You can call me Jonah

Before we get going a quick thank you to my Uncle John for this months blog title and for pointing out I know have the following proud record:

Leave Belgrade - 1 week later rioting spreads through the city
Leave Istanbul - 1 week later terrorist attacks on the US embassy
Leave Georgia - 2 weeks later a war is in full swing
Leave Osh - 1 week later the city is hit by an earthquake measuring 6.6 on the richter scale

So watch out China!

But back to the trip - sorry for taking a while to write another blog but it's been difficult, particularly as my website is banned in China! But the last time I was in contact was in Kashgar: the 4 days I spent there were excellent. Having come in from laid back Krygyzstan to be in a proper city, with the hustle and bustle was a culture shock and the moment the sun went down the city transformed with the Uighur influence coming out in the form of the nightmarket.

An Uighur man makes pastry parcels stuffed with minced lamb at Kashgars night market

The market offered all the usual kinds of fruit and vegetables you'd expect - but the real treat was the freshly cooked food: Fish grilled and served on skewers, boiled eggs in a rich spicy sauce and other Central Asian dishes with an Uighur blend such as stuffed meat dumplings with that extra bit of flavour - all served on the amazing backdrop of the liveliest night market I've ever seen. Me and Alvaro both agreed that coming here from Krygyzstan felt like stepping off a plane, and the closest thing we'd ever seen to what lay before us was the main square in Marakesh.

But after a couple of days of eating far to much food whilst my body recovered fromthe Krygyz mountains and my behind recovered from the Krygyz roads I was left to square up to the task in front of me. I hadn't planned to go through Central China, in fact the original purpose of the trip was to go to Tibet, however a combination of the Chinese government and the weather meant that central China was my only choice. With a 2 month visa and 5,500 km to cover a part of me had hoped to do without having to extend my visa, however this idea quickly died as 20km out of Kashgar, having just said my goodbyes to Alvaro aswell as the other cyclists I'd met in there I was hit with the first serious illness of my trip.

If you've ever had either a migraine or giardisis, you can imagine how pleasant it is having both at the same time but that's exactly what happened and perhaps more frustratingly help wasn't on hand. I spent the first night in a ditch being sick hoping to get it out my system, before limping towards the next town the following day - however it soon became apparent my body was in no condition to stand up right, let alone ride a bike. I tried talking to locals but the language barrier was too much so I took a more straight forward option of going for the sympathy vote by lying down as pathetically as I could by the side of the road and letting passers by see the sick mess I was. This didn't work either and it was 18 hours before any of the people who had watched me all day came over, and even then the man in question simply put his hand on my forehead, felt my high temperature, shook his head in sympathy and then walked off and that was the last I saw of him! I realised I needed to move and spent the next 3 days to cover the 65 km to the next town where I took another 3 days to recover - not a great start to my time in China (for those of you wondering why I didn't go back to Kashgar please note that common sense isn't something that's overly welcome on this trip).

But fully recovered and rested it felt good to fly off on the less travelled southern silk road - a 3,000km long road to Xining with the first 1,500km in the Taklamakan Desert. I have to say I loved cycling in the desert: Good roads, sunshine beaming down on me all day every day, flat as a pancake meaning I could cover 130km upwards without breaking sweat and best of all weather good enough meaning I could sleep at night without the tent - giving me the best view of the stars it's possible to have.

Sleeping in style

And with only one road to follow it should be impossible to get lost, right? Oh if only it were that simple - in the town of Cherchen I'd had to come off the main road to stock up on supplies and when trying to get back on course I'd trusted the 2 things I really should know that I can't trust by now - locals directions and Chinese road signs - and pretty soon I'd gone 40km in the wrong direction into a dead end in the desert. Not fancying cycling back to where I needed to be in a strong headwind I hitched back to the town, sneaked past the shop where I'd been given the wrong directions (I didn't want to hurt the guys feelings) and was back on my way - more frustrated at losing half a day than anything else - and heading towards Charklik, the last stop in the desert before the mountains began.

A common theme of whereever I've been since leaving Europe is that seemingly every shopkeeper will try to rip you off upon seeing your not local. As someone who's been described by a previous employer as 'someone who wouldn't say boo to a goose' I have to say I was getting pretty fed up with it, whilst trying to be as courteous as I can but in Charklik I finally snapped. A local baker charged me double what I'd been paying for a loaf of bread and the following scene I made was neither big nor clever - I am not proud. But worse was to come as it turned out he hadn't been ripping me off - locals couldn't understand my complaints and as I watched them part with the same ammount of money I'd been charged I was left to feel thoroughly embarrassed, offer my apologies and be left to slink out of town with my tail between my legs - woops!

But back on the road, and with one right turn I was out of the desert and without a word of warning I hit a 50 mile climb into the mountains where I spent the next day discovering another Chinese tradition - starting road works whilst having no intention of finishing them. Whilst this left for some frustrating riding the mountains a further problem was emerging - the cold. I've met some sadistic people on my trip, people who have camped in -25 and enjoyed it, people who have cycled through Siberia in the winter and people who have waited till mid-January before going to the furthest outreaches of Tibet - I am not one of these people so I needed a motivation to tackle the cold and it wasn't long till I was in luck. Whether we admit it or not we all have our vices in life, the little self-indulgent pleasures we try not to share with others and I'll freely admit that one of mine is KFC, so finding out there was a KFC in Xining was all I needed and I was back in the saddle flying.

But life is never that simple - upon leaving the desert I'd punctured two of my spare tyres - nowhere sold the spares I needed but this should not have been a problem but when I got to just an agonising 150km from Xining my front tyre got a puncture and I found that the spare I had had a broken valve - not for the first time I was indebted to a local who's skilled hands fixed the valve enough to get me to Xining - even if it did mean stopping every 10km to pump the tyre back up again.

The chinese man who somehow managed to fix my broken tyre

Xining was the first proper Chinese city I'd arrived in (for those of you who don't know the history of Xinjiang province China basically has no historical right to the area, the Chinese are a minority, and the current status as part of China is due to the area declaring independence as Turkestan in the 50's, only for their leaders to all die in a suspicious plane crash on their way for talks in Beijing - oh how cynical it is of anyone to suggest that the Chinese government were involved in this in any way) and how to describe Xining, hmmm I think 'hole' is the word. A very ugly city, over crowded, ridiculously noisy and with pollution that was at times unbelievable so after 2 days I was glad to get back on the road.

And back into the mountains. Except by now the weather really was beginning to change - the first couple of days were ok but after this the next week was spent at an altitude above 3,500 metres and past -10 at night! Upon leaving the town of Hazuo I slept the night only to wake up the next morning to look out the tent and be greeted by the images below:

Above shows a nights snow fall on the bike and below shows a nights snow fall on the road!

As you can imagine camping in this weather was about as fun as it seems but I was soon facing up to further problems I hadn't even considered in planning. The first was cycling in snow: the above picture was taken just before setting off for the day and there was just 8 seconds on my odometer before one of my frequent trips to the ground that day - the sheet ice proving spectacularly difficult to ride on in the mountains. The second was my gears freezing: With the wind chill factor terrible and with the blue sky meaning the sun turning much of the snow to slush it soon meant that everytime I went down a hill I was left with a fresh layer of ice on my gears, meaning they wouldn't work - the solution to thaw them out? I'll give you a hint - it's a liquid that usually comes at around 37 degrees and is made by pretty much everyone everywhere (and is also a damn sight quicker than boiling the kettle every 20 minutes).

So with the problems sorted I moved onto Zoige, a mostly Tibetan town in Northern Sichuan where I spent 2 days at a Tibetan run guesthouse. In China I have consistently struggled with the people but I have to say the Tibetans I met were consistently a pleasure to be around. Unlike the Chinese, who's first action will be to shout 'Laowai' (literally 'foreigner') at you at the top of their voice before staring repeatedly at you as if you've just fallen out of a space ship, the Tibetans would stop to talk, invite you into their home, ask you questions and make you feel genuinely welcome. For a group who have suffered so much persecution over the past 50 years to still be as bright, optomistic, friendly and welcoming as the Tibetans I met were was something truly humbling and something that will stay with me long after this trip is over.

