pack ups. After a few days of wet I discovered the ger motels, usually a rough restaurant building hiding three or four ger motels. Wet bike and gear could simply be rolled into the ger for complete shelter and a chance to dry out. Luxury. Usually the ger was accompanied by local children and a sheep or two to practice sign language with. Sign language with a four year old on her pink bike is pure fun, sheep are just thick.

Along the way I was hailed by a family working a large yard of ponies. Hand signals indicated a drink was on offer. The family crowded around as I was poured a large bowl of whitish liquid. No one else was joining me so I was on my own. A few gulps later and communication established I was drinking fermented mares milk, alcoholic enough to put me to sleep fairly quickly. The old host had a glint in his eye as he offered me more. With a stack of cycling miles still ahead I said my goodbyes and wobbled back to the road. Another experimental offering was a plate of yellow lard-like consistency which tasted like a slightly sweet solid yoghurt. Language never connected well enough to discover what I had eaten.

Arvaikheer was a surprise with a number of modern buildings and a well laid out city centre. The town is a base for many of the summer festivals. I also had a random conversation with a young woman escaping the bustle of Ulaanbaatar city life to spend time with family and revisit childhood riverside picnic spots. Well educated, with a Russian language degree, a local law degree and and MBA from Washington Science University where she worked three jobs to put herself through her studies. Unfortunately her study was in Covid times with unpleasant prejudice against “Chinese” in USA ( racial distinction too subtle for the average American). She left me with a deeper understanding of life in modern Mongolia and we shared a joint appreciation of the richness of experience in life. 

West from Arvaikheer, I connected water sources in Khairkhandulaan, Bayankhonger, Bombogor, Buutsagaan and yesterday Altai, the last major town before the true Gobi desert area. Khairkhandulaan was an eleven kilometre diversion on dirt, but provided a welcome break from main road trucking. The small village store had a welcoming owner with a good smattering of English. Small villages are the gems on such a journey - time is less material.

Since Arvaikheer the geography has been spectacular with climbs into barren mountains with piles of round boulders and jagged rocky peaks, sand dunes and red rock canyons. Each climb out leads to a plateau over 2000 metres where the typical gently rolling green country resumes. Scattered gers and herds of stock reappear ( now mostly sheep and goats with a few horse herds). Wildlife has included numbers of huge eagles (wishing for a long camera lens), a single skinny fox with wild flame orange fur, camels and small burrowing creatures which I always catch glimpses of around the tent. Elevation has ranged from 1700 to 2200 metres on this giant plateau so I have noticed the extra puff on the climbs.

Mentally the challenge has been to avoid the moods driven by conditions (constant wet cold or the numb battle against headwind). Headwinds I still lose the battle occasionally but the simple equation of food, sleep and hydration keep the balance. The reality is if you took your bike off the hook in the garage and rode any of these days you would reflect “that was a great ride”. Just have to join a few hundred such rides together.

Note: I have adopted the Mongolian term “ger” rather than the more Russian “yurt” or my misspelt “gur”

Departure from ​Sukhbaatar Square Ulaanbaarar

Ger motel

Welcome shelter between Buutsaagan and Altai (morning after the nightly storm)

Every ger has a cute visitor

…and not so cute

Lunch table yesterday