Barricades and kindness

"Go A-WAY" I screamed at the door separating me and some drunken Chinese men who had evidently heard that a 'laowai' was staying in the same bed-bug ridden guest house as them. Giggles from the other side then a rattling of the door handle. Fearing the construction of the door was as weak as the balsa wood scene set of a kung fu movie I grabbed the 1990's box television set. God, it's heavy. I ruminated over my pathetic budget; more money and I'm sure I could have had a room with a lighter-weight flat screen. Ahh but lighterweight flat screens aren't good for a barricade so stop complaining. Damn it's plugged in. Trying to balance the 10kg of tv set between my thigh and chin I fumbled behind the chipped dressing table. More giggles, more rattling then a "we make love" comment. I saw red. With that I yanked the tv set - wincing as the cable parted ways from the plug- and threw it against the door. What else can I use as a barricade I mulled then grabbed the end of the bed to pull it towards the door. The wood splintered and I was left standing with the end of the bed base in my hands. hmm.. glad I haven't paid a deposit for this room..

Oh for goodness sake what is the word for police. I dug out my iphone from the carnage of splintered wood, bits of tv set and duvet. Mandarin phrase book iphone app. hmm. "call the police". No no I need "I'll call the police". Foolishly I pressed the selection and my phone spoke to the men on the other side of the door. They laughed. I'm quite a placid person but when the adrenaline kicks in it, well, it kicks in. I hollered, I banged interspersed with random mandarin iphone generated phrases. Eventually the rice wine kicked in (or fear of mad woman on other side of door) and these men retreated to their rooms. Their fun over for the night while I slept restlessly with leatherman knife in hand.

Despite this mishap on my penultimate night  in China the ride through Yunnan province to the Laos border had been a delight. I'd had a tough time through China and I'm still reflecting on it.

The days in the desert in fierce cold had left their mark. Numb toes and damaged nerves to my feet still remain and I'm hoping it will pass. I'd met the kindest people and the most uncaring people.

I will never forget the gentleman that rescued me from the desert after I'd been trying to fix a puncture in -30'C. The water in my food bowl froze as I helplessly dipped in my inner tube trying to find the hole. My fingers froze to the rims of my wheel when trying to reinsert the poorly mended puncture (note. glue don't stick in those temperatures). I'd pitched my tent under a mobile phone mast and in the morning I woke and saw my tyre was flat again. Knowing I was still 2 days away from my destination I looked out onto the desert road. The day before I had tried to hitch to no avail. Noone would stop for me and fearing I was hypothermic with uncontrollable shaking, irrational thoughts, weakness ( the latter actually being not realising I'd been trying to cycle in a head wind with a flat tyre) I'd pitched my tent and tried to sort myself out.

I spotted a truck nearing me through the desert haze and I stood in the road and flagged it down. The most gentile Chinese man hopped out. I pointed to my bike and showed him the flat tyre. He shook his head in dismay. I could see his confusion and through sign language (not usually understood in China ) he learnt that yes I was alone in the desert and yes I had just slept under a mobile phone mast and yes I had cycled from the UK and yes I was bloody cold. We loaded my bike onto his truck and I climbed into the cab. He turned up the heating and watched me with concern until I began to thaw out, . He called everyone he knew and by the 6th phonecall with my limited Chinese and his gesticulations I understood: crazy, a woman, in desert, in winter, bike broken, on own, cycled from England. He drove me to a roadside cafe in a small village and there treated me to a meal of fried fish, dumplings. vegetables, fried beef, potatoes and rice and then ordered me seconds. He took me to the nearest town where he swapped his large truck for a small pick-up one and carefully transferred my bags and bikes from one to the other. He dropped me off on the corner of a street where men in peaked hats sat amongst an array of tubes, tyres and tools on the roadside. He signed 'no money', jumped back into the van and with a wave and a smile drove off.

 He reminded me of Horst, a gentleman in Switzerland who had helped me some 8 months earlier. The same quirkiness, the same concern and disbelief, the same horror looking at the state of me and my bicycle and the same kindness: wanting to help and wanting nothing in return.

Flight VN850: a tale of a hijacking

"Sorry for the lack of communication folks, but we have a hijacker on board"

I stop my gaze out the window at Saigon's spiderweb of lights beneath me and turn my head abruptly to the right.

"What did he say?" I whisper to my then boyfriend.

"I think he said hijacker" he replies staring intently ahead picking with one hand at a puckering of thread on the seat in front. He clasps my hand with the other.

We sit in silence, absorbed with our own thoughts and fear and wait for the next announcement.

Sometime later the intercom splutters to life again mirrored shortly after by the captain clearing his throat

"We are going to open the door of the plane. Please fasten your seatbelts tightly and please do not panic"

Hahahaha. Surely god.. someone.. please tell me this is a joke. Hijacker? Open the door of the plane? We'll die. We'll get sucked out. The plane will crash. Oh god I am actually going to die. Why am I feeling so calm? Blimey I hope I don't lose my front teeth when we crash land. Bizarre thoughts and airplane disaster films race through my mind and I turn towards Dan and grin "erm, now what do couples usually do at this point". He gives me a wry smile "Jill for goodness sa.." Fvutttphp!" WTF? and then another "Fvuttphp" and another and we watch in astonishment as our fellow passengers jerk in their seats and grow large yellow torsos. Aah lifejackets. What are you doing? Stop inflating them you idiots!  You inflate your life jacket when you're outside the plane about to go onto the slippery dip into the sea. Hold on.. we're circling over the land not the sea! Oh god I'm an extra in "Airplane"!