Another posing pic after leaving Zoige

And with that warm feeling inside I left back out into the cold where I began to descend (thankfully) and was soon even out of the snow, much to my pleasure and on the road to Chengdu. The descent was as fun as ever (I'm not sure if it's possible to ride a bike from an altitude of 4,000m to 2,000m in a day and not enjoy yourself) and after a couple more days I was 100km north of Chengdu, riding through the area that was the epicentre of the 2006 Earthquake. I think in England we sometimes forget how lucky we are to live where we do - away from fault lines, tornadoes and other natural disasters - the fact that we still talk about Michael Fish's incorrect prediction of there being no hurricane over 20 years ago shows how little suffering we've had - so seeing the destruction Mother Nature can create when she wants was yet another eye opener and the effect it's had on the people was also noticeable, with people warning me about rocks falling on me or landslides happening no matter where I camped.

Unfortunately my pictures of the earthquake zone didn't come out as I would have liked, but hopefully you get the idea

But of course I was ok, and after seeing the destruction Mother Nature could cause when she wanted to it was time to move onto Chengdu - home to a species that no matter how hard she tries Mother Nature simply can't seem to get rid of: The Giant Panda.

I was in the city for 5 days (I got ill again so didn't see much though) but I've been looking for a way to summarise just how bad the pollution is in China and Chengdu offers that opportunity. I was to stay with a friend named Tasha and she'd told me to go to the airport to meet her. This should have been simple enough but the hardest part was finding the airport because whilst I could hear the planes coming in, with the pollution as bad as it was I simply couldn't see any of them come into land. Blue sky is something you simply don't get in China's cities, whilst rubbish, noise and litter are everywhere. And don't get me started on the spitting - it's bad enough when someone spits in the street but out here its in restaurants, internet cafes, shops - you name it and the locals will be spitting in it - even hotels, and don't think it's just a man thing either - women are some of the worst offenders - lovely!

But the 5 days in Chengdu were fun, not least for learning about Chinese University. To any (lazy) students reading this let me tell you about Chinese University - everyone lives on Campus - ok, fair enough, but you don't get a room, you don't share a room with another person, no the average room has 8 people to it. But don't worry if your worried about waking each other up at different times as everyone has to be in bed by 11, when the lights go out, and I mean physically go out as the power is turned off. And don't worry about who'll be cooking breakfast as you're all up at 6.30 the next day for group exercises, which everyone has to attend. And if you don't? Why then you get a massive fine! So in short you go to bed when your told, get up each day to exercise and have, well, who are we kidding, you have no freedoms - and all this 7 days a week!

Southern Sichuan

From Chengdu it was on to Leshan to extend my visa and it's at this point I'd like to go on a little rant about the Chinese people. To be quite honest, dealing with a lot of the Chinese people who are over the age of 30 is nigh on impossible.

In China, a lot of the time I've found that if your not a persons direct problem then they don't care about you. Over the last 2 months I've had to deal with so much rudeness you would not believe - if you ask a Chinese person for directions etc and they don't want to answer you they won't apologise or say they don't know, they'll simply turn their back on you and walk away, more often than not whilst laughing (I've given up speaking to women over the age of 25 as it's a pointless task). People will go out of their way to avoid helping you, when it would be simpler to give the advice you need and don't get me started on the drivers.

There's a historical theory which goes something along the lines that China's 'One child per family policy' created a generation of spoiled children, and after having come through areas populated by these 'children' I fully support the theory that suggests a lot of the people in China are used to getting their own way: On my way into Leshan I had a small accident, nothing serious but I was sprawled in the middle of the road - what help did I get? None. Not a single person stopped, but 3 motorcyclists rode around my splatted body with one helpfully shouting 'Laowai' at me, whilst a bus that arrived on the scene seconds later simply drove up to me, stopped and repeatedly used his horn again and again until I picked up my sorry body and heaved myself off the road. By this time I was thoroughly sick of the attitude of this generation of Chinese people, who I have to say have soured my time in China. (But I have to say the refreshing thing that gives me optomism for the future, as it has done whereever I've been, is the attitude of the young people, who are looking to the future and embracing the outside world).

The pollution in China really is disgusting - this shows where a natural spring meets the polluted river - you can see how quickly the colour changes

After extending my visa in Leshan I embarked on what should have been a simple enough ride to Kunming - unfortunately once again the word 'simple' proved to be the wrong word to use as first of all I embarked down a road that wasn't on my map for 50km before being kicked off to a road that also wasn't on mine, or any of the other maps I've managed to find since. I eventually found out where I was (100km out of the way and going further wrong) and was forced to take a 2 day detour through the mountains and this is where the problems really began - first my chain snapped. This shouldn't have been a massive problem except that my chain tool had broken in Chengdu and the replacement wasn't being posted out till Christmas, but this was soon fixed (with yet more help from some legendary locals) and I was soon back on the road, only to hit more snow and for the weak link in the chain to snap again 2 days later. I was now really in trouble as I could only manage a partial repair job and with no help available for 300km I was treading on egg shells and going as slowly as possible. However my carefulness soon became even more irrelevant as with 180km to go to Kunming my rear derailleur snapped in two!

Snapped in two - Impressive

This was impressive, even by my standards and whilst I knew it would be satisfying to walk into the bike shop in Kunming and see the look of horror on the mechanics face as he wondered 'How the hell has he done that?' (a question I can't answer), the problem had left Tullulah looking severely like a domestic violence case: battered, bruised and now immobile, and had left me with the problem of actually getting to Kunming in the first place to get her fixed.

But help was at hand: In China the police presence is ridiculously big. Every village's largest building will be a fully staffed police station and throughout my time in China I'd learned that the authority figures in this country come in one of two forms: the first type of Policeman is the level-headed man who realises how pointless it is having a Police Station staffed with 20 full time officers in a village of 2,000 people where everybody knows everybody else, and will let you get on with your business. The second type is 'The Little Man', the type of person who's been given the smallest bit of authority and must show others that he has it by telling you you can't walk your bicycle down this street despite the fact theres 20 Chinese people doing the exact same thing (Undermining him by pointing this out doesn't help) or by telling you can't go through a Checkpoint the way you have and you have to go back 50 metres to walk round the side gate (In this case undermining him and refusing on the grounds of common sense actually worked as he pushed my bicycle the 50metres for me whilst I hopped over the barrier).

Luckily the Police Station I went to for help was filled with the former type: I was told that there was no bus to Kunming until tomorrow, but not to worry as I could spend the night with them: Over the following few hours I was treated to a tour of the Police Station, shown the cells, the supplies cupboard and even the unlocked cabinet in the unlocked room where the guns were kept, before being taken to a slap-up dinner with the entire force and then given my own private room on the third floor for me to sleep in - the whole time I was told by my new Police friends how bored they were in this job as no crime ever happened here and there was nothing to do, so it's fair to say we got on well and were both happy at the break from our routines. The police it has to be said have consistently been some of the kindest people I've met in China, and the next morning I was sent on the bus (they even paid for me) with a brand new Police thermos flask to boot!

Me with the local Police Officer

I arrived in Kunming with another 200km to add to the 'cheat' list that currently contains the other cheating part of my journey in Kazakhstan and that's where I'm writing this from. The bike's fixed and raring to go, whilst to be honest I can't wait to get out of China so hopefully I'll be back in contact again soon from Laos - sweet, laidback Laos! This is of course if the bike doesn't fall apart in the meantime.....

For anyone wondering what I think of the political situation in China I would love to write my opinions on it, and I will in the future. However as I have to come back to China to get to Korea and taking into account that this website is blocked out here, coupled with the fact my original visa application was rejected I think it's for the best I keep my mouth shut until I'm in a position where I don't need to come back.

Back in the groove

Leaving Almaty still highly frustrated at having to spend over a months budget on a simple Chinese Visa I found the perfect cure: A day and a half back on the road towards Krygyzstan I hit the last hill, caught a tailwind and spent the next two hours flying at an average of 25 mph as within no time at all was at the Krygyz border - a massive smile on my face that you can only get from riding a bike down a hill very fast!

Entering Krygyzstan was a big moment for me - there is a lot of conjecture on where continental boundaries lie and speaking to different travellers only seems to fuel the debate, so I've simply decided to use FIFA and their confederations as a guideline, and as such for the first time I officially considered myself out of Europe.

