Into The Great Big Open

To stretch my legs I made an overnight trip north to the town of Kazbegi.

(full-sized photos can be seen here.)

The road (called the Georgian Military Highway) follows the broad Aragvi river.

At around 7500' in elevation, fortunately I didn't have to use the snow tunnel.

The further I climbed, the worse the road became, but the views were marvelous.

With some daylight left, I went past Kazbegi to check out the Dariali Gorge, going as far as the Russian border.

The next morning I started the ascent to the picturesque church set high on a nearby mountaintop. The road climbs and climbs through switchbacks.

When the road became covered in ice, it was time to walk (only for about 10 minutes, but I was wheezing like a flatlander). Mt Kazbek in the distance.

Tsminda Sameba Church, built ca. 14th century.

"Thought-provoking" carvings on the church.

Towering Mt Kazbek looms over the valley. This is where Prometheus served time for his pyrotechnical crime.

After the constant corruption in Azerbaijan, Georgia was a breath of fresh air, starting at the border. A helpful immigration official directed me (in very good English) to a drive-up booth for processing. The surly fellow inside took one look at my passport and motorcycle, and directed me to the next booth. The first official explained why I got shuffled: “He did not want to process you because during our English classes, while the rest of us were studying, he was jerking!” This bit of levity was just the medicine I needed. The entry process was quick — I didn’t even have to climb off the bike. At the final passport check, I again chatted with the first official, commenting that the police in the ‘Stans still used Kalashnikovs, while he was sporting a western-made M4. “Those guys are still living in Soviet times!” was his succinct explanation. Road signage was in Georgian and English, so getting to Tbilisi was a breeze, but with the tangle of streets, fading sunlight and aggressive Georgian drivers, finding my hotel was not so easy. I stopped in a restaurant’s parking lot to check a map and get my bearings, and soon a raucous wedding party spilled out with musicians, dancing and cheering.

Screen capture from wedding video.

I shot a few minutes of video, and when I was done a young celebrant pulled me into the fray! An hour in Tbilisi and I’m dancing in a wedding, grinning and red-faced (I am not really the dancing type). When I bowed out, the young guy who pulled me in shouted something to me in Georgian, then he said “Thank you!” Add to all of this the fact that I’d made it from the border without getting pinched for a bribe, and you’ll understand why Georgia, and Georgians, immediately made a wonderful impression on me.

In the end I stayed in Tbilisi for a month, mostly as a result of mailing my passport to the US for a Syrian visa, and lengthy transit times for that small envelope there and back. (Hint: Use FedEx or DHL, not Aramex.) I holed up at an inexpensive homestay, and spent a lot of time walking the usual tourist route through the old city, haunting the English-language bookstore, espresso joints, Turkish fast food spots, and with the help of a local, visiting a few sights and tasty restaurants.

Tavisuplebis moedani (Freedom square) at night.

Narikala Fortress with the old city below and to the right, viewed from the swanky Kopala restaurant.

Svetitskhoveli Cathedral (ca. 11th century) at Mskheta, Georgia's old capital from the 3rd century BC to the 5th AD. Word has it that Christ's robe is buried beneath it's foundation.

Intriguing mural inside the cathedral showing JC inside a circle of zodiac signs.

Meanwhile this small Georgian wanted to borrow the keys to the bike.

The Dagestan cruised due west on smooth seas, and I passed the time studying up on Baku’s lodging options, the possible routes to Georgia, and walking around on the ship’s decks. I was the only passenger aboard, so small talk was limited to the few crew who passed by. The cabin next to mine was occupied by the ship’s chief carpenter, an Azeri who everyone called “bossman”. He invited me in for tea, which he served in a small tulip-shaped glass along with a dish of sugar cubes and candies. He plucked a sugar cube from the dish, dipped it in the tea and popped it into his mouth, then sipped the tea through it. I followed his lead, and we sat and talked about…nothing, really. He leafed through my Russian phrasebook and I looked at an Azeri newspaper, catching only a few words that were similar to English.

Around 8am we approached the port of Baku, with the city’s tall buildings shrouded in a thick, grey haze. During the passport check, the officer confirmed that I was on a 5-day visa, and asked if I had plans to go to Armenia. To my response of “No”, he said, “Armenia is terrorist, yes?”. I just shrugged, not wanting to enter into a pointed political discussion with the chubby-faced automaton holding my passport. (At the Azeri embassy in Tashkent, there was a hardcover book with the words “Armenian Terror” splashed across the cover’s montage of bloody corpses.) I’d heard there was plenty of blood on everyone’s hands in the conflict, but these PR efforts tell me that Azerbaijan doth protest too much…

I walked around to where the dock met the ship’s stern, and the scene was not promising: the train rails and most of the wooden supports had been removed from the dock’s approach to the cargo area, so it would be impossible to unload either the train cars or my bike. When I asked when it would be possible to unload the bike, the answer was an iffy 7 o’clock that evening. Given the present pace of the workmen, I had my doubts. The customs staff helped me pass the time by getting through the paperwork for the bike, the fruits of which was a 72-hour temporary vehicle permit. Never mind that I was already on a 5-day transit visa. Leaving the dock area, another officer recorded my passport information in a ledger, and said “$5!” Crap, not this again. He made the mistake of asking for it after handing me back my passport. Greenhorn. I told him to get stuffed.