They must know something we don't: we lean forward and reach under the seat. Nothing. I laugh again.

You see Lonely Planet had advised all those years ago "whatever you do, do NOT fly with Vietnam air, even the people who service the Tupolevs refuse to fly on them. They've lost half their fleet etc" but the flight was cheap and Vietnam had just opened its doors again to independent travellers and I.. well.. I was on a budget.

The hijacker appears with the head steward tied on a rope and my stomach sinks with the plane as the door is opened..

He stands there at the door and I watch mesmorised as the green curtain separating first from second class twists and swirls, slaps and whips. The plane lurches forward, back, sideways and more life jackets are inflated. The green cape dances and lifts again. He's gone! Where is he? An elderly Vietnamese man gets out of his seat and bumbles towards the door, an air hostess grabs him by the waist and he sits there perched on her knee like a child on the naughty stair.

What is going on?

Time passes. I don't know how long. We hit the ground. Smooth.

 Silence

 "Get off the plane". The calm voice of our captain is no longer "Get off the plane as quickly as possible". A bomb? Two giant Russians with two large metal suitcases apiece block my way. "Please. GET OFF the plane. Now!" I turn to the air hostess shaking behind me. "Open the back door" I say. She's in shock. Gently then.. "Come on let's go and open the back door". Gently, gently does it... "NOW FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!" and finally there is a spark of acknowledgement and weeping she does. I don't know how I left the plane. I find Dan on the runway, in shock, at the tail. Staring up at the plane. I grab him and we jump on an airport bus that throws us off our feet as it accelerates towards the terminal.

Before I was placed under house arrest for being a suspect in the hijacking and after I had been given my sandal back which I had lost when climbing over the shoulders of the 2 giants with the metal suitcases I spoke to the captain. The hijacker was an overseas Vietnamese who had fought against the Viet Cong with the Americans. He had earlier in the day attempted to take a Thai military plane. As that failed he booked on to our flight and walked through Thai customs with a parachute on his back. He had taken a hostess hostage in first class with, I believe, a cheese wire to the throat. His mission: to distribute anti-communist propaganda leaflets over the city of Saigon. 

I learnt we survived our ordeal due to being on a borrowed Airbus 310 and not the ill- fated Tuploev. He had ended up being sucked out of the cockpit window (before which he'd informed the crew that there were 3 other hijackers onboard - hence my subsequent arrest for being a fellow non-communist..thanks mate! - and a bomb) which is where he'd disappeared to when I lost sight of him at the door. He survived, landed in a swamp, got beaten up by fishermen who thought he was stealing their nets, the military rescued him and then realised who he was so also beat him up. Got sentenced to 20 years. Released on an amnesty then went on to hijack a flight in Cuba. I believe he's now doing public speaking in the US and has his own Facebook page. I have since read reports that we were about to be shot out of the sky by the Vietnamese airforce but we all survived and lived happily ever after.

My house arrest along with 8 other westerners was okay as house arrests go. In the days before mobile phones, twitter, emails there is not much you can do apart from demand your passport back every hour and try and annoy the armed guard at your door as much as possible.

Some 18 hours later my passport was handed to me with an Indochinese smile "Welcome to Vietnam and have a nice trip". As I snatched it from the hand all I could think about was that I had to fly out of Vietnam from Hanoi to Vientiane using Vietnam Air and the notorious Tupolev some 6 weeks later as no overland travel was allowed to Laos in those days. I did it and, despite my fear that there was a fire onboard due to the pea soup airconditioning that reduced visibility in the cabin to two foot, we landed unharmed in a paddy field.

So it is with great delight that in 3 days time I will have finished my cycle ride through China and will be arriving in Laos on an unhijackable bicycle.

SherlockTales and the Hounds of Asia

"Helloogaarghhhgrrr" ... "Raaargh" ... and then rather elegantly "FFS!": my vocal entry to each village of Yunnan province as yet another rabid hound leaps from guarding the pigs, the child, the woodstore, the grandma and in a flurry of dust and fleas and snapping ivories tries to sample what the beast on the Uzbekistan border had found so attractive about my derrière.

The Uzbek border incident - resulting in the most punctures I'd received in one day, albeit to my left buttock - was not actually the guard dog's fault. After tackling and succeeding in the 5 day desert dash across the Karakum Desert of Turkmenistan it seemed only fitting that a beer was had to celebrate and rather conveniently there was a cafe 1 metre from the border and even better the proprietor said yes you may sleep outside on the concrete. Before said beer was consumed I noticed that there were 2 rather unique looking sheep on the other side of the wall. Wanting to get a better look I climbed over the wall and admired these fine sheep with their chocolate curls then noticed there was actually a gate I could have entered by. And this was the route I took for my return..

Approaching a guard dog is a stupid thing to do. Standing on one is very painful..to the left buttock. Fortunately Shylock's pound of flesh only transpired to Sherlock's four puncture wounds, ripped shorts and a sheepish smile as 3 old ladies with grubby hands whisked me into a cess pit of a toilet and helped bandage my bottom. I tried to re-enter Turkmenistan as there had been a doctor on the border (who'd I thought was about to shoot me in the head but was actually taking my temperature) but was pushed back by the guard despite me miming that a dog had just eaten my behind.