Out of Europe and within a further hour to Bishkek, the Capital of Krygyzstan, located just 20km south from the border and my home for the next 10 days as I had to post my passport back to the UK to get my Chinese Visa. The first impressions were good - friendly people, a vibrant city and best of all cheap, good food! I spent the first 2 nights staying with a guy named Kemo, but unfortunately he had to leave Bishkek for the weekend so I ended up for the next 8 days with the wonderful David and Jennifer, American newly weds who had just moved to Bishkek to work at the American school. I had a great time with these guys, enjoying their banter, talking American politics (for hours of entertainment with American travellers wherever you go simply mention Bush and sit back for the next 2 hours and listen) and also learning that if your staying with Americans for free it's probably best not to refer to the NFL as 'Wimps rugby'.

David and Jennifer on the left, Pauline and Camille at the front and myself with Patrick, who'd been picked up by Camille and Pauline at the back!

I also began to learn just how small the world is inside the traveller network and also that I was far from being the only cyclist in Bishkek! On my arrival at David and Jennifers I'd been told that there were other guests staying - entering the room to see the familiar faces of Camille and Pauline, who I'd met in Tbilisi, wasn't something I'd expected! And then the next day, when I'd arranged to meet my friend Danny, another cyclist I'd met back in Georgia, it turns out they knew him aswell! So it seems wherever you go there's always a familiar face - and more cyclists!

I met Danny at the guesthouse he was residing in and the last thing I expected was to be confronted by not one or two but 6 other cyclists: Danny from Switzerland, an Austrian couple on the road for 3 years and heading back, Andie - an Austrian heading the same way as me (albeit a bit faster), Coreen - a French lady out in Krygyzstan for her summer holidays and Alvaro - AKA the Biciclown - who's on the road for 10 years (he left in 2004 and has already gone from Spain to South Africa and back up via Turkey to Central Asia) and performs as a clown for local children as he travels - a truly inspirational individual (although probably a few screws lose to attempt something like this!) - remember the name as there'll be more on him later!

The Cyclists (And on Motorcyclist) in Bishkek

But after a week in Bishkek, a day at the circus, a horrendously failed attempt at dating a local and enough local cuisine to mean I needed to get back on the bike just to get some fitness back I finally got the e-mail to say that my passport had arrived at the delivery company. Like an excited child who's spent the last week grounded, I rode as fast as I could to collect it, too fast in fact, as I rode into the wing mirror of a taxi nearly smashing it right off - the driver found it hilarious for some reason and ushered me on way even whilst I was still trying to offer my apologies - and with the ink wet on my Chinese Visa I was free to leave the next morning.

Never too old for the circus

At 6 am the next day I said my goodbyes and hit the road. With all the faffing around I'd only cycled 2 days in the last 20 and the lack of exercise showed as the next few days I huffed and puffed my way up to Lake Issykol. On Alvaro's recommendation I'd decided to take the long route down to Osh, which involved 2 passes over 3,000 metres and 3 more of over 2,500. The first few days we're ok but each pass contained no roads, just dirt tracks - a nightmare as everytime a lorry came past (and with a gold mine locally there was a hell of a lot of these) it raised the dust and meant I couldn't see more than 10 metres and would invariably spend the next 5 minutes coughing my guts up.

But there was a saving grace - the Krygyz food. I've been trying to restrict myself to a budget of US $5 per day - in Krygyzstan this meant I lived like a king and if, like me, you don't know to much about Krygyz food let me fill you in - it's basically fat cooked in different ways. Fat in dumplings, fat in noodles or just fat served still attached to the bone. There was 2 types of traveller I'd met in Krygyzstan - those undertaking exercise, eg trekking or cycling, and those who were just travelling around: the latter type of traveller unanimously hated the food - whilst those, like me, who needed the fat, could not have been happier. And with the average plate costing around 90p life was good!

Arriving in Naryn (a big tourist spot in Krygyzstan yet still with a population of just 15,000) I sat down to eat in a local restaurant - 2 main courses, a large pot of tea and a litre of beer (yep, litre is a standard measure out here!) came to a little over $4 - I was in heaven!

I left Naryn the same day and headed on the road to Kazarman. I'd heard the route was difficult this way and the road was bad - but what I got I was in no way prepared for. Road conditions were terrible, meaning even on the flat I couldn't go faster than 6mph and up the hills I was crawling along at 3 mph - and this was steep! The pass was only 2,800 metres - I'd scaled higher - but this was by far and away the hardest days ride by a long way - and worst still whilst my map showed only one pass - it turned out there was three - all over 2,500 with long descents and hard climbs on each.

Better view from the top

Worse still, on a day where 6 hours on the bike had yielded barely 50km, I ran out of food. Camping for the night on an empty stomach I was lucky in the morning to find the village I'd banked on making the previous day and then, when I finally arrived I was confronted by another problem consistent in Krygyzstan - the shops. I arrived in a village of a good 200 houses - after asking around I was told there was only one shop and that I'd have to find the owner to open it before I could buy anything. After tracking her down, she opened up the shop and bearing in mind this was the only shop for 50 km, I was surprised to see she sold only 4 items - biscuits, pick & mix, super glue and vodka. I say 4 things, what I actually mean is the first three items, aswell as about 50 different brands of vodka.

It's unfair to generalise, but its no understatement to say that by 11 o'clock in the morning about 75% of Krygyz men were drunk - a breakfast of 20 cigarettes and a bottle of vodka (about $2 if you were wondering) seeing them through till about 4 o'clock where you'd then see the same men passed out anywhere and everywhere: on the roadside, in horse carts, under cafe tables - on that kind of diet it doesn't pay to be fussy about accomodation.

Leaving with a kilo of biscuits and a kilo of pick & mix the descent to Kazarman was surprisingly easy. Furthermore, for the previous 2 days in the dusty road it had been pretty apparent I'd been following the tracks of other cyclists. I'd wondered if it was any of the guys I'd met in Bishkek and 10 km from Kazarman I found it wasn't - it was 2 Germans - Ewald and Ingrid.

Ewald and Ingrid

I liked them instantly, not least because Ewald told me he'd cycled Tibet and the roads here were a lot worse. We rode together into Kazarman, enjoyed lunch and the more we spoke the more I enjoyed their company - they were both 71 (71!) and had both travelled the world extensively, with some amazing stories to tell and on this trip they were just spending 6 weeks in Krygyzstan doing the circular route from Bishkek. However with time ticking on my Krygyz visa I knew I had to leave that afternoon and after speaking to Ewald and Ingrid they decided to take a taxi for the next stage, another 3,100 metre pass (I liked Ewald even more after he gave it the macho 'I could cycle it but my wife wouldn't make it') and I was left to leave town on my own.

I wasn't alone for long however - as after another 2 hours I could see a cyclist in the distance - it was Alvaro! I caught up with him, said hello and was again reassured that the first conversation exchange was simply looking at each other and saying 'these f**king roads'.

We decided to ride together and for me this was great. I'd never ridden with anyone before so to do so with someone who's already been on the road for 4 years was great as not only did it give me company, it gave me the chance to pick his brains on my route and get some general tips. He didn't dissapoint, giving me all the information I needed for Africa, helping me fix my stove and even giving smaller hints like how it can help to flag down cars on dust roads to ask irrelevant questions, as this way you don't get a face full of dust for every car that passes.

Alvaro on the road

3 days later and we arrived in Osh for a well earned rest day. The first night we strolled down town for a meal when a voice came from the darkness, "My friend".

Figuring it was an annoying salesmen we carried on walking - it came again, getting louder - "My friend, please stop".

We ignored again and strolled a further 20 metres to the safety town square before being tapped on shoulder by the now out of breath man - "When I say stop you stop!", he yelled.

Me and Alvaro looked at each other: This guy wasn't in uniform, we hadn't done anything wrong and we had our documents to prove who we were - I was too tired to talk but Alvaro took the lead.

"Who are you? What is your job?"

"My job is to protect the tourists in this town" he panted, flashing a card that looked like it must have cost 6 tokens off the back off of a Rice Crispies box.

"So you try to take us to a dark alley and then run after us and shout at us?"

The man was getting visibly annoyed but sitting back to watch Alvaro, who'd had a lot of practice at dealing with beauracratic people like this, it was impressive to see the angry man leave 5 minutes later, tail between his legs, apologising to us and not having seen any of the documents he wanted to.

The hotel room 5 minutes after we arrived

Leaving Osh was a difficult manner: Alvaro wanted more time but with time ticking on my Krygyz visa and having heard of yet more bad road conditions between there and the Chinese border, coupled with horror stories of people not being allowed through I made the difficult decision to leave a few hours earlier - the plan being to meet on the Chinese side of the border.