It was still only around noon, so I took a taxi to a budget hotel, changed into street clothes and walked southwest toward the old city.

12th century Maiden’s Tower, with 5m thick walls and a huge buttress.

The walled old city has been preserved with a bit of a heavy hand, and new apartment blocks and office buildings are being built right up against its stone perimeter.

Within the old city is the Palace of the Shirvanshas (ca. 15th century), a sandstone complex of courtyards, mosques and mausoleums, many displaying soaring domes and intricate stone carving.

The ruins of the palace hamam, with obvious original and restored stonework. Unfortunately some of the ancient toilets had seen recent use.

I took the scenic route back to the hotel, walking along the peaceful oceanfront promenade, treating myself to an overpriced ice cream cone. The cranes in the distance mark the location of the docks and my waiting moto. Back at the hotel I changed back into my riding gear, took a taxi to the docks (the taxi driver got lost, then had a flat tire, then overcharged me), where a lone employee told me to come back the next morning at 11am. No taxis were standing by, so I waited for around 40 minutes, fuming at my naive expectations of bureaucratic competence.

The following day I arrived at the docks 20 minutes early, and was surprised to see my bike unloaded and waiting. Having done paperwork the previous day, I mounted up, idled to the guard shack and waited for the barrier to be raised. The guard (not the one I told to get stuffed) made a phone call, and told me to wait. Another officer with even more stripes on his shoulder came out and requested my paperwork, taking it with him after telling me to wait. And wait I did, for 30…40…60 minutes, my mood growing more foul. I had the necessary documents and insurance, so they could only have been fishing for a bribe. Eventually they realized that this fish wasn’t biting, handed back my documents and said I was free to go.

Still in a dark mood I battled through the downtown Baku traffic (the very worst of any drivers I’d experienced on the trip so far), following the main road south. Outside of town were vast, reeking oil fields on the Caspian shore, and near one of these I was waved over by a group of policemen running radar. “Salaam Aleykum. Passport please. Where are you from?” This guy must have been new too, because he started in with the bribe request after handing back my passport. “Fifity dollars? Sure!”, I said, “I need to go to the next town for an ATM, and I will be back with your money. Bye bye!” The next bribe, at a highway intersection 50 miles later, didn’t go as well. This particular uniformed thief pulled me over and started yelling that I hadn’t stopped at the entrance to the roundabout, and that it would cost me $50. I kept cool asked about the other dozens of cars passing us that were entering and exiting the roundabout without stopping. He changed his story, saying that I was speeding through the roundabout. I didn’t go for it, so he produced a rulebook (written in Azeri, naturally), flipped to the back section and pointed to some line of text with the appropriate dollar figure next to it. I stood my ground and said, “Nyet!”. While this was happening, he was holding heated negotiations with three other drivers he’d pulled over, two truckers and a guy in a beat-up station wagon. He grew tired of me, put my paperwork on the dash of the police BMW, smoked a cigarette and chatted with his partner. Ah, the waiting game. Here he actually had some leverage: with 24 of my 72 hour vehicle permit already burned up, I couldn’t afford to waste too much time with these shenanigans. Having nothing else to do, I decided to take a photo of the car and pretended to make notes in my notebook, making sure they saw me doing it.

After 10 more minutes, he relented. “How much, then?”, he asked. I reached into my pocket, hoping I’d remembered to separate my large bills from the small ones. A 10 manat bill (from memory, worth about US$13) was first in the wad (damn), and when he saw it his eyebrows went up, indicating that I’d soon be a free man. Too bad I’d parked so far from the police car, because I made the DR kick up a hell of a rooster tail of gravel when I left the scene.

The next bribe came from a completely different angle, this time trying to guilt me into giving money. A policeman at a bridge flagged me down and invited me in to the guardhouse for tea…my first thought was How much is this going to cost? After tea and bread and light chatter, out came the vodka for a shot each. Then a call home to his wife. “Oh, by the way, I have a sick baby at home. Can I have some money?” I told him that the last cop got all of my spending money for the day. He showed exaggerated disgust with his corrupt brethren, put a beat up skillet on the hot plate and cracked an egg into it. We ate it with more bread and tea. Then let me handle his Kalashnikov (but only after removing the magazine…), poured one more round of vodka, and asked for money again. It was both pathetic and offensive, and I really just wanted to get out of there before the vodka bottle made an encore appearance. I put some single manat bills on the table and headed out, trying not to notice the disappointed way he looked at my offering. He tried to give a friendly goodbye, but I just mounted up and roared away, lofting a low, sloppy wheelie.