It was 24 hours later that I reached the silk road town of Bukhara after a lopsided cycle.

"Where's the dog? You need to bring it with you if you want to get treatment"

"I'm sorry, f.. I.. what?!

"The dog, the doctor needs to see it"

"I need to go and collect the dog that bit me that is now 100km away?"

"Yes"

"oh.."

I limped off, redressed my wound, said a prayer and took a handful of antibiotics...

The Battle with the Taklamakan

I stared at the floor of the police van wincing at the sight of damp spots of blood accompanied by some fleshy bits and the ubiquitous phlegm branding found on every inhabited surface in Xinjiang Province."First time I've been in a police van" I mused glancing across at James, a fellow cyclist, who had one hand grasped firmly on the door handle ready to activate and evacuate should the policemen in the front seats decide to take us to the police station after all. I peered closer at one of the fleshy bits and reassured myself I could see the fluff of sheepskin. A car braked to a halt alongside us and four more policeman stepped out. "Balls" I muttered reaching for the handle on my side. With 6 policeman now surrounding us we tried to explain that all we wanted to do was lay our mats down and sleep outside the building and that we would leave early to reach the next town of Hotan. They shook their heads, took our passports and made phonecalls. Within 10 minutes the doors of the government building were unlocked, we were ushered in and the wood burning stove was lit, 2 local Uyghur men in their tall fur hats brought me bread and walnuts then content that I was warm and fed left the building. I lay down under the portrait of Chairman Mao and drifted off to the sounds of rats gnawing at the wires of the television in the corner of the room.

Four weeks later I stood alone and desolate on the S305 in the Taklamakan Desert, over 200 km from anywhere and over 3km above sea level. Two tears of frustration fell and froze. Clumsily I tried with numb fingers to undo the straps of my panniers to reach for biscuits to no avail. I reached for my water bottle wrapped in 2 pairs of merino wool socks and a trickle of water meandered its way through the ice and reached my lips. The wind and isolation whipped my face and taunted me: it had been -24'C when I'd set off that morning and that was out of the wind. I can't do this any longer, I can't. I can. F*ck. I can't.  For weeks my feet had been frozen solid for 10 hours a day, each stretch of the desert was 3-5 days between towns, bed was under a mobile phone mast or in a low tunnel under the road, or behind a sand dune. Get a grip, damn it. I could no longer see the beauty of the desert. It was now just colourless wasteland. My body shook uncontrollably. I'd ascended too quickly and the altitude had taken hold, I just wasn't acclimatising and the cold had kidnapped my core. Wait, what's that? I could hear a vehicle and leapt out of my despair. Over the crest of the hill a police van appeared. I stepped into the road and waved it down. Down. Wave. Please stop.Stop. Please. With my hand still aloft I watched it pass me and watched it still until it disappeared over the curve of the earth. The silence and the solitude returned. Nothing. Nothingness. Not a thing. Not. Can Not. I was startled by a inhuman roaring cry that echoed the fear, frustration and failure I felt. I looked helplessly around me and then realised it had come from me. 

I sat down in the dust and continued a lengthy battle with my thoughts. Finally a smile crept to my lips: I'm a celebrity, get me out of here! But I'm not and I can't. I stood up, picked up my bike, rearranged my frozen balaclava and continued pedalling east.

The wind eased and the wasteland transformed into ancient cities of sand, wind shaped pyramids and sweeping dunes. 60km later I spied a mobile phone mast. I removed the bricks in front of the door and wheeled my bike into the walled enclosure. "Aah..home at last." I thought..

Next Steps & an Interview with Social Hiking

 Since my last blog post my journey has taken me through Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan.  I am now in Kashgar in the western part of the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region of China and ready to start the next stage of my journey through the Taklamakan Desert following the southern Silk Road route. Taklamakan has been loosely translated as "the Desert Into Which He Who Enters Will Not Return" but I have no intention of returning to the desert once I've got through it so that's fine by me!

The below article is courtesy of Social Hiking http://www.shareyouradventure.com a wonderful website that has enabled me to share my adventure.

A chat with Jilly Sherlock on the adventure so far and what’s next!

by daylightgambler on November 30, 2011 in Other with 3 Comments

On Saturday 9th April 2011 at 11.12am Jilly Sherlock set off from Felixstowe on a heavily laden bike ‘heading East’ – on 9th November, 7 months to the day since leaving, she arrived in China having cycled a whopping 9955km with at least 60000m of altitude gain – with every kilometre shared on Social Hiking. Whilst taking a break before the next leg of her journey, I caught up with Jilly for a quick email chat about the adventure so far and what her plans were for the next leg.

Photo left by Lee Hughes (via Jilly)
As the name suggests I originally had quite a limited vision of what Social Hiking could be used for, so it was a bit of a surprise when Jilly got in touch, only a few days before setting out, about using the site for her trip. Jilly has a SPOT Personal Tracker – as well as being able to send regular check in messages and emergency alerts to family and friends, the device allows you to ping your location on a regular basis. Once hooked into Social Hiking, Jilly could combine these locations (SPOT uses satellites direct so does not require a mobile phone network and have a long battery life) with any photos or tweets she was able to send on her phone when in signal.
The end result is a media rich map which her family, friends and supporters can follow live as her adventure progresses.
Personally I have found following Jilly’s remarkable adventure absolutely amazing – as the route unfolds with tweets and photos, it really gives you a chance to share in something few of us would ever attempt ourselves, and has opened up parts of the world to me that previously were just names on a map.