The ride started easily enough - 180km on patchy asphalt to the town of Sary Tash, going via a 3,600 metre pass (the highest point of the tour to date) and all set to stunning scenery.

Entering Sary Tash

The next 80 km to the border however were back onto the ridiculously bad roads - crawling at 5mph along flat boring roads. The weather also began to turn - as the darkness set in my stove failed and with the temperature plummeting to -10 I left the half cooked pasta and water in the pot over night - the photo below shows how I found it the next day!

The pasta I'd left in a pot, -10 degrees took it's toll on it!

Battling the bad roads and occasional snow, I made it to the border where I was offered free accomodation to stay and settled in for the night glad to be inside. I'd been offered to stay with the owners of a local cafe because in their words 'You cycle here from England, we don't make you pay' (maybe I should be milking this more) and that night I was treated like a king - and the culmination of my time in Krygyzstan? At 11 at night the carcus of a sheep was bought in - the next 2 hours I was treated to watch (and occasionally help) 3 men and 2 women take knives and axes to the meat, as over time the animal went from being recognisable to starting to look like the next days lunch - it wasn't for the squeamish and with one lightbulb illuiminating the whole room was reminiscent of a horror film - but nonetheless it was spectacular to observe and is something that'll stick with me for a long time!

The next morning I was up and out (no lamb for breakfast though) and was the first person over the border. Given how hard it had been to get a Chinese Visa, the horror stories I'd heard of people being refused entry and learning of other cyclists having all their kit taken out of their bags, their luggage scrutinised and their Lonely Planet books thrown in the bin I was surprised at how lax the security was - my bags weren't checked, I was simply asked what books I had - I got through without even taking my hat off.

I crossed the border in under an hour and was free to enjoy something I'd been missing for a long time - proper asphalt. I waited for Alvaro but had no idea where he was so pushed onto Kashgar - the next two passes which were both 50metres short of 3,000 really hammering home how fit I was and how much easier cycling is on good roads!

I arrived 2 days later to Kashgar (Alvaro showed up just 2 hours later and we'd missed each other several times by mere minutes) and now it's time for some rest!

First impressions of China? It's a culture shock! For a start there's people - something scarce in Krygyzstan. And unlike the morons I met at the Chinese Embassy everyone seem's friendly, warm and helpful - even the border guards. The foods good and spectacularly cheap (50p for a bigger plate of noodles than it's possible to eat) and best of all everyone cycles - although it's easy to see how theres 300 road deaths a day with the way people drive.

The laws unclear on the legality of cycle touring in China so it'll be interesting to see if I have any problems with the PSB but in the meantime that's it for this leg of the journey - the next 2 months is a mad dash of 5,500 kilometres in 55 days across the mountains to Laos - I'll be in contact then but in the meantime I'm just hoping it doesn't get to cold!

Extra Pictures

An improvised meal when low on ingredients

A better meal - presentation isn't everything

Krygyz kids helping me get water

Repairs on the Dolon Pass

Testing Times In Kazakhstan

In the last blog I felt I'd been a bit hard on Azerbaijan. Then on my last day in the country I was again hassled by the Police for money (The Baku constabulary are little more than uniformed beggars) and was charged 3 times the price of what I should have paid for my boat ticket to Kazakhstan - the lady in the ticket office even kind enough to use a calculator and a botched exchange rate to show just how much of my money she would be pocketing for herself.

She had the boat tickets, she also knew I had the money and as such my bargaining power was below zero and I got on the boat dissapointed to leave a country where it was impossible not to feel at times that the majority of people were 'on the take'.

After boarding the boat however, my losses were put into perspective when I ran into teams from England and Spain competing in the Mongol Rally - an annual race/leisurely drive in the aid of charity from either London or Madrid to Mongolia. The teams I had met had encountered even more corruption than I had and most reported being stopped twice a day - with the worst off having been left out of pocket by up to $500 (and of course no paperwork to go with the fines).

So it was fair to say I was with a group of people who, like me, were just happy to be on the boat and heading for Kazakhstan. As we left the harbour the beers were cracked out, music was played on a guitar and as the sunset on the party atmosphere it was easy to sit back and remember that times like this are exactly why we travel.

A celebrational atmosphere as the boat leaves Baku

Waking up the next morning conversation turned to when the boat would arrive in Aktau. I'd heard 18 hours, the Spanish had heard 20 and the English teams just hoped for somewhere in between: I don't think it surprised anyone when we finally docked 38 hours later. It was another 2 hours before we were finally let off the boat only to encounter more problems: It had been difficult enough dealing with the Azeri Police who went out of their way to break to the rules but in Kazakhstan they didn't even know them. And as such I had to wait another 2 hours while 3 guards talked furiously, checked rule books and argued with each other before deciding that, like I had pointed out 2 hours previously, my bicycle didn't need registration papers.

Me, Marie, her father and Roi at Aktau Port

As I headed through customs I met Roi, Marie and her father. Marie and her father had cycled from Thailand and were headed back to their home in Brittany, whilst for a real hard luck story there was Roi. (Edit - it turns out I was completely wrong about Roi - to read his story check out his comment at the bottom of the page!)

I was upset for him when I heard about his troubles, he was a good guy and had even kind enough to swap books with me as I travelled so I could get the Lonely Planet Central Asia. Upon recieving this book for some unknown reason I'd felt the desire to look up the passage on the boat from Azerbaijan to Aktau: ' There are irregular boats every week to 10 days between Baku and Aktau. One of these ferries sunk in 2002 killing all 51 people on board'.

I really must do more research!

Finally being free I was left to consult my map. I had already spent 3 days of my alloted 30 day visa simply getting here and given that I had to get visas in Almaty this realistically left me with just 21 days to cover the 3,700 km between Aktau and Almaty....hmmmmm.

This unlikely task became an impossible one the moment I met Slava. I had originally gone to the beach to try to find somewhere to sleep but we soon struck up a conversation and before I know it I was invited to stay and that his friend ran a bar in downtown Aktau - what happened next I couldn't tell you but given that I woke up the next day with a splitting headache and with the ammount of money gone from my wallet suspiciously correlational to 3 rounds of the local vodka I can probably just about work it out. Worse still I then had to leave the comfort of a nice cosy house for what was one of the biggest challenge yet - the Ustyurt Desert.


I accidently left my riding t-shirt in Baku - Slava was kind enough to give me one of his

The next 5 days weren't fun, and as if sweating vodka wasn't bad enough conditions were made worse by so many different factors: There were no roads, just dirt tracks. Towns were randomly dotted every 100km or so, meaning everytime I wanted water I had to flag down a truck. There was no cover anywhere so I was having to sleep in drainage ducts below the road, oh, and the headwinds. Dear god the headwinds. It was tough. Very tough. But at least in my mind it confirmed a few things: Struggling to travel 80km a day I now knew I had to get a train for part of the journey in Kazakhstan and a quick bit of maths told me that whilst I could no longer cycle the entire journey, I could at least climb the mountains.


At least Kazakh road signs are honest

I arrived in the town of Benieu, with the destination of Janaghorkan in my mind as this is where the contours on my map started. With no direct trains I hopped on the first train for 8 hours before swapping in Makat: I've often found it difficult to work out if I could call myself an adventure traveller or not, but in Makat I earned my stripes and had something happen to me that no travel story is proper without - my wallet was stolen!

Worse still it coincided with being a Saturday and also the first day of the football season: Depressed at the loss, I was left to sit in the train station alone, looking at my watch and thinking about what would be going on at home right now: 12 o'clock - I'd be cooking the bacon sandwiches for me and Dad. 1 o'clock - set off on the drive for Loftus Road. 5 o'clock - leave ground complaining about performance regardless of result. 8 o'clock - meet up with friends with a few beers in the same bars. Every week without fail.

The routine I'd been so desperate to break free from, even if only for a year or two, now sounded so beautiful, so fun, so much better than sitting alone, walletless in a place where nobody speaks the same language as you: For the first time I didn't just miss home, I wanted to be there.

One of the problems I've still not solved is how to tell people I don't like their food. These lovely ladies served me what seemed like raw sweetcorn in sour-milk - as tasty as it sounds. However not wanting to offend and

only knowing the Russian word for good I was able to leave not only without hurting their feelings, but also with a fine stomach ache to boot.