I managed to clock some uneventful miles into late afternoon, and stopped at a roadside cafe for dinner. I was ravenous, and not in the mood to decipher a menu, so asked the cook/waiter if there was shashlyk or kebab available. He said, “How about one of each?” My man! He must have heard my stomach growling, because he laid out a delicious feast.

Halfway through my meal, a family of four sat down at a nearby table, and eventually they said hello. We chatted as much as we could, but within a few minutes I was eating again, and the family was eating and occasionally talking to the cook. When they got up to leave, the father smiled and said, “Welcome to Azerbaijan! Today Azerbaijan buys your dinner!” His wife and two small children were beaming proudly all the while and I thanked them using the the only Azeri words I could remember (which fortunately happened to be “Thank you very much”).  After they left, their kind gesture really fell on me like an anvil, remembering the proud papa, smiling wife and grinning children, and I felt my eyes growing a little wet with…relief? I think it was relief (that it’s not a nation of greedy jerks), mixed with sadness that this normal family, and likely most families in Azerbaijan, deals with corrupt police every day, and probably much corruption in other aspects of their daily lives, but they still manage to give a traveler a warm and proud welcome to their country. (After this last episode, I stopped stopping for checkpoints [traffic police are another matter]. I would pretend to fiddle with my tankbag, or something on my handlebars, and I would hear them whistle and shout, but they never gave chase.)

On the last day, I was baffled to see solitary policemen stationed every kilometer or so along the side of the road, standing at attention, without an apparent mission or purpose. After an hour, I was directed to a side road along with dozens of other motorists. Word soon came round that the president’s convoy would be rolling through. For an hour I chatted with drivers, a local herdsman, an Iranian youth (who made a joke of Iranians being arch-enemies of Americans), and other drivers, answering the usual questions about the bike. Finally an SUV roared by, then another, and finally the convoy of SUVs and sedans flew by doing a buck thirty (MPH, not KPH!) and no one seemed to care much. Everyone watched with no fanfare, the Iranian tapped his temple and rolled his eyes, we said goodbye and scrambled back to our vehicles.

At the border, the passport stampers were out to lunch so there was quite a queue. The guard in charge pointed at my bike, then touched his tongue, indicating that I could move up in exchange for a few dollars. (Either that, or he wanted to taste my bike.) I said No Thanks, enjoying the light breeze and the sunshine, and being dead tired of people with badges looking to separate me from my cash.

Exiting Uzbekistan was another surprisingly easy process, with no interest shown in me or my bike’s luggage for inspection. A few hundred meters later, I was swept up in the whirlwind that is the Turkmenistan entry process. I was directed (with much efficiency) to a dozen windows, making payments, signing forms, re-visiting the same windows a few times, at the end having a small stack of receipts and stamped, official-looking forms, none of which I could read. Officials were quite polite and efficient, which made the whole process less painful. Since I was entering with a transit visa, my route was established on a map I carried with me,  and I was warned that I needed to stick to it or face “big problems”. My route was also used to calculate my gas tax, which came to about US$75, to compensate for the very low fuel prices.

By the time I was accelerating away from the post, the sun was kissing the horizon and with a groan I knew I’d be riding in the dark yet again. Outside of Turkmenebat, I was waved over at a roadside office to pay some sort of tax. It was the entry process in miniature: a small, squat, block building was divided into two rooms, each with its own little window, and I was sent back and forth between the windows for various forms and payments. No one could really explain what exactly I was getting for my money. I crossed a floating bridge of metal plates (thank goodness it wasn’t raining), and at the other side was waved over yet again. “Passport registration!” said the grinning uniform as my passport details were copied longhand into a thick ledger. “Five dollars!”, he said, still smiling. I was tired and feeling cranky, so I said, “What for?” He said if I paid, I could be on my way; if not, I would have to sleep behind the guardhouse and couldn’t go on until morning. My smirking reply of “No problem” must have told them that I have a tent, sleeping bag, food and I actually was looking for a place to camp, and this would be as good a place as any.  He shook his head and handed back my passport, waving in the general direction of the road. “Goodbye! Welcome to Turkmenistan!”

I found a campsite outside of Turkmenebat, among the bushes between a cotton field and an irrigation canal. While drinking morning coffee, a group of women walked by, carry shovels and hoes, dressed in long skirts, jackets and headscarves, each happily texting away on cell phones and not noticing me. This is the sign of a well-chosen campsite.