---

Whilst Jilly has a well earned break before the next leg of her journey, I caught up with her for a quick email chat about the adventure so far and what her plans were for the next leg:
What’s your favourite bit so far?
ok.. favourite bit so far has to be the people I’ve encountered. The hospitality, generosity and warmth I’ve received has been humbling and at times overwhelming.
What’s been the worst bit so far?
Worst bit so far has been the last 2 weeks: trying to sort out the fraudulent use of my bank card with Barclays bank was more exhausting than cycling up a 4655m pass on the Pamir Highway.
What was the Pamir Highway like?
The 1000km route through Tajiikistan along the Pamir Highway was exhilarating, freezing, terrifying and at times exhausting. Due to my short term memory I have thankfully forgotten already how miserable it was camping at 4100m with my visa expiry clock ticking away and pushing my bike thru snow and over unforgiving mountain passes during their worst November snow in 20 years. Fingertips are still numb! Yet what a stunning and remote part of the world and it was an experience that will remain with me for many years to come.

Tajikistan at 4300m: struggling with snow and altitude (photo from 360fokbringa.hu via Jilly)
How did it feel to reach China?
Cycling to the Chinese border after being holed up for 2 days on the Kyrgyzstan side due to the border being closed for a week was a delight. When I reached the ornate iron gates I must admit I did have a slight lump in my throat yet this could partially be blamed on trying to swallow an overambitious bite of frozen Snicker bar.
Where next?
ha ha – well of course I’m pedalling East! Leaving tomorrow to head east on the southern silk road towards Hotan. At Xining, (some 3000km from where I am now) I will make my decision whether to head due south or – you never know – I may continue east…
Xmas will be spent in the most desolate and inhospitable landscape: almost got depressed when I looked at the satellite view but I hope to don a red nose on a Bactarian camel, hang my Merino wool stocking outside my tent and tuck into another bowl of instant noodles.
On a final note can I say a huge thanks for all the love and support I’ve received from my dear family and friends; to all the Social Hiking bods and Twitter friends who have egged me on and thanks of course to you Phil for your patience and brilliant work on Social Hiking.
Merry Xmas to you all & tailwinds….

---

You can find Jilly on Twitter (@jillysherlock), read her blog of her journey (http://sherlocktales.blogspot.com/) and follow her travels live on Social Hiking (http://www.shareyouradventure.com/)

I would like to take this opportunity to congratulate Jilly for her truly remarkable and fantastic journey so far, and for giving us the chance to share her adventure with her. Best of luck for the next leg and happy Christmas Jilly!
Jilly has probably done more for Social Hiking than she realises – her first map crashed as she reached Germany! Since then a lot of the performance upgrades have been added to ensure her maps continue to load as quick as possible – in fact part of the last upgrade included media caching to further speed up the loading times of all her tweets and photos (and all the necessary back-end scheduling to facilitate it) – something all users will benefit from. Jilly is also pioneering new settings and features, like her camp site icons, and has helped me further improve the experience for people following someone on their adventure.
If you want to share your adventure, whether big or small, then sign up for Social Hiking and give it a whirl.

Iran: 28 days in the Axis of ?.. you decide..

36th hour
I couldn't see! a moments panic at this sudden blindness was soon resolved with one hand grabbing the offending spinnaker of headscarf covering my eyes and tucking it deftly into the collar of my dress. Why had I listened to the helpful Hammit with the refrigeration shop from whom I'd tried to purchase an ice cream yet he'd looked earnestly across his desk at me and said "but you're a tourist, I can't let you pay. Welcome to Iran"? I'd peered over his shoulder at google maps showing the streets of Tabriz and he'd insisted the highway was the best way to reach my destination. A non-cyclist with a mercedes does not care about how many metres of ascent are involved in a 5km drive and I tried to remember this as I struggled upwards, red mountains to my left and a sprawling city to my right in an ever increasing heat. The rebellious headscarf reared up again so I stopped,  grabbed both ends and crossed them over my damp throat and tied a knot at the nape of my neck. Out of the corner of my eye I could see a swirl of black racing up a dusty bank towards me. I turned my head, resulting in near asphxiation and tried to loosen the offending headscarf while peering to see what was approaching. Hello! it shouted "Welcome to Iran" and my eyes rested on a excited face, shaded by an black baseball cap under a swathe of black material: a pair of white trainers poking out from the bottom. She grabbed my arm " I saw you when we were leaving the airport and oh it's fantastic and you are on a bicycle please do you need somewhere to stay oh yes do please come and stay with me and my husband"

