Across Continents

Ken's Blog

Longest Day

June 13th, 2010

If there’d been a flaw in the plan, it was the distance. Bit more than I’d anticipated. Quite a bit more. Around two hundred miles in a little over twenty four hours. I’d left Kyrgyzstan’s Capital Bishkek mid-afternoon, avoiding the full heat of the day, heading for the city of Almaty in eastern Kazakhstan. Slight delay at the border crossing. Refused to budge until the guards provided me with all the relevant stamps I’d need to be allowed to leave and cross into China.

Wild camping

I’d chosen to tackle the worst of the climbs on the road to Almaty in the relative cool of the evening. As dusk approached, around nine in the evening, I’d pulled off the road along a small track across rolling moorland. Found a discrete pitch for the night. Up at six, back on the road before seven.

Within an hour or so I’d finished the last of the climbs, and made a rapid descent to the plains below that would lead me to Almaty. Stopped at a small roadside cafe, the first I’d seen for quite some distance. After a quick breakfast I’d joined the lorry drivers freshening up at an outside tap, attempting to remove some of the previous day’s grime and salty deposits.

Road to Almaty

Then a steady grind eastwards, flat, barren steppe at first, more undulating later. Mile after mile. The odd cafe, small settlement with a few market stalls besides the road, perhaps a shop, to break up the monotony. And to replenish fluids.

Reaching Almaty around five, the evening rush hour traffic was quite bearable, the railway station rendezvous with my host for the next few days remarkably straightforward to find. I’d been my choice, largely because it appeared on my maps, but was on the opposite side of the city to where I’d be staying. The longest day. So far.

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Absolute conviction

June 9th, 2010

“You may go with your bicycle” explained the border guard. Finally. A little earlier, it seemed, there was a problem with my papers. I’d need to accompany a policeman, there were forms to complete, a fine to pay. I’d half expected difficulties getting into the Kyrgyz Republic, not leaving Kazakhstan.

I’d quickly decided on a friendly but robust approach. Absolute conviction my passport, visa and immigration card were entirely in order. “I don’t understand what the problem is” I said quite forcefully, quickly adding “I have all the necessary stamps in my passport, and on my immigration card. I know exactly what is required because I checked when I got my visa. In English. So very clear.”

It was then suggested a fine would not be necessary, just some forms to complete. I could be on my way in an hour or two. But first we’d have to meet with the Commissioner. We wandered around for a while but nobody seemed to know where he was. From one dilapidated office to the next, but no sign of him. Various calls on the radio from my English speaking escort.

In the meantime I’d struck up a bit of a rapport with my new found friend. Asked him where he’d picked up his remarkably good language skills. Had he been to England? “You know the rules very well” he said after a while. “Yes” I replied, “Out of respect for your country. I wish to make sure I comply with your laws. And I have a very comprehensive guide to the rules, written in English, your Embassy kindly gave me”. A brief pause. And then I was suddenly allowed to go on my way. Never did meet the Commissioner.

[Author’s note: For brevity, I’ve omitted the lengthy discussion where I explain exactly what the rules are, common mistakes foreigners make. Tiresome enough for the border guards. And forms to complete, if ever they’d materialised? I never sign anything not written in English. Period. No matter how long you seek to detain me. Probably best to let me go]

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Night train to Lugovoy

June 8th, 2010

Carriage five. Berth thirteen. The night train to Lugovoy. Close to midnight, the doors of most of the cramped four berth compartments remained open. Groups of young men, families, older couples, all ethnic Kazakhs. Sat on their bunks chatting quietly, a few sprawled out, attempting to rest under the harsh electric light. Small window tables piled up with mugs of tea, flat breads, salamis and boiled eggs. Pungent aromas on such a warm night.

The attendant had at first seemed suspicious of me, carefully checking my ticket as I’d sought to board the train at Turkistan. Once satisfied I’d found the right carriage, he’d helpfully indicated that if I could turn my handlebars out of the way, I could secure my bicycle in the narrow passageway right outside my own shared compartment.

My companions were two men who appeared to be travelling together. Quiet murmurings as I carefully stowed my panniers in the little space available. But then, with the appearance of my phrase book, the offer of tea and eggs. I declined politely, explaining I’d already eaten, instead showing them a small card explaining, in Russian, my venture. Was I going to Afghanistan? No, I said, I preferred to take my chances in Bishkek. They didn’t seem to think that was a good idea either.