Heading south I passed through the Karakum desert, happy to be among sand dunes and camels again (dromedary this time.) I was passed by a wedding convoy of honking and swerving Opels, Audis and Ladas, decked with streamers. One car passed me and waved a beer bottle at me and motioned for me to join them. Another cruised by with a cameraman hanging out the window, getting footage of me for the wedding video. The thought of joining the celebration was appealing but I couldn’t match their breakneck speed, and didn’t really want to be part of a convoy of drunk drivers.

I later rolled in to Ashgabat, the nation’s capital, and was stunned by the “White City” — block after block of towering, white, marble-clad apartment buildings and business offices, contrasting with the rest of the city which is more typically central Asian with Soviet-style apartment blocks, wide avenues, blaring horns and congested traffic. (Sadly I don’t have photos of the White City, sorry; a Google Images search will show you what it’s all about.) The strangest thing about the majestic White City is the marked absence of people. It seems to have been build for a large upper middle class that doesn’t exist. Streets and sidewalks were mainly empty, save for strolling policemen. Two of these chaps helped me find the only bank in the country where cash advances could be made from a foreign credit card.  The bank itself was a towering cathedral with massive doors, distant ceilings and brass and polished stone everywhere.

With cash in my pocket for the ferry, I dashed northwest Turkmenbashy. About an hour before sunset, I stopped near a truckstop for water and a stretch, and car stopped near me. A man approached me with his hand extended and said, “salaam alekum“. We chatted briefly and he told me he was a Turkmen priest, and that he had a gift for me. He went back to the car, did a bit of searching, came back and put a half-manat coin in my hand. He said “Don’t change it or spend it, it is a gift, to remember Turkmenistan”, and just like that he drove away. (I’d received a similar gift at a gas station outside of Turkmenebat.) It was a heartwarming experience and it put me in a good mood as I set up camp behind a row of dirt mounds near a pipleline project.

The next day I made it to Turkmenbashi, where I’d catch the ferry to Azerbaijan. I’d heard horror stories about Turkmenistan’s policy toward importing and exporting currency. The amount of money, in any denomination, that is declared coming into the country cannot exceed that which is taken out. Any excess found by customs upon exiting would be confiscated and fines levied, and there were tales of very thorough searches. So I got creative and found a few places to hide my excess cash (nothing like the location used for the infamous watch in Pulp Fiction, never fear).

Finding the port was a cinch, and the process again a bit convoluted but efficient. A man in a smart business suit identified himself as the customs official, took me into his office and said, “I do not want to control your motorcycle. If you give me some beer money, I will not control your motorcycle.” Well I appreciated his honesty (about the beer), and if it could mean less paperwork and hassle, a small fee would be money well spent. Or the hassle & costs of “controlling my motorcycle” could have been imagined. How can one know? I saw it as a cost of doing business, and parted with $5 for this real or imagined convenience. In my own defense, I didn’t have to deal with any more paperwork regarding the bike, and after several train cars were rolled on to the good ship Dagestan, I rode  into her dark belly and strapped down the bike.

View of the port at Turkmenbashi, from the cargo ship/ferry Dagestan. Sadly this is my only photo from Turkmenistan.

Aboard the ship I was offered a cabin for $100 by one of the staff (no one at the port mentioned tickets at all.) It was a small, nasty space with a bare, tattered mattress the color of spilled coffee. But it did have hot water, a flushing toilet and a reading light. Thankfully, clean linens showed up, costing US$1. (There was no way I was going to put my sleeping bag on that foul mattress!) Later, when I was getting booked in to my cabin, another crew member walked by and asked if I was American. “Da“, I said. His eyes lit up and he smiled and he said, “You know 911? The towers?”, while mimicking the collapsing buildings with his gestures. I said of course, and he replied proudly, “Osama bin Laden, he’s my grandfather!” Unfortunately, this isn’t the movies, so I didn’t have a clever comeback, and I didn’t give him a punch in the throat, which he apparently deserves. I just said, “Good for you.” So if anyone reading this wants a shot at a bin Laden family member, who happens to be an asshole, this one can be found on the Caspian sea, working the Turkmenbashi-Baku route aboard the Dagestan.

Well after dark, the ship started her engines and with a nudge from a tender, we headed due west into the Caspian.

Waiting in Tashkent for the Turkmenistan visa brought me unexpected emotional lows. Without having the day-to-day activity of riding and looking for food, fuel and camping spots, my mind was free to dwell on the things that I left behind: home, cat, family, and friends. Some psychological bills came due and there were a few blue days to slog through.

I went back to the embassy, and 5 seconds after the consul’s stamp hit my passport with a thud! I was out the door and heading south-southwest toward Samarkand. I found myself riding well into the night, breaking one of my own cardinal rules about safe motorcycle travel: Never ride after dark. If this is a good rule in the US, it’s a grand one in Uzbekistan, with poor road conditions, animals and pedestrians on the road, and vehicles with no lights (some driving the wrong way on a divided highway!) Add to that the difficulty of scouting for campsites after dark, and I was cursing my poor judgment at midnight while I pitched my tent in the hills near a garbage dump.