But here I was and the next 24 hours were spent on a train to my destination (£10 for a day on a train with sleeping facilities for all - take note British Rail!) and it was back into the heat and headwinds on the road to Almaty.

After a few more days riding I happened to pass an Internet Cafe. It was interesting to see a comment on the last blog about how I wasn't really spending much time in the destinations I was travelling to - logging on for the first time in 12 days to find the place I'd been just 2 weeks previously was now a full on warzone I suddenly felt pretty justified in this! There had been a strong military presence when I was in Georgia, but none of the people I had met expected this and all I can do is hope that the scores of good people I met in the country are ok.

I met this family at a truck stop on the road to Almaty - they insisted on buying me dinner but refused to eat with me!

3 days later, having survived several attacks from moronic drivers (I'm not surprised they didn't understand the words I angrily shouted in their direction but I am surpised they couldn't work out the hand signals) I arrived in Almaty - which to be honest is a strange place. Its beautifully set in the shadow of snow capped mountains, with some stunning views of the city available and some wonderful architechture to boot. But for some reason the people didn't seem happy: people walking round with their heads looking at the floor, never smiling, never saying hello to each other and in many cases doing their best to avoid conversation all together.

The people I did meet I asked (as I do wherever I go) if they like living in their city. The only person I met who said 'yes' did so as he was filling out forms to move to China for the next 2 years. Others who said no gave varying reasons; the generic 'its too expensive' and 'there's nothing for young people to do' were responses I was used to hearing, but it didn't stop there. 'There are to many Asian faces' may not be the politically correct opinion but when coupled with the view of a Kazakh girl I met who told me 'I was born in the early 80's. At that time we had our own culture, we were proud. Now everybody is just trying to be European, we are not European. I don't like it.' and it could offer insight into some of the underlying social problems facing Almaty in the future.

But in truth whilst I was in Almaty I had one thing on my mind - with already a Krygyz Visa in my passport and a Pakistani Visa being processed I went to the Chinese Embassy to apply for the missing link in my route. On my first visit there I arrived at 9 o'clock only to be told that I would need to arrive earlier if I wanted to get inside as the queue was now 130 people and anyway I could not apply for a tourist visa without a letter of invitation and could not get a transit visa without an onward visa. I half expected this so I went away, sent some e-mails which confirmed what I had already known: that it was currently impossible to get the letter I needed as there was a ban until after the Olympics and that nobody would ever issue one for a transit visa anyway as you didn't need one. 2 days later, with the ink still wet on my Pakistani visa I returned to the Embassy to apply for my transit visa. This time, after queing for 6 hours I was refused because my application was in written ink as opposed to on computer - there was a man with a business opposite the embassy who made his living by writing peoples applications out on computer but he'd refused to serve me because I was English.

I was angry. Very angry. But after an embassy guard literally stood over and watched to make sure the man in the booth served me, I was then told that with the computerised document I now had everything I needed to apply and to come back early Monday morning.

By now I'd learned quickly that the organisation here was shambolic and the Embassy were doing their best to make it as difficult as possible for people just to get inside the building - let alone obtain a visa.

I wasn't taking chances. Half 3 on the Monday morning I arrived (and was still only 10 in the list!). By 5am the list was at 30 (only 28 people had gotten inside on the Friday), by 6 it was 65 and by 9, when the embassy opened 126 names were on the list waiting to come inside. But I was one of the first inside and what happened next will gaul me for the rest of my trip.

I entered, sat down and gave the clerk my application.

"Ok, you are from England. I don't think you can make this trip"
"Why not?"
"You have no letter of invitation"
"It is impossible to get a letter of invitation for a transit visa"
"I know"
"I also have proof of onward travel"
"I know"
"So what is the problem?"
"You have no letter of invitation"
"I don't understand the problem"
"I know"

There was a pause before he spoke again:

"But just so you know, it is not me who decides, it is this man"

He pointed behind me, I turned around and my heart sank.

A man of about 5 ft 8, pencils tucked into top pocket alongside a 15cm ruler, not a hair out of place and his name badge at exact right angles to his top pocket, the kind of man who had never been in love but whose heart had never stopped beating since the day he first held a clipboard: I knew from the first moment I set my eyes on this Chinese version of 'Rimmer' that I would not be getting my visa.

He rejected the 2 people in front of me, both of whom had the required Letter of Invitation and then took great joy in having one of them removed from the building because 'we cannot have any more than 8 people in this room at one time'. Deflated I handed over my application - he took one look at it and laughed, directly into my face before smirking the word 'nyet' as if asking for something I had everything that was required for was the worlds most ridiculous request.

I could've taken politeness: a 'we are very sorry Mr Blake, but you cannot make this journey at this time', or a 'It is a regretful situation but there is nothing I can do'. To be laughed at by a jobsworth I couldn't.

I left heart broken, but I did however have an ace up my sleeve. As I write this I've had to send my passport back to Britain - and what will I recieve? A 2 month Chinese Visa courtesy of a British tourist agency.

I wonder if the irony would be lost on my friend in the embassy: The Chinese don't want me to be there. If my friend at the Embassy had issued me the transit visa I wouldn't be there. Personally I want to be in Pakistan.

But after all of this I'm going to make sure as hell I enjoy my 2 months in China!

And that's my favourite joke in The Simpsons...

And then Smithers says to Mr Burns ‘Women and Sea-men don’t mix’, and that’s my favourite joke in The Simpsons. Because that’s what they’re doing. They’re sat at home eating their TV dinners, sitting on their sofas and their watching the f*cking Simpsons.

My favourite line from my favourite movie, but I can guarantee that whilst most of you reading this have seen the film, not many of you will be able to recall where it’s from.
It’s delivered with subtlety, the focus drawn to more important characters and if you do watch the film but don’t hear this line, it really makes no difference to the story, but to those of us who do notice it, sometimes the small touches of genius can really make a massive difference - and for me this is the perfect way to describe my time in Georgia. If I had been more organised I almost definitely wouldn’t have taken myself through this wonderful country, but I can’t describe how glad I am that I came.

Due to having to wait for a parcel in Trabson I had ended up spending 6 nights there and previously I’d found that when I’d got settled like that, motivating myself to get back on the bike was one of the harder things to do – not from Trabson it wasn’t. In Austria I’d been told the local joke that Austrian diplomacy’s greatest achievement was getting the world to believe that Hitler was German and Mozart was Austrian; in line with this Turkish diplomacy’s greatest achievement is getting the outside world to think Trabson is a tourist destination. The Trabsonians I had spoken to had told me things along the lines of ‘ah yes, Trabson is the best place in Turkey; we have beautiful beaches, the best fish restaurants and of course the spectacular Sumela Monastery.’ Not strictly true though, is it my Turkish friends? The beaches are 6km out of town one way, the restaurants 4km out of town the other way and the Sumela Monastery is 44km or an hour and a half bus ride away from Trabson, tucked high up in the mountains. So whilst the town itself is nice enough, there’s very little you wouldn’t be able to find in any Turkish town and as a result it’s no surprise that on my first day out of Trabson I was only to happy to get away.

A day and a half later and I arrived at the Georgian border. I was sad to see the end of my time in Turkey, it had been a good home to me for the previous month and the excitement of seeing a football team actually winning had left the country with a feel good factor that had lasted long after the European Championships but as I approached the border, I can’t lie, I was looking forward to a change of scenery.

And boy, was it a different culture. The further east I’d traveled in Turkey the more religiously conservative it had become. One of the more bizarre memories I’ll have of my trip is always going to be that of a lady swimming in full Muslim dress with only her face showing as she struggled desperately against the sea whilst trying to teach her baby son to swim, so I found it somewhat amusing that the first thing you come to in Georgia, just 3km into the country and still just about in view of Turkey, is a beach which was home to hundreds of Georgian girls in scantily clad bikinis, an equal number of macho guys and a big party atmosphere with a barbecue on the beach, party music on the stereo and even jet ski races going on out at sea – situated so close to the border the first impression was that Georgia wanted to be fun, and it wanted Turkey to see it was fun.