the 7th Hour

106 km after crossing the Armenian/Iranian border I reached a village, weary, sweaty, dusty with headscarf askew. I needed to find somewhere to camp. A man on a motorbike with a young boy clasped to his waist saw me. He greeted me and in stumbling English asked if I was ok. I gestured "sleep" he gestured 'follow me'
and we began the slow ascent into the village of garden walls made out of mud. we bounced down an unpathed track and then he led me through one of these mud compounds into a garden full of cherry and apricot trees. A lady sat there on a wide verandah wrapped in a white scarf and a floral dress skirting her shins and quickly rearranged the scarf so her greying hair was covered. 2 children stared at the traveller then with the nonchalence of the young turned their backs and continued to play. I was led to the centre of the garden and my feet were gently washed by Iman. I rested on the blanket they'd laid for me and the old lady brought me platefuls of melon, watching me intently and with concern as I gorged on the succulent fruit. More food was brought, rice and chicken with a plateful of fresh herbs, chai was poured and her furrowed brow relaxed as she watched my face turn from a vibrant raspberry to a more delicate shade of pink. A mobile phone was handed to me and I was asked by Iman's English speaking contact if I was ok and could they do anything for me and when did I want breakfast. 2 hours passed and Iman and his mother broke their Ramazan fast: Iman inhaling deeply on a cigarette before sitting cross-legged and scooping chunks of meat into a pocket of bread.  He said his farewells as he returned to his wife and family. His mother wrapped herself in a black chador and stood praying for 45 minutes before laying her blanket next to mine on the verandah and we slept until sunrise.

1 week later
I'd been kidnapped! When I'd mentioned I was going to cycle to Iran I'd been warned about this and there I was being held hostage in Iran and being force fed. Not one full hour had passed in the 7 days where I had not been fed. Every national dish of Iran had been cooked for me. I'd been met in the streets of Tabriz by the father and a battle had ensued between my soon-to-be kidnappers and the lady in black from the 36th hour who was trying to take me to her house and was laying claim to finding me first. My current hostage takers also transported me to other family members where more food was forced upon me. I was even taken at one point to a walled garden some 60 km away where fresh walnuts were peeled for me and songs were sung and it was there, on my mother's birthday, where they made me write a message and record a video for her

 Even my bike had not escaped and had been ruthlessly strapped to the roof rack of a car and transported to a bike shop by the son and his friends where a full service had been given at no cost. It was difficult to leave and I felt the tears fall when I finally escaped this family

Day 10
I sheltered from the Tehran heat and chaotic traffic under a tree outside a toilet block while consulting my map. The female attendant was questioning me, I thought aggressively, and I tried to dismiss her attention with a wave of my hand as I returned my sleepy gaze to my map. But there she remained and a man carrying a spade joined her and the unintelligible questioning continued. They consulted each other and I moved my bag of valuables closer to me yet they turned their backs and walked away.
A few minutes later I heard their footsteps but did not look up. Warm bread scattered with sesame seeds was placed on my lap, a bowl of honey sat beside a plate of feta cheese by my feet and a cup of chai was placed on the kerb where I sat.

Days 11- 21
Days in Tehran were spent sharing conversations with an inspiring Iranian girl. I learnt more of the troubles in 2008, the peaceful demonstrations that had turned so sour. I watched on the Roof of Tehran - a viewing spot some 2000m high- as young iranians tried to live the lives they deserved, girls pushing the limits with headscarves- pushed back as far as they dared- resting upon bouffant hairdos. Long shirts crept above the acceptable thigh level and I watched in dismay as 2 women in black chadors stopped them and escorted them to police cars. I received claps and cheers when cycling to the embassies in this country where women are not meant to cycle. Lives were lived behind closed doors. Young women told me their dreams of emigrating, to study further and to leave their country and families behind.
I visited the former US embassy. The photo below is not the view of the majority of these wonderful Persian and Azeri people.

I looked in dismay at the partial mastectomies performed on the mannequins that had not followed the flat-chested criteria

I travelled south to the city of Esfahan and with another solo female traveller from Turkey we explored and absorbed the beautiful mosques and palaces.

Once again we were treated to more muslim hospitality: looking hungrily at the food an elderly couple had just received in a teahouse they promptly gave us their bowls of dizi and bread and simply ordered some more.

And we joined some young musicians who had been hiding in the arches of Esfahan's bridges to play their music

My journey took me further south to the city of Yazd one of the world's oldest living cities: a labyrinth of mudbrick houses, domed rooftops and badgirs (windcatchers - the first air-conditioning units) filling the skyline, Zoresterian fire temples and intriguing ancient qanats (undergound water channels used to supply drinking water and irrigate the crops).




Adventure playground a la Yazd.



Below: A fellow cyclist and his friends

The final days in Iran
With the longawaited Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan visas in my passport I headed east to Mashad, the holiest city in Iran where, with the help of some local ladies who giggling corrected my wearing of the black chador (it was upside down), I visited the Haram-e-Razavi where the Holy Shrine of Imam Reza is. Evenings were spent drinking copious amounts of non-alcoholic beer with other travellers and it was during one of these nights that we arranged the jailbreak of a bear called Wilson.. but that's another story for another time.

The dash through undulating desert landscape to the border with Turkmenistan began. It felt good to be back on the road and gifts of watermelon, corn on the cob, baguettes, chai and water were given by fruitsellers, bus drivers, policemen and bakers. Once again after a day of ferocious heat and headwind and searching for a camp I was welcomed into another Iranian home where melon, chai, rice and chicken was followed by a bed then breakfast. As I cycled the last few kilometres to the Iranian border town of Sarakhs I could only hope that people stop confusing governments and extremists with cultures and religion, media snippets highlighting only the bad, and start judging countries on the kindness they will encounter and receive if only they would choose to get to know the people within.