The next day I arrived at Samarkand late in the morning and easily found the first bit of Timurid architecture.

Bibi-Khanym Mosque, built between 1399 and 1404.

A short distance away, past trendy souvenir and gift shops, is the Registan.

The oldest of the three buildings, finished in 1420,  is on the left, and is called the Ulugbek madrasah. While inspecting the tile work, I was approached by a policeman who said he could get me access to the top of one of the towers for a few thousand som. Sure! He unlocked a gate at the base of the tower and I started a claustrophobic ascent up the spiraling stairs.

Looking down the staircase. The passage was barely wider than my shoulders.

Handy arrow slits for fighting off invaders.

The view from the top was OK.

A little vertigo goes a long way.

There’s more to see in Samarkand, but I was eager to make more miles toward Bukhara and the Turkmenistan border. In my haste, I made the mistake of leaving the city limits with only about 70 miles of fuel in my tank, and as I rode along I noticed that all of the gas stations were closed. All of them. And after 40 miles realized that I needed to backtrack to Samarkand to fill up. I camped for the night in an orchard and planned to do the backtracking in the morning.

When I did get to Samarkand I joined the first queue of several dozen cars. After talking with some of the other fuel-starved Uzbeks, they said I should go to the front of the line. When I asked if the people ahead of me in line would get upset, they said, “No! You are our guest! Just say ‘America!’ ‘Obama!’ and it will be fine!” Well, no such fanfare was required, but I had to pay a few extra bucks for my fuel, and also slipped a few to the guy who arranged my line-cutting exercise.

I crossed into Bukhara just as the sun was setting, determined to check in to the first hotel I could find. I raced around with the commuters, delivery vehicles, taxis, and marshrutkas (small vans/mini-buses that have established routes, inner- and inter-city), until I found the Hotel Sharq. The next morning I asked the clerk which way I should walk to see the sights, and set off in the direction of his arm wave.  About five minutes later I’m looking at the 880-year-old Kalon minaret.

Chinggis Khan liked it so much he didn't flatten it. 154 feet tall.

Within the Kalon mosque (to the right of the minaret) are cool halls with neat-o arches.

While I was wandering around the Ark (link) a man approached me and asked if I was interested in seeing a special part of the site. “Big surprise!”, he said. “12,000 som!”, he said. “Well…OK…but wait.” I’d seen a lone backpacker earlier in one of the ark museums, and since she was walking by, asked if she wanted to see this mind-blowing mystery sight. Fortunately she’s the adventurous sort and agreed, and we were directed to a locked gate which was soon opened by a guard. We walked over partially excavated mounds, with some digging in progress, until we reached the eastern wall of the ark.

The 12,000 som view of Bukhara's Old City. (That's about US$5.) The smaller dome clusters cover bazaars.

Camera-shy Tiina from Finland and I teamed up for more local sightseeing, and decided to grab some dinner at the Lyabi-Hauz, a 17th century plaza built around a pool, surrounded by ancient massive  Mulberry trees. We had some company.

We joined forces again the next day for some out of town sightseeing, and after a passable Italian dinner, said our farewells. It was a pleasure connecting with a fellow traveler!

Bukhara (and indeed, all of Uzbekistan) was experiencing a fuel shortage, and the lines at the pumps were dozens of cars long, and not moving. No one could say when fuel would arrive at the stations. And the clock was ticking away on my 5-day transit visa for Turkmenistan. Again I was urged to go to the front of the line, where I waited with everyone else. After meeting some of the locals and chatting a bit, offers came up to buy black market fuel, and I took the 4th or 5th one, after the insultingly overpriced offers had been made and refused. With a horn honk and a wave I started making miles for the Turkmenistan border.

Waiting to enter Uzbekistan was made more pleasant by watching a drug-sniffing Springer Spaniel joyfully scour a truck’s chassis, egged on and directed by his handler. Between searches there was time for fetch with a tennis ball or tug-of-war; I think the dog was the happiest person at the border. Within two hours I was through, and the Uzbek guard gave me the go-ahead to wail on the throttle on the way out of the customs station. I obliged him! Further down the road I somehow missed the turnoff for the main highway, and an oncoming local driver flashed his lights and pointed at the correct turn. Uzbek helpfulness was starting early! I entered Tashkent just at dusk, with the name of my hotel and a crude map I’d drawn by hand based on the hotel’s website. After a half-hour of slicing and dicing through urban traffic, I flagged down a taxi driver and slipped him $10 to guide me to the hotel. (Yes, that’s a lot of dough, but [a] It was the smallest US bill I had, and [b] I had zero chance of finding the hotel otherwise!)