But I wasn’t here for the beach, and 15 km into the country I turned in land and started towards the mountains and my target of the Goderdzi Pass, located not just 100km away but also 2 vertical kilometers up at an altitude of 2025m. The climb was long and difficult. My map had told me I was on a main road, however what my map didn’t tell me was that after 60 km the road was made of dirt and stones and that even the trucks were struggling. With the road changing it meant time to change my tyres from the ones that had done me so well from England, to the new mountain bike tyres I’d had sent to me in Trabson. As I was sat carrying out the changes in what I thought was a quiet spot away from civilization it soon became apparent I wasn’t in as quieter spot as I thought I was and I was soon surrounded by a local family, who after watching me finish working ushered me into their home for dinner, not to mention several shots of Chacha – homemade vodka served from an old Fanta bottle.

Their home, my first experience of a Georgian mountain house, was perhaps as you might expect: The house was made almost entirely of wood, there were large holes in the wall, no glass in the windows – just an empty frame instead, and upstairs (which you got to by a ladder from the outside of the house) there were 2 bedrooms, one for the parents and one for the 6 children I met. The downstairs had 2 rooms; one was a kitchen which had the women preparing food in, the other, the living/dining room, consisted of one table and 6 chairs.

Oh, and a flat screen TV.

A flat screen TV showing MTV Base.

I stayed for an hour, enjoyed their company, thanked them for their hospitality and left grinning as in my mind I pictured a traditional Georgian family, high up in the mountains huddled together on a cold snowy night, the heat escaping through their glassless windows as they all gather round to watch Dizzee Rascal perform on their flat screen TV. A truly heartwarming image.

My new Georgian friends: I was offered the hand of all 3 daughters!

The pass was a couple of hours further up the mountain and as I was nearing it darkness began to set in. I asked a passing driver how far away I was and he said 3 km. I traveled 8 and still hadn’t found it but by this time not only was it getting dark, but I was in thick cloud and visibility was pretty much zero so reluctantly I admitted defeat for the day and pulled off to side of the road and set up camp.

After such a climb falling asleep wasn’t too difficult, but I was woken up at 6 am by the sound of something going through my panniers. A thief? No, it was too heavy footed, and besides, it sounded like it was eating. Startled and still half asleep I put some clothes on, stuck my head out the tent and what did I see? A cow making off with my breakfast, that’s what I saw.

Without thinking I jumped out to shoo it off – this was a stupid thing to do and the scared animal ran straight over the bike, the clumsy feet of a heavy animal kicking poor Tullulah all over the place. I was worried – my confidence in being a bicycle mechanic was growing slowly but the thought of what the weight of a fully grown cow could do with the combination of being in the middle of nowhere at the top of the mountain meant that if there was some serious damage I’d be in serious trouble.

Thankfully after a couple of tests it seemed the only damage was that the cow had kicked the front derailleur out of place and after this had been carefully fixed I was free to enjoy the spectacular view. I didn’t have an altimeter with me but I knew that 2025m was higher than I’d been on the tour so far and if you ever want to feel truly free, there aren’t many better ways to do it than to wake up and be able to look down on the clouds. The fresh mountain air filling my lungs combined with stunning views made up for the reduced breakfast I was left with.

Not a bad view to wake up to!

It turned out the pass was just 500 metres further on from where I’d camped and after sailing over I was left to enjoy a day of descent. This would have been even more enjoyable if the rest of the day hadn’t gone as badly as it started: a puncture whilst flying downhill at 30mph almost killing me and then, far worse I would spend the next two days recovering from eating out-of-date sardines – I had been lucky in not suffering any illness up to this point, but the first bout of illness came from the worst possible cause: rancid fish.

A couple of days later and after an afternoon in Gori, the birthplace of a certain Josef Stalin, I arrived in Tbilisi in the pouring rain with my mind away in the clouds hoping that my mountain families TV would survive the storm.

For what it’s worth Tbilisi is a beautiful city, but at the same time is a massive misrepresentation of what Georgia is like. The city does its best to give off a European vibe, and with a lot of the locals asking if I think Georgia should be in the EU (seriously, what the hell am I going to say to that?) there is a strong desire in the culture to become as ‘European’ as possible. The architecture is beautiful in places and by night I have been to fewer more picturesque cities – so in contrast to some of the eyesores I saw on my way in it made a pleasant change.

I was in the city for 5 days whilst my Azeri visa was processed and during this time I aimed to do as little as possible, which I achieved quite nicely and the only other events to report were that I met 2 other cyclists: Andy, who had cycled to Georgia and had been living here for 6 months, but was due to set off again in September, and Danny, a Swiss cyclist who was about 5 days ahead of me on near enough the same route – whilst he’s headed for Turkmenistan, I’ll be in Kazakhstan, but we will be in China about the same time on the same route and I’m personally looking forward to hopefully bumping into him again (and steeling his spare supplies).

Finally, on Monday 21st I left Tbilisi with a shiny new Azeri stamp in my passport and made the border the same evening.

Baku was 600 km away - all you need to know about the ride is that it was long, hot (35 degree average in the day), flat and very, very boring; so instead of the details of the ride I would like to talk about my experiences of the Azeri people.

I have to be honest – everything Georgia was, Azerbaijan was not and my week on Azeri roads has been the hardest week mentally so far.

The main pleasure I find in cycling is the solitude, the time to think, the chance to be getting by independently and most of all the quiet that the countryside can offer: In Azerbaijan it has been impossible to get any of these things.

On the roads the drivers were bad enough. On my second day in the country, sick of the constant sound of horns I did an experiment to see how long it would take to hear 100 car horns - 11 minutes later I’d lost count. Off the road life has been just as tough. Every time I stop for a break at the side of a road I had to make sure I couldn’t be seen or else within minutes several cars would have stopped and wouldn’t leave again until I had gone. Worse still the overwhelming majority of Azeri’s seem to have no concept whatsoever of ‘personal space’. Every town, every shop, every cafe I stopped in I would come out to find people poking through my bags, playing with my brakes trying to push buttons on my odometer: We’re not talking children here either, these are adults. The worst case was in the town of Agsu, where after stopping to ask for directions from a policeman (whilst still straddling my bike) his friend started going through my bar bag, took out my wallet and started going through my cards. I wrenched the wallet out of his hands and said something which made my anger clear. The policeman (who spoke good English) apologised for his friend and ushered him away, but as he left I could see the look on his face told me he still had absolutely no clue as to what he’d done wrong.

Of course, as a Muslim country, there was still a large emphasis on hospitality and making your guest feel welcome but even this became tedious as it soon became apparent just how much of a money obsessed, materialistic country Azerbaijan is. In Turkey and Georgia the questions had been ‘Where are you from?’, ‘Where are you going?’, ‘Do you like my country?’. In Azerbaijan the first question I was asked before any of these was ‘How much does your bicycle cost?’ usually followed by ‘How much money do you have?’ and then more of ‘How much does your watch/ glasses/ shoes cost?’. This materialistic nature is reflected heavily in the arrogance of many of the young-men of Azerbaijan. The fake designer-clothes trade appears to be roaring and the overwhelming attitude, especially to a cyclist was one of ‘look at that guy, why would anyone ever need to ride a bike when I can be the mutts-nuts driving a Vauxhall Opel wearing a t-shirt that had Armani written on it around 300 times?’.

In hindsight I feel like I've been harsh on Azerbaijan - there were some good views!

I spent the entire week being the butt of jokes, avoiding maniac drivers and after 2 days, doing my best to avoid all social situations before arriving in Baku on the Sunday morning.

Baku, like Tbilisi before it but on a bigger scale, is a mass misrepresentation of how the majority of people in Azerbaijan live. The oil trade has pumped money into the rich part of the city and made it visually stunning. Unlike the majority of the country the streets are clean, well maintained and the housing is of good quality with further improvements still ongoing. I’m staying with a host out here and when I mentioned how nice it was in Baku to one of his friends I was promptly told ‘You haven’t seen the rest of the country’.

Unfortunately I had – the gap between rich and poor in the country is growing and with seemingly few plans in place for what to do when the oil runs out (estimated to be in about 10-15 years) the future for a country who’s inhabitants revolve around money could be very interesting indeed.

As for me, I’m here till the boat for Kazakhstan turns up. Thanks for reading and the blog for Kazakhstan will hopefully be up in about a month.

My second night in Baku - The picture is with Ali, my host, who's been nothing short of a saviour for me out here!

A Big Contrast In Asia Minor

My time in Istanbul can be simply divided into two parts: My time as a tourist and my time as a guest.