Armenia: Ups and downs

I opened the door of the dimly lit cafe and walked in: the haze of cigarette smoke a continuation of the icy fog I had left behind outside.  I felt the curious glances of people at the tables as I made my way to the counter: my attire haphazard due to being caught out at 2010m in freezing conditions and on the side of the road I'd dug from my panniers a pair of thick mountaineering socks which I wore with teva sandles. Green trousers had hurriedly been pulled over shorts and to complete the fashion faux pas they'd been tucked into the socks. A thick down jacket under a bright red waterproof with a black woollen hat perched on top of a blue bandana completed the look of an overweight santa helper. Having had only 15 minutes sleep the night before due to an eventful night of hospitality which had gone slightly awry, ascending 1000m on an empty stomach and generally feeling run down, I felt I was on the verge of becoming hypothermic with uncontrollable shaking as the cold and damp wrapped itself round and infiltrated my core.

I smiled at the girl and said 'coffee'. She beckoned me to sit down but it was then I spotted the electric bar heater on the windowsill. I made my way to it and took off my gloves to warm my frozen fingers. 'Aah!' I sighed as way of explanation to the people at the adjacent table looking curiously up at me. 'Brrr' I continued as I nodded to the outside at the thick fog while continuing to warm my hands on the heater. 'ooh, lovely' I exclaimed feeling I had to say something as they were looking at me expectantly with cocked heads, stern faces yet smiling eyes under thick black eyebrows. I heard a whisper and a chuckle from the other corner of the room and then glanced again at the people at the table next to me as I continued to rub my hands together in front of the heater that.. hold on.. the heater that was not actually giving off any heat with its 3 bluish toned bars, and wait a minute..this heater was surrounded by dead flies..

I mean anyone would make the same mistake after 15 minutes sleep.. wouldn't they?

an electric fly killer

an electric fire



When they joined in with my laughter and realised I was totally insane they started asking me questions. I can now understand in any language the questions being asked. This is how they go..

"lgawwejslmmv?"

"England" I reply proudly then try variations "Anglia, Ingelterre, Manchester United" until they nod with satisfaction and I then add "England to {insert current location} by "bicycle, velo, velociped"

"vdsjsglspwvnajraiu?" they ask holding up one finger accompanied with a raised eyebrow

"Yes" I reply "just me, alone" mirroring their solitary digit. This is followed usually by a shake of the hand, a slap on the back or a thumbs up. Free food follows shortly after.

"alkjgawupomm?"

I often misunderstand this.. then I remember how the questioning goes

"4 months" I reply with 4 fingers held aloft still unsure if they think I have abandoned 4 husbands or 4 children to selfishly undertake a solo journey on a bicycle.

Fluent me, I tell you.

I'd left Tbilisi, the captivating capital city of Georgia, in a hungover state one day later than expected having met wonderful 2 girls on a cycle journey from Thailand. A few beers, led to us sampling the local Georgian wine, a sheesha pipe and a 6am finish. In a comatose state I set forth to the Armenian border, a 10USD fee secured me a 21 day visa and I began the first of many ascents in this mountainous country.

Yet I had a blip. I'm not sure what happened, yet I suddenly found tears. I suppose it had to happen at some point. I missed my family and friends as I once again hid and camped behind bushes on a foreign road, wolfing down yesterday's bread, surreptitiously removing spiders with bulbous bodies of black and yellow from my tent, and staring blankly at the patterns of kevlar on the ceiling of my tent, highlighted by a cold moon, as I lay and waited for the morning to come. Overwhelming sadness despite spectacular scenery. I couldn't bear to look at messages on my iphone: father endearingly retweeting one of my tweets despite me being his only follower, emails from mother saying how proud she was, family and friends sending messages of support. These couldn't be read for fear of short-circuting my phone as the tears fell. 

The melancholy subsided within 24 hours as Armenians graced me with their smiles yet was quickly replaced with lethargy, weary limbs and an accusatory stomach that treated everything with suspicion and violently evicted anything that dared enter. Yet this was not a country to be feeble in. Skirting the Azerbaijan/Armenia border where "Danger. Landmines" signswarned me this was not a place to wild camp. Mountain passes of 2400m greeted me daily, accompanied with seering heat, strong winds, vistas of desert rock, deep gorges gouged in arid steppes, alpine meadows, stark plateaus with small villages of bee hives dotting the landscape, fertile hillsides crawling out of rivers, cave dwellings in volcanic rock.

At the top of one of these passes I rested to gaze upon the switchbacked descent outside the relic of Selim Caravanserai; a 13th Century watering hole for those who trod the Silk Road. Having been closed for business for a few centuries it was an Armenian family who proffered refreshments and invited me to share their picnic. As they piled into their car for their return to Yerevan the mother rushed over to me and thrust a bag full of roast chicken, blackened potato skins, hunks of bread and cheese, tomatoes and cucumber into my hands as she leant forward and kissed me on the cheek. Their departure was followed by the arrival of a minibus of delightful Belgian tourists who gathered round me, taking photos and ignoring the ancient relic behind them to talk to the wreck that was me in front of them.  