At hotel I was met by a towering, serious-looking security guard and asked about rooms. “Nyet, no rooms.” Crap. I’d made the hotel reservation through another website that required payment in advance and in person at their office in Tashkent, and with my late arrival in the city I hadn’t had a chance to do that. I asked if there was another hotel nearby…the guard paused and said, “Wait” and made a call. A few moments later they opened the huge steel doors to the Oazis-Asaka hotel/conference center/sauna/pool/fitness center/restaurant compound, and $40 later I was ensconced in a large, clean room with attached toilet & shower.

Over the next few days I obtained a visa for Azerbaijan, and applied for the Turkmenistan transit visa, visited the local bazaar (where one could exchange dollars for Uzbek sum on the black market, yielding a 30% better rate than at the banks, but it’s not exactly legal), and spent quite a bit of time chatting with Boris the surly security guard. As it turns out, he’s a very friendly guy with a good grasp of English at the conversational level, and we talked at length about Uzbekistan, the US, life in Tashkent, money, women, guns, family, motorcycles, politics…the lot. (After a few days he said, “Sean, you live in a bus, no family, no house, no car, no TV, no womens [sic], just motorcycles…that is no life!” Later on he took my bike for a short ride, and came back with a huge stupid perma-grin, and said, “Now I understand you! A little.”)

I had a week to kill while waiting for the Turkmenistan visa, so I asked Boris if he would like to make some extra money by being my tourguide for a trip south to Termiz. After a discussion about cost and timing, we shook hands and lit out the next day. Boris’ friend Aziz is a taxi driver in Tashkent and would be our chauffer for the trip.

This is Aziz and Boris.

Being a taxi driver, Aziz drives like a madman, and his speed along with the Daewoo’s 2 inches of suspension travel and the crappy roads made for an "interesting" experience.

We stopped at Boris’ home in nearby Yangiyol for jerry cans for gas; fuel in the southern part of the country is a lot more expensive than in Tashkent. While there I met Boris’ father and he gave me a bottle of wine he’d made from grape vines growing around the property. Further down the road we stopped for piping hot, dripping somsa, baked/fried dough filled with onions, beef and oil.

These guys are in their mid-twenties, like to punch each other in the shoulder when they joke around, and listen to very loud Russian rap, dance and trance music. With the car’s bass thumping we barreled through small villages where people were selling fruits and bread and honey, passing gypsy women with pots of smoldering twigs (“Very bad people”, said Boris), modest mosques, endless cotton fields, and donkey-powered carts hauling just about everything imaginable. On a mountain pass we stopped for photos and lunch in a choykhana (tea house), kicking off our shoes and lounging on a shaded, cushy, raised platform, eating salad and tender mutton.

We’d set out late from Tashkent and arrived in Termiz around midnight, and met with some of Boris’ friends at a restaurant. Not surprisingly there were many toasts with vodka, and I had way too much and stumbled to my hotel where I got quite sick. Boris and Azziz stayed up, partying until sunrise….ah, youth!

Here I am toasting something with one of Boris’ friends. International friendship perhaps?

After a late start the next day we visited the local (and excellent) archaeological museum, then some local historical sites dating from the 10th century, including the ruins of Kyrk Kyz, and the mausoleum of Al Akim Al Termizi.

That evening we took it easy, having only beer with dinner. Azziz and I left at a reasonable hour, Boris stayed on to seduce the waitress (and he apparently succeeded).

The drive back was fast and bumpy but uneventful. We stopped at a roadside bazaar on the outskirts of Samarkand and bought thick, heavy loaves of platter-shaped bread. The bread in UZ is amazing and delicious, with regional differences in taste, shape and texture. The Tashkent bread is fairly light and easy to tear into pieces. The Samarkand bread is very dense and difficult to tear, but extremely tasty and oily. I gnawed on the bread for days to come!

Heading west on the M39 out of Almaty, the snow-capped peaks of the towering Zailyisky Alatau range were quickly out of sight, replaced with gently rolling cultivated fields covered with brown stubble. Between the fields and the highway is a continuous tract of trees about a dozen meters wide – on evenings when I mistimed the sunset this made a convenient, but not exactly quiet, camping area.

Near Taraz the Kyrgyz Alatau mountain range appeared in the south.

At a rest stop I met a local schoolteacher, whose family also runs a roadside stand selling fruits and drinks.

He spoke English very well, and we had a long conversation about him and his family, my trip and the local area.  I was grateful for a discussion beyond buying food or fuel, and he was happy to practice English, which is one of the subjects he teaches.

In Taraz I stopped for snacks and met these brothers.