I had arrived tired, stressed and in need of a break - and it soon became spectacularly clear that the tourist centre of Istanbul was the last place I needed to be.
"Hey my friend, where you from? England? Come to my restaurant, lovely jubbly", "You come with me, I have best shop in Istanbul" and perhaps best of all "I shine your shoes, only 25 lira, money goes to childrens hospital" were all phrases I got used to hearing repeatedly as desperate street sellers would repeatedly grab my arm to try to get me to buy things I had no interest in; the hassle was constant, the decibel level high and the stress levels for simply walking down a street were just to much and pretty soon I'd given up with being a tourist. Istanbul's famous sites; the Blue Mosque, Dolmabahce Palace and the Saint Sophia all looked fantastic from the outside but ask me what they were like to see and I wouldn't be able to tell you and instead I was more than happy to spend the next 3 days playing chess with the receptionist at the hostel, setting up a self-indulgent Facebook group and hiding away from the hassle of the outside world.

But then my luck changed.

My Dad had originally put me into contact with Ozhan, one of his co-workers from their companies Istanbul office, with the aim of getting some help with Turkish translation and little did I know I would spend the next 3 nights with him and his friends getting an insiders view of Istanbul. The moment I was with a local the hassle stopped, the prices I was paying for things lowered and best of all by being in an office I got to get a glimpse of what everyday life was like again. Whilst seemingly every other tourist in Istanbul was outside in the places I didn't want to be, I was at my happiest in an underground car park with 3 grown men who had stayed behind after work to play with a remote control miniature truck, getting it to jump as high as possible over my panniers - a rare glimpse of normality!

The sharper of you reading this blog may ask why I stayed 6 nights in a city where I clearly had no interest in seeing any of the sights. Well there's a simple answer for this; my final night in Istanbul coincided with the Turkey v Croatia game.
For the previos week every television in Turkey had shown nothing else other than repeated highlights of the Turkish comeback against the Czech Republic and with a semi-final place at stake the atmosphere in Istanbul was electric. Better still I was with Ozhan in a residential suburb, watching the game in a local cafe, able to get a feel for what the game really meant to the locals.

It was certainly an experience. Watching a game in an alcohol free environment is a bizarre experience for any English sports fan and as for the game itself,well, lets be honest, if Turkey had lost there really could have been no complaints. But for those of you who don't know Croatia scored in the last minute of extra time to seemingly win the game, only for Turkey to score 30 seconds later with the last kick of the game and then win on penalties. The depressing low followed by the dizzying high, which peaked when an Ozhan bear-hug nearly broke my glasses, soon swept out onto the streets. Cars driving at 100kph down main roads tooting their horns as loudly as possible, 40ft flags hastily being hung down every street and within 10 minutes a marching mob of what must have been around 2,000 forming chanting the nations football anthem 'TURKİYEEE - TURKİYEEE' before turning to their attentions to bouncing cars and vans from side to side. I struggle to do justice to the scenes I saw that night (although there are videos on the Facebook group for the members on there) but the atmosphere was something I'll savour for a long time - I certainly won't be holding my breath for an England penalty shoot-out victory, thats for sure.

The following morning, with the city still buzzing, the curtain came down on my time in Istanbul and with new friends and warm memories I got the boat to the Asian side of the city (I still haven't forgiven Turkey for not letting cyclists ride across the bridge) and set about finding the road to the Black Sea Coast where I would spend the next 2 weeks with the aim of getting to Trabzon for my birthday on the 5th of July. To give a rough indication of the size of Istanbul on my way in to the city after crossing the city border I had stopped for a chat with a local cyclist who has asked where I was going etc and told me that from where we were on the edge of the Istanbul to my hostel was 40 km - he hadn't been wrong and leaving was no different as it was a further 17 miles before I eventually got out to the countryside.

The scenery was fantastic and it was good to see that a week sat around had refreshed my body rather than lost too much fitness, a fact made even more important when the following day I did some maths and realised that I had stupidly got my distances wrong and left myself with just 12 days to cover the 1,200 kilometres to Trabzon.

This was my first time riding a coast line and if I'm honest there was definetely an aspect to it I did not enjoy. The scenery was beautiful, the roads were good and although I was struggling to get my 100km a day in even the hills were fun. But the aspect I did not enjoy was the predictability; when riding a coast line constantly at the back of your mind is that you know whats coming up and when. The next 3 days were spent as follows; climb 4 miles, descend 4 miles. Climb another 6 miles, descend another 6 miles. A steady climb for 12 miles, a steady descent for 12 miles. The variation depressingly lacking as each descent left me dejected at sea level, knowing that in the 30 degree heat the only way I could look was up.

Of course there were distractions: Cows on the road when your in the middle of a 30mph descent is always entertaining and even more dangerously on the 3rd day as I hit the middle of another descent a child 100 metres or so in front ran out in the road waving his arms for me to stop. This had happened before for me with children wanting me to stop to look at the strange man and his stranger bicycle and if I had stopped everytime I had been shouted to I'd still be somewhere near Istanbul so I didn't feel to bad that I had no intention of slowing down. He, on the otherhand had a different idea and no matter which side of the road I moved to he jumped in front of the bike. I slowed down to pass but he jumped out in front of me; if I hadn't stopped he wouldn't have got out of the way and as I stopped about a metre from a collision, completely unfazed that I had nearly run him over he stuck out his hand and said 'Lira'. Great. I had been stopped by a beggar child. I moved round him and tried to ride off except now his new plan was to try to climb onto the back of my bike. I tried to ride off before he got on but instead of letting go he chose to hold onto the rack 'water ski' style. This was extremely dangerous for all of 2 metres and I had no choice but stop again, remove him and then as I tried to leave again he jumped back on and before I eventually managed to get rid of him his mother had shown up to also ask for money. A new foe on my trip it would seem - the suicidal child.

With that obstacle conquered I moved on and was happy to make it to Bartin 2 days later for the semi-final of the football. The whole town had shown up to watch on a big screen placed in the town centre and whilst the atmosphere was no 'Istanbul' the mood was good but its at this point, if I may, that I'd like to raise an issue.

My attitude since leaving home has been that 'I am here to see the world, not to change it' but something really needs to be done about the ammount of people in parts of Eastern Europe and Turkey wearing Man Utd and Chelsea shirts. I could understand if I was in a 3rd world country and these were clothes that people in the UK had bought, realised their tragic error and then donated to charity instead, but whilst my blog has mentioned beggars a couple of times, Turkey really is not that poor of a country (and from speaking to locals they can't see any reason why they won't be able to join the EU shortly) and depressingly these shirts are being worn through choice. Something needs to be done, and if anyone has anyway we can start to change the world for the better on this issue then please don't hesitate to contact me - theres something very depressing about seeing a 10 year old Turkish boy with the name 'Ronaldo' on his back.

Of course the game didn't quite go to plan, so even though the performance was good the result meant that the town centre emptied within 5 minutes of the final whistle and for the first time in 2 weeks something other than football was on the television sets in the shop windows that I was passing.

The next two days with yet more tough riding took me through the beautiful town of Amasra before a gruelling day left me absolutely shattered on the fringes of a small village called Buyukduz. Its worth saying that in 2 months not once had I beed removed from a camping site and only on a couple of occasions had I even been noticed, but tonight was not my night and as I started cooking a man in the only house within view came over, realised I spoke no Turkish and as such got the landowner to come along and move me along. Now normally this would have been no problem, except that at this moment in time I was toast. I simply could not move and after finishing eating I kept my word and left the place I had hoped to camp only to move to a side road about 50 metres further on. I really couldn't manage much more and I got out my sleeping bag and roll mat (too tired and late to bother with a tent) and crawled up under a gate to try to get to sleep. At the bottom of the road there was 1 house with a light on, so in my mind if they were home and it was late at night I was safe to stay there. So on that basis, I was a bit surprised when the exact same man who had thrown me off of his field turned down to where I was sleeping, which turned out to be his front driveway. I don't know many Turkish swear words but I get a feeling a few were used as he stood by his car ushering me away. He told me there was a hotel 10 km down the road - not a chance of me making that and after leaving I ended up just 30 metres down the road and collapsed into long grass where thankfully I wasn't bothered again.

Every cloud has a silver lining though and the positive of sleeping outdoors is waking up when the sun rises, at around 4 am in Turkey, means that I can get up and out before the 30degree plus heat of the day, and whats more today was a special day.