Another day and another staggering climb accompanied by the strongest headwind of the trip had destroyed me yet a gaggle of fruit sellers surrounded me and my bicycle as I reached the top of the pass.  A bag of grapes, plump apricots and palm sized apples was placed next to me, followed by another bag of nectarines, pears and plums from another seller. The Silk Road hospitality continuing. The first bag lady then reappeared with her husband and a bag of flat bread and cheese was handed to me as the aftermath of the London riots unfolded some 7000km away from me.

Mistakenly thinking that a 30km ascent would be rewarded with something similar of downhill I set off declining an invite to stay with them for the night and a brief descent was followed by more uphill. As the sun was sucked behind mountains and replaced by charcoal clouds I found a motel on the deserted plateau and begged to camp in their garden. They agreed and I pitched in gale force winds, changed into my thermals and within minutes was asleep. I awoke to them calling my name and I blearily undid the safety pins (broken zip) that held the entrance together. The man read from a piece of paper 'come into hotel, you no pay, wind very strong'. I insisted I was ok. They insisted I wasn't as they started unpegging my tent and pulling out my panniers. My walk of shame in threadbare thermals began as I passed a group of vodka infused male voices in an otherwise empty dining hall. An arm led me into a kitchen where Ararrat brandy was poured, a rich dish of aubergines and tomatoes prepared, a basket of bread placed before me. Full and sleepy I was shown to a room after some deliberation being shown first a room with a double bed and a pair of men's trousers on the floor. I closed the door thanking my host and lay on my bed reading the miniature BBC headlines on my iphone as the 2nd night of UK riots commenced.

A knock on my door around midnight. I opened it and there was a bottle of brandy, 2 glasses and an expectant face. I politely declined, locked the door, turned off the lights and returned to the night of violence. Unable to sleep due to footsteps that would pause outside my door I instead recoiled in horror as more mindless destruction passed. At 4am I felt comfortable to sleep yet voices at my door, my name being called, then a rapping at my door awoke me just 15 minutes later. I never did open the door, yet angrily shouted at the sound of keys, contacted a friend, lifted the days before flatscreen tv to the floor and moved the cabinet across the door as people barricaded themselves from the viral mayhem spreading through our cities.

 2 hours of gentle reassurance from a friend, daylight arrived and the hotel lay still as I cautiously moved the furniture away from the door and began my escape. Bike was still in lobby though front wheel was loose. I tried the front door. Locked. I raced to the kitchen and saw a scene from of a Apocalypse Now meets Babette's Feast with an empty vodka bottle for each seat around the table. I opened a door:  the carcass of an animal hung in front of me. Balls! I searched through the drawers of the empty reception desk and found some keys but they weren't the ones for the main door. After trying 6 windows I eventually found one unlocked, threw out my panniers and climbed out.

I'd escaped.

aah.. my bicycle..

I did escape after startling the gate keeper who must have called a hungover chap who was opening the front door just as I was balanced on a table trying to unsuccessfully navigate my bicycle through a narrow window. 

As I cycled thoughtfully away into the icy fog towards the sanctuary of the sleepy town of Goris I realised I could not condemn as the language barrier coupled with my fear had failed to enlighten me as to why they were knocking on my door.

It may simply have been to say "oh by the way, if you want to leave when the sun rises, do let us know.. as the door will be locked" and with a sheepish smile I emailed my friend with the message..

 "On the road again. All ok"

Georgia: on my mind and a public display of affection

I usually avoid public displays of affection (PDA) as they make me feel slightly uncomfortable; never really knowing which way to look and whether to smile sweetly trying to hide the 'oh I do wish I was that much in love but really should you be performing an Esophagogastroduodenoscopy in public' face or look down and find a bit of fluff on my lap the most interesting inanimate object I've ever seen. As for me performing the art of PDA? Bah! not in a million years.. until the other day..

I really don't know what came over me, maybe just the sheer challenge of being alone for so long, that gnawing frustration of when will it happen and for those last two days before 'it' happened all I had dreamt of was that moment when we would finally meet again. And it happened quickly and I wasn't expecting it. I clasped my brake levers tightly at our surprise encounter, wincing at the sound of metal on metal and, vowing to replace the brake pads, I flung my bicycle on the verge. I stood there for a while quivering, savouring the moment as there was my dream lying before me. I hoisted my shorts awkwardly and knelt down, my fingers hovering for a few seconds over the object of my desire until I could resist no longer and traced them gently over the smooth, damp surface. My hot breath was visible against this cool skin as I drew my face closer and before I knew it my lips met..

...tarmac

I kissed a road.

You would have done too, believe me this was not just any road, this was a road.

Road [rohd] –noun
a long, narrow stretch with a smoothed or paved surface, made for traveling by motor vehicle, carriage, etc., between two or more points; street or highway

The main road I had been on for the last 2 days while ascending a pass of 2025m (twice the height of Snowdon and a bit more) - was not a road. It may have been once, before someone obviously had a load of spare dynamite, a lot of time on their hands and thought it would be nicer if they could perhaps use a boat to travel along their road on a rainy day should they feel like it.

here is a wee sample



Step 1: take some sludge




Step 2. add a few rocks. (for a more challenging recipe add piles of rocks)



Step 3. and to improve the consistency just add more water



Final Step: take your sludge, rocks and water to 2025m and chill it for 4 hours, preferably in a hail storm. you my find this hard to swallow and it won't get any easier on the way down

My entry into Georgia had been as smooth as the road I came to dream of, a friendly smile, a stamp, surrounded by passport officials (I counted 7) coming up to say hello and ask about my trip. I veered off to the right before the seaside town of Batumi and headed east passing a few kilometres of people displaying beachball displays of watermelons on the roadside. As I left the buildings behind I soon realised my route was to be following a river (I had no proper map apart from a matchbox sized one of the country and Georgia is not mapped on Google) and it was glorious.