At 21 and 19 years old, they own a bread delivery van, serving stores all over Taraz. They had lots of questions about America: Actors, geography, guns, politics. They seemed surprised to learn that I wasn’t carrying a gun with me.

At the outskirts of sprawling Shymkent, I stayed north to make miles toward Turkestan. I passed some time with these fellows at the SinOil gas station.

They put some graffiti on the bike but the party broke up when the boss made them get back to work.

A few miles from Turkistan I stopped at a shady spot for a snack of kielbasa and cheese. Two fellows walking by pointed down the road and said, “Chaikhana, chaikhana” and motioned for me to join them. I politely declined, pointing at my meal in hand. Not three minutes later, a shared taxi stopped and four men piled out. They too invited me: “Chaikhana, chaikhana!” So join them I did. Only a few dozen meters down the road was a house set some distance back from the highway, with a shady veranda and a burbling spring alongside. Inside the 4 taxi guys and I sat on benches at a low table; the first two men were already seated, and I gave them a smile and a shrug.

We tucked in to a hearty meal of stout noodles with mutton, potatoes and carrots, served with green tea, salad and flatbread. During the meal I was schooled (by the mustachioed fellow, above) on some of the customs of the Kazakh dining table: Flatbread is always placed crust side down; forks and spoons are placed concave side facing down; one person tears up the bread for everyone; there is always time for more chai; and the guest doesn’t pay. At the close of the meal, everyone shows thanks by cupping their hands and making a motion as if washing the face. I left the chaikhana seriously stuffed with food and humbled by their kindness and hospitality.

Turkistan is home to the impressive mausoleum of Kozha Akhmed Yasaui, the first great Turkic holy man. The mausoleum’s construction began in the 1390s by orders of Timur (a.k.a. Tamerlane), but Timur died before its completion, and today it stands in an unfinished state, with the wooden scaffolding poles protruding from the upper reaches of the main arch.

As this is the most important pilgrimage site in Kazakhstan, photography inside was forbidden, but the soaring dome, intricate tile work and architectural details were very impressive. All signs and information is in Kazakh and Russian, but I was lucky enough to get a tour from an English-speaking guide.

Backtracking toward Shymkent I again misjudged the sunset, and lacking any tree cover, set up camp beneath crackling high-tension power lines. My wake-up call was rain and gusting winds, and after packing my wet camping gear proceeded to dump the bike when I hit damp dirt road. The rain continued all the way to Shymkent, and by sheer chance I quickly found my hotel…located inside of a shopping mall. The jovial bellhop proudly displayed a thumbs-up and said, “You get veep parking!” And he wasn’t kidding. I walked the bike through the front doors and past the fancy jewelry & clothing shops, internet center, guitar store and reception desk, very aware of the lack of traction between the polished floors and my wet boots & tires. He directed me to an unused retail space, where the bike rested and dripped.

The hotel room was clean and spacious, but since it was originally intended as retail space, it lacked plumbing (shared shower, sink and toilet in a separate room) and was “ergonomically challenged” with few power outlets and oddly-placed light switches. It did however have sufficient rigging points for stringing a clothesline to dry my drenched camping gear. I stayed for two nights until my Uzbekistan visa became valid, then headed southwest to Abay and the border crossing. (The border post near Shymkent is closed for remodeling.)

The entry to Kazakhstan was the easiest border yet; after stamping my passport they only wanted to glance at my Russian customs declaration form. A uniformed official smiled and said, “Welcome to Kazakhstan – our military is not interested in your vehicle.” Next I was cruising across the tan, griddle-flat landscape on paved but humpy roads. The first surprise was the number of Mercs, Audis and Beemers passing me. There was certainly some money in this country, or at least E-Z credit. I quickly made it to Semey, stopping only long enough to withdraw a supply of Kazakh Tenge from an automat, and at the next magazin re-supplied for a few nights of camping.

Outside of Semey I saw my first Kazakh cemetery, with tiny masoleums, towers, and fenced grave sites

From a distance these looked like tiny fantasy cities.

I was looking for a prime site where I could hole up for a day or two to attend to a few maintenance items on the bike. While the pavement snaked through a series of low hills, I took a random dirt road and found the spot.

In the morning after the first night, I set up a tarp for shade and at a leisurely pace knocked down a checklist of bike-related chores. First, a peek at the front brake pads told me that maintenance day couldn’t have come at a better time.

They were down to about a millimeter of material! I installed my spare set and bolted one of the worn ones to the tiny rear brake pedal to serve as an extension. I also removed the dash that had been crafted by my friend Randy (sorry, buddy – without the windshield it was flopping around in the breeze), fixed a flaky headlight switch, removed the Speed/RPM computer, checked the luggage racks for cracks, cleaned, lubed and adjusted the chain, and re-mounted the 12vdc outlet that had been installed on the dash. That evening, when the nearby hills to the west were silhouetted black by the setting sun I noticed a fox watching me, stock-still until he knew he’d been spotted. He continued across the ridgeline, stopping occasionally to make a statue’s silhouette, and finally loped further into the mountains disappearing among the brown bushes.