By the morning they were gone, a young woman now occupying the bunk next to mine. Sound asleep, her face obscured by a clean white sheet. Ethnic Russian I thought. Outside, mostly gently rolling grasslands, patches of cultivated fields. Overcast, rain drops streaming diagonally down the windows. The occasional glimpse of mountains to the south, the border with the Kyrgyz Republic.

[With thanks to Alistair Maclean, a favourite childhood author, for providing inspiration for the title]

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Road to Bishkek

June 7th, 2010
The sticking point seemed to be that there was no longer a train across the border into the Kyrgyz Republic and the Capital Bishkek. Rioting had put a stop to that. In any case, I planned to cycle across the frontier. If things got sticky I wanted the flexibility, the self-sufficiency, a bicycle offered. Not trapped in a train. There also seemed to be a bit of a debate about how Emma might be carried, but I’d the advantage of having done this once before. Knew there was a separate baggage car, wouldn’t be a problem.Despite the fearsome heat I’d managed to cover two hundred miles or so, pretty much the length of Wales, in three days. Conditions had been much, much tougher than I’d expected. Suppose, under the circumstances, I was pleased with progress. But it wasn’t enough to make the Chinese border before my hard won visa became invalid and entry would be refused. Not without passing up an irresistible chance to visit Bishkek, or to spend a day or so in Kazakhstan’s old Capital Almaty.

When I’d originally decided to cross much of the Kazakh steppe by train, I’d toyed with continuing on beyond Kyzylorda, disembarking much closer to Bishkek. But I’d wanted to experience desert conditions, an environment I’d never cycled in before. Put the theory I’d been taught into practice. Develop and refine skills I’d need quite a bit before the expedition was over. Box ticked in spades. And I was really glad I’d done it. Learnt an awful lot.

The revised plan? Overnight train from Turkistan to the small town of Lugovoy, about thirty miles from the Kyrgyz Republic border. Puts me back on track. Practical necessity I tell myself. And it is, but it still niggles because I know that, but for visa constraints, I could ride the whole way. In the grand scheme of things I’m sure none of this really matters, accepted practice for long-haul touring cyclists. But I’ve never been very good at acquiescing just because others do.

So, I found myself back at a railway station, this time in Turkistan. Ainur had, once again, very kindly offered to help, taking me to the station late on Sunday evening to make the arrangements. How close to the border could I get? Where did the Bishkek train now stop? All sorted. Eventually. Arrived in town less than eight hours earlier. You never know quite how each day’s going to play out.

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Gourmet evening

June 6th, 2010

Menu

Chicken’s off” she explained. Hopes dashed. I’m quite fond of mutton, a staple in much of Central Asia, but there’s nothing like a change. I’d been encouraged by a menu in English, an extensive choice of dishes. But it wasn’t to be. Just mutton, done in fifteen extremely different and interesting ways. In wine, piquant, Italian, stewed, Georgian, in orange juice, in soya sauce, Arabic, Turkish. And then I’d lost the will to read on.

At least I could wash it down with a cool beer. I’d noticed the small party of Japanese tourists on the other tables had one each. And there was a bar in the corner of the hotel restaurant. But, I was told, it didn’t actually stock alcoholic beverages of any description. Like my fellow guests, I’d have to go to the shop down the road.

Undeterred by the main course and refreshments, I made another foray into the menu in hope of desert. Found fruit salad amongst the salads, and rice pudding. Alas, you guessed, no fruit, and the rice pudding? Afraid that was in the breakfast menu. No chance.

Still, I’d found there was pancakes with honey to look forward to next morning, even tea with milk. Another fifteen choices for breakfast. On paper. In fact there were three. Fried eggs with sausage, two different styles. Or omelette. But no milk for tea, which did make me wonder what’d pitch up if I plumped for the last option.

[Author’s note: Described in a well-known guide book as the best place to stay in Turkistan – for less than fifteen pounds per night, add about six for breakfast and dinner combined, such as it is – I was beginning to wonder if the Hotel Yassy had a twin. Staff are friendly enough, but there’s a lack lustre feel to the whole place. Tepid water only in the mornings, and you hope they’re rust stains on the towels. Toilet paper soft enough. Recommended only for its comedy value. And the air-conditioning in Room 307. But don’t try and reach it by the lift – that regularly stops between floors]

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Tales from Turkistan

June 5th, 2010

Turkistan. At last. Two hundred miles south of Kyzylorda across the inhospitable Kazakh steppe. I’d stopped briefly at a small cafe on the outskirts, seeking directions for the centre. Found a mobile phone pressed into my hand, an English speaking female voice at the other end. Wasn’t exactly sure who the woman was, but explained what I was doing, adding I’d been given a sketch map to help me find somewhere to stay.