The 29th of June marked 2 months on the road for me and I have to admit it felt satisfying to watch my Odometer tick over 3,000 miles and then demoralising after blowing up my inflatable globe to see how far I still had left to travel. And of course to celebrate the anniversary, after 3 weeks of solid sunshine I got a storm. Thunder, lightning and heavy rain left me soaking and after having already turned down the offer of a free camping place because I'd needed to get more miles in I ended up camping on top of a hill, cold, wet, without a shower in 8 days and in dirty clothes. For the first time in a while I was missing home and I already felt dejected when, with full waterproofs on I was carrying my bags up a hill only to slip and fall in the mud covering myself in clay like mud. My name is not Margot, being covered head to toe in filth is not my idea of The Good Lıfe and I'm man enough to admit that being so close to my birthday and yet so far from home, a tear came to my eye. However I'm not man enough to admit what I did next.

The next morning I woke to find the sun back cutting a lone figure in the sky and was a lot happier after having had quick swim-wash and even happier to find that despite being 360 miles away from my destination with 3 days left of riding, the rest of my journey would be along a flat ground.The next day began to show me just how fit I was and as I managed a 95 mile day without breaking sweat I was safe in the knowledge that my body would not be the thing that would stop me from getting to Trabzon.

However there were still dangers. My pump, which had been secured to the back of the bike for the duration of my trip had dissapeared 2 days previously, I'm guessing on one of the white knuckle descents, so whilst I hadn't had a puncture since Germany one now and I'd be in trouble.

And then of course there was the Turkish drivers. As I write this blog which has reflected badly on beggars and will now go on to slate bad drivers, I feel that it's worth mentioning how much I have enjoyed being with the overwhelming majority of Turkish people. They have shown me unrivalled levels of hospitality, have done their utmost to ensure I'm having an enjoyable stay whilst I have been in their country and I've lost count of the ammounts of roadside cups of tea I have enjoyed with new Turkish friends over the last few weeks, so please, I recommend Turkey to anyone who's reading this (and if you do go to Turkey make sure you go to at least 1 place that isn't in Istanbul) and I can guarantee you will leave being glad you came.

Which brings me to my point - I'm pretty sure the Turkish highway code stipulates that to drive a car you can't have a mental capacity higher than that of a 7 year old and that when behind a wheel you must act as though you've never been allowed to use a car horn before.

Upon entering Istanbul I had cycled down the motorway simply because it was safer. In the country roads, particularly on hills if I had heard a car I had found it simpler just to stop and move away from the road than to risk it. The number of near misses I had seen I had lost count of and it's a small miracle that I had only seen 2 accidents.

The first I had seen was on a steep hill in the first week of Turkey. To give an idea of the genius methods behind much of Turkish driving I learned quickly that if a car wanted to cut a blind corner it would simply toot his horn several times as he approaches the corner - if he hears no horn in return then its safe to cut the corner. This method of course suddenly comes unstuck if the other driver is listening to music, doesn't hear the horn, is going fast himself or is not a local, and so not surprisingly I saw one accident at one such corner as 2 cars both going to fast came round and grazed each others bonnets together before smashing off each others wing mirrors.

The last example is a good one because nobody was hurt, however just over 80 miles from Trabzon I was at a traffic light when a lorry came screeching down the town's high street and ploughed straight into the back of the car in front at what must have been close to 40 mph, with me stood on Tullula not 5 metres away. This was serious. The car in front was written off and although the driver limped out he had the luck to be the only Turk I'd seen wearing a seatbelt since I arrived it was a shocking crash made all the more crazy that this road wasn't a highway, it was a small town centre road so for a lorry to have built up that kind of speed was ridiculous. The driver of the lorry didn't seem to bothered, checking the front of his lorry before checking on the driver he had hit and after everything had calmed down I rode away feeling all the more vulnerable on the roads in a country where speed limits are minimums and traffic lights are for the best part ignored.

Of course though I was fine and my journey continued (managing to pick up a spare pump from the worlds worst bike shop) before I stopped just 60 miles short of Trabzon, and with one day to spare I had timed it perfectly - what followed gives an example of the ups and downs of being a cycling tourist and also offers a 1 day microcosm that demonstrates the difference of being a tourist and a guest in Turkey.

I woke up to complete the last leg to a puncture. It was my first in 7 weeks and I soon learned just how useless the temporary pump I'd bought was. Despite my best efforts I couldn't get any kind of pressure, the pump wouldn't have pumped up a football (the guy in the shop who sold it to me had never heard of a presta valve) and after an hour of trying I let my anger out on the thing, snapping it into 4 pieces before dragging the bike back 1 mile to a car repair shop where I was helped out with an electric tyre pump and 2 hours later than planned I was on my way only to encounter more problems, this time with my rear cassette. But none-the-less I made it to Akcaabat, a town 6 miles short of Trabzon where the plan had been to get some dinner before finding somewhere to sleep. Dinner took care of itself as I met two Belgian twins who were of Turkish descent and were on holiday insisted on taking me for a meal and were even more insistent that I didn't pay anything.

With faith in kindness restored the next plan was to go to the beach to wash myself and fix my bicycle but on my arrival I heard a shout I'd come to dread - 'Turist!'. This had happened to me a lot over my journey through Turkey - the moment that I heard these words I knew the one thing I wouldn't get was peace and quiet. The moment your seen as a tourist your no longer seen as 'normal' in the eyes of the locals, your seen as someone who should answer all their questions, has money to spend on things for the local children and who should pose for pictures with them. I've never wanted to be, and to be fair, never will be a celebrity but if you want a sample of what its like ride a bicycle through Turkey. The constant hassle from children, having to make sure your somewhere you can't be seen to get some quiet and bizarrely small children with camera phones taking your picture were all things I wasn't quite prepared for.

After an hour of being pestered I turned to leave the beach, tired and dejected but on my way out was asked for tea by some locals. Not having anywhere to be there was no way I could refuse and soon we were all talking and joking away like old friends and after a while the conversation turned and I was asked what, as a Christian, I thought of Muslims. This was a situation I had been in many times over the last few weeks and one that always frustrated me.

Me labelling myself Christian is an insult to Christianity and not something I was not prepared to do, but worse still without the lingual skills to correct people I was stuck with it. In Bartin I had been treated to a conversation with a local Kebab shop owner who had told me 'Muslim - Christian - No problem' before reinacting Jesus on the cross accompanied by repeatedly saying 'Jesus dying, bad, bad, bad' and tonight, again, I was stuck with the label although at least my new friends put it to good use, offering me language lessons with the aim of tricking me into becoming a Muslim!

But with the label, much like with Muslims in England came the misguided stereotypes. As a Christian, in their eyes I would spend my birthday drinking beer until I couldn't walk and spending the rest of my money on 'Natashas' - Russian prostitutes who were common in Trabzon. It was strange; the conversation was jovial but in their mind this is what a Christian did on his birthday. And to think they were only half right.

With darkness setting in we talked on, becoming firm friends and it soon turned out that they were students at the local university (within the exception of 1 who was pro-boxer) and asked if I wanted to stay the night. Did I want to stay?! Of couse I did! And just like, after the day which had started with a puncture my last night for this leg of the journey was spent as a guest on the 8th floor of Akcaabat Universities student halls, enjoying my first shower for 2 weeks, free hamburgers and even a kickboxing display from my new, slightly macho friends!

And that, my friends, is that! I sauntered into Trabzon the next morning to the hotel my parents had got me as a birthday present (thank you!), got the bike fixed, cleaned myself up and after opening the birthday cards I'd bought with me from home enjoyed a birthday talking to people at home and having my first beer in 2 weeks. Then just when I was off to bed I bumped into my student friends who I'd stayed with in Akcaabat who, once again, asked if I was 'for Natasha' and were surprised when I said I was actually off to bed at 11 o'clock on my birthday. A lots changed this year it would seem, and bumping into people I knew in Trabzon really is starting to emphasise that it really is a small world after all.


Up next - Georgia and Azerbaijan

Just a quick message to say thanks for all the birthday messages and the repeated support for the site from friends, family and if there are any out there, Banbury Guardian readers!

Pictures

The celebrations after football






The first pictures from Asia - of Europe



The students I stayed with: I was told that this was the Turkish symbol - ofcourse I later found out what it really meant.



The problem of having a hotel room thats 6ft by 8ft