After 5 flat and windy days in Turkey and a never changing view my eyes feasted on new hills, valleys, red-roofed churches and ancient bridges with each bend of the road I took.



On the second day I watched as 3 men whirled like dervishes and body-popping matadors to the joyful sounds of Georgian folk music. The bride, Teo, looked on with a glint in her eye, her face framed with kiss curls of fake hair and glanced at her new husband who shifted uncomfortably and pulled at the collar too big around his neck. I sat in awe watching these dancers and looked across at Teo whose hair was scraped into a ponytail, a real kiss curl fell across her eyes and she brushed it aside as she looked up at me while leaning over the low table that we had, only a few hours ago, shared coffee and cakes on and now was covered in a thick cloth on which she ironed colourful bed linen. I gestured approval and as the wedding video part 2 finished, the young man seated next to me opened a new file so I could watch wedding video part 3.

After wedding video part 5 my jaw ached from smiling yet I continued with the "ooh this is amazing, all these people now dancing to byran adams" gestures of approval. More people arrived in the painted wood room. oh the shy groom was here, and someone else that looked like his brother. I stood up and shook hands and was then beckoned to sit down in front of the computer again. Surely not.. Part 5 was definitely the last file in the folder, I had checked.. it was then I learnt that a Georgian Muslim wedding lasts for 2 days.. Day 2- should you ever wish to know- involves more drinking, more toasting, more dancing...

Despite the jaw ache my time spent with this family was the ribbon on the parcel that Georgia became for me. Capitan, the father, in his flowery festival hat had found me that evening drenched outside a tiny shop, scoffing a whole chocolate swiss roll as I worked my way up the treacherous road to the top of the pass not realising the distance I still had to cover. He spoke no English but had called someone who could who informed me he wanted me to stay with him. I insisted I could camp he said no and bike and me were piled into the back of a van and we began the steepest ascent up a dirt track vertical to the route I was taking.

I was greeted by Teo and Capitan's wife, wet clothing removed, slippers produced, taken by the arm and led thru the rooms of a wooden building on stilts and into a warm shower. A wood burner in the living room was stoked, my panniers emptied and clothes were soon spinning in a washing machine. Taken by the arm again I was led to the kitchen where a spread was laid out for me and I dined on beetroot with coriander, chunks of rustic bread with sour cream, chicken, hot potato washed down with glasses of thick yoghurt with Teo and her friend Patty

 I was showed to the toilet, the floor had a triangle cut out and all waste splattered some 10 foot below on to the compost pile. I leant over the balcony which housed rows of brightly coloured sheets and dresses while Teo and the mother pointed out their land and the produce they grew: the corn, the potatoes, the cherries, the herb garden.

We watched at sunset the cloud trying to claw its way out of the valley then lingering beneath us having found a resting place on the top of the fir trees. I rested in the living room with the mother while Teo swept the floor with a bundle of tightly bound twigs. She disappeared then bounded back her hands full of newly born chicks which she placed on the mother. I was led to the barn where a hen protested as it was lifted up and a bundle of chicks tried to bury themselves in the straw. I was handed a warm egg with the chick slowly tapping its way out and Teo held it to my ear so I could hear it chirping from within

We retreated for coffee and wedding albums then the videos. then all the men returned and we drank thick black coffee and made conversation yet I can't recall how as we shared no common tongue. The president of Georgia, Mikheil Saakashvili, appeared on television and they looked on with pride at this enigmatic man.



My hosts.. and my laundry



At midnight I climbed up a wooden ladder to the top floor and led to a beautiful room, a wardrobe was opened, a cornflower blue nightgown produced and I woke to bright sunshine, 2 breakfasts, sad farewells and hugs and I was driven back to where Capitan had found me the day before and I continued with my ascent to the top of the Goderozi pass.

After a few hours of slow progress I reached the 2025m marker and I joined some old men in thick woollen hats sheltering from the rain that had just began.

 A drop in temperature accompanied the ferocious hail storm pictured earlier and I was ushered into a hut by Becka, a young man who is going to become a seafarer and wearing sunglasses after an accident with a piece of wire embedded itself into his eye

 His friends struggled with sheets of corrugated iron trying to cover the paneless windows as the storm swept through the wooden building. Becka's mother kissed me on the cheek , brought me coffee and I was invited to sit down and join her son and his friends for a warming meal of melted cheese in thick salty gravy, a vegetable broth and steaming plates of rice.

I was asked my religion and he explained how he was a Christian as he produced the cross on a string around his neck. His 2 friends muslim but makes no difference and so it shouldn't he added.

Despite offers of a bed for the night I was aware that my progress up this pass had been slow and donning my down jacket under a layer of waterproofs I bade them goodbye and began the slow ascent. 1 day later after a night tucked into a forest next to the fast flowing river I met the road I'd been dreaming of and 3 days later, through scenery scattered with stone fortresses and churches perched impossibly on pinnacles of rock I reached the capital of Georgia, Tbilisi.

Georgia had not just been on my mind, it had captured my soul.