After the emptiness of the steppe, a mele of sights and sounds in Turkistan. Vehicles stopping suddenly, forcing others to weave erratically around them. Scant regard for traffic lights. Pedestrians wandering aimlessly across the road, unperturbed by the traffic. Alluring aromas from roadside cafes and market stalls.

Ainur

I drifted around for a while, soaking up a little civilisation. Then off to find somewhere to stay. Chancing on a hotel mentioned in my guide book, I’d suspected it’d be outside my budget but thought I’d enquire in any case. Barely reached the reception desk when a young woman arrived, addressing me in English. Ainur explained that it was she I’d spoken to earlier in the cafe her mother ran. She’d guessed where I might go and had come to help. Which she did admirably. Got an ensuite room for the price of a basic single. About fifteen pounds for a night. Came with air conditioning. And Emma could join me.

All that would have been generosity enough. But no. Returning to the lobby after dinner, I met Ainur once more, quite unexpectedly. She was keen to show me something of her home town. The Mausoleum of the first popular Turkic Muslim holy man, Kozha Akhmed Yasaui, built in the fourteenth century. Beautiful rose gardens.

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Toilet tips

June 4th, 2010

Toilet

On the train from Atyrau to Kyzylorda there was invariably a wait for the squat toilet at the end of the carriage. But not for the Western style porcelain affair at the other end. I seemed to be the only user, discretely placing a small tear in the roll of unusually soft toilet paper to see if anyone else made use of it. It appeared not.

Squat toilets aren’t anything new on this expedition, commonplace in France and again in the old Eastern Bloc countries, Turkey and the Caucasus. Definitely never been my first choice of lavatory, so why their popularity? I suspect the answer is the very reason, ironically, I’m not a huge fan. Hygiene. Except for where you put your feet, no contact with where someone else has been before you. Provided you can cope with the squatting position, anatomically probably quite good, doesn’t sound such a bad idea. Except that some designs are susceptible to being blocked by paper, so you have to pop that in an adjacent bin.

Out in the villages, in more remote places, it’s the pit toilet. Same idea as the squat type, but without the water flush. Filling, if the guide books are to be believed, Western travellers with absolute dread, especially in hot climates. Bit harsh? I think so. For one thing, local people have used them for centuries, and I don’t suppose the old outside toilet down the end of an English garden was that much more attractive. No, like most things, some are truly terrible, many are not. Just like the Western style ones.

And what, you may ask, is a decent pit toilet? A stone built building helps keep the inside cool, less fragrant. Small windows, without glass, also help the air inside from getting stuffy, especially in hot climates. And, if all is working properly, natural biological processes render human waste relatively odourless. Which means no dropping paper into the pit. That normally goes into a metal receptacle for burning.

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At the cafe

June 3rd, 2010

At the cafe from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.

Ken describes proper adventure in the Kazakh steppe, and a night in a small family run roadside cafe. And admire the only trees for miles.

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Pit stop

June 3rd, 2010

Cafe

I’d ridden hard from Zhangaqorghan towards the town of Turkistan, anxious to make as much ground to the south as I could in the relative cool of the evening. I’d intended to stop around nine and discretely pitch my tent away from the road, but instead came across a small settlement. Gave me an idea. A homestay. Usually very inexpensive, and a great way to experience village life. But had to be quick. Would soon be dark.

Asking around, I was directed to a small family run roadside cafe. In a mixture of broken Kazakh and Russian, I explained I’d hoped to reach Turkistan that night, but it was now too late. Could I sleep here? Yes. It seemed I could. And Emma could spend the night in the porch. The usual fascination with my map and phrase book over, I was beckoned to the water pump in the yard to remove the worst of the salty grime I’d accumulated. Then a generous bowl of mutton soup, a roll mat, pillow and duvet. Bed at last. Not bad for about five pounds.

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In the Kazakh steppe

June 2nd, 2010

In the Kazakhstan steppe from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.

Ken describes riding across the Kazakh steppe in ferocious temperatures.

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