The following morning I woke to the sound of herders driving sheep across the hills, using shouts, whistles and SHWOOSHing sounds to keep their wooly, complaining herd moving in the right direction. I was more impressed by their small stout horses that kept their footing on the steep, rocky slopes.

Two days later I was in Almaty, ready for a shower and a visa for Uzbekistan. Almaty struck me as quite civilized, with amenities such as pedestrain crosswalks that are actually observed by drivers, garbage bins on every corner, and several ATMs on every street. Drivers were generally polite; one even honked and let me know that my turn signal was left on….now THAT was unexpected! I’d left my Central Asia guide and map in a hotel in Russia (wish I could blame it on sticky-fingered Mongolians, but this one was all me), so a friend looked up lodging options and via cellphone/SMS pointed me to the Kazzhol, a somewhat swanky and central hotel that was well over my budget, but a good place to clean up and research cheaper sleeping options. I felt out of place walking across shiny marble floors in dusty, clunky Tech3 riding boots, but the staff were English-speaking, the shower was hot and the toilet clean. Happy days! Two nights later I was at the Zhetysu, at 1/4 the price with shared bath, peeling paint and shady characters manning the “secure” parking lot. I was here for 6 nights while I secured a visa for Uzbekistan and replaced the stolen camera and MP3 player.

Just a few paces from the hotel was Zhibek Zholy, a pedestrian walking/shopping area with high-end clothing stores, dozens of cell phone dealers, coffee shops, restaurants, art galleries, and internet cafes. I stopped in a music shop and looked at the acoustic guitars, and in a fit of homesickness played a sloppy version of Blackbird, made worse by the fact that the staff closed the shop door and the place got very quiet as I mis-fingered a few of the double-stops. I asked if they would rent a guitar to me for the rest of the week, but nyet was the answer.

On the way to the Uzbek embassy I went through Panfilov Park and had a look at the Zenkov Cathedral.

The structure dates from 1904, and is built entirely from wood…event the nails! It is a functioning place of worship, and the inside is all candlelit brass and gold fittings, dark woods, murals and icons of saints, and reverential silence. I paid a small entry fee and received 4 slender candles to light at the many tables and sconces, but being a non-believer I wasn’t going to insult the faithful by faking a prayer. So I thought of the Christians that I do know and lit them up (the candles, that is) with the hopes that through the “G” network my positive thoughts would reach them.

Further east in the park is the somber war memorial. The cool, rainy day fit the mood of the sculptures.

Getting the visa for Uzbekistan consisted mostly of waiting outside in the damp cold with other applicants for hours. When my time came, the smiling consulate showed me the visa and asked for $155, a figure that was probably padded because I paid him directly without a receipt, rather than the cashiers. I was in no place to argue because by then I had an urgent need for a bathroom, and I think he knew it by my pacing, grimacing, and deeply furrowed brow. It’s always open season on tourists’ wallets.

On a brighter note I was also able to get new tires for the bike (nice German Metzeler Tourances), and replace the stolen camera and MP3 player. It was a pleasure to relax in Almaty for a few days, and I enjoyed the oasis of modernity after the wilds of Mongolia, but I was glad to saddle up, click into first gear and head south.

Crossing from Mongolia back into Russia was quick and painless, as border crossings go. The first laugh of the day was the Mongolian “road tax” of about US$3. Err…and for which roads am I being taxed, exactly? Done with Mongolia, it’s a 10-mile ride across no-man’s land to the Russian border. A customs declaration form is filled (twice, actually, so they save money by not making a copy), a quick peek into my topcase and I’m back on paved roads again, loving every minute of it. Is this what 4th gear feels like? Dare I try top? The wind blast is new (I’d chucked the mangled windshield in Mongolia), but the increased velocity of travel is welcome. At the first town of size I find an automat and successfully extract rubles, then pop into a grocery store for my camping standards: apples, dried fruit (dates are my new favorite), fresh bread, jam, pasta and jarred tomato sauce, instant noodles, and sweet snacks.

A few dozen miles down the road and the scenery takes on a welcome change:

The 200 miles of the M-52 from Tashanta at the Russian border look like this — non-stop eye-popping color, towering mountains and curving roads, distant glaciers and green, twisting rivers carrying their mineral-laden meltwater.  At one of these photo stops I met these three fellows on a weekend jaunt from Barnaul:

They offered me a small glass of wine…and a bottle to take on my way! Thick slices of salami were passed around, and we chatted about the beauty of the area, and the usual “where are you from?/where are you going?” string of questions. Their joviality and kindness, coupled with the stunning scenery were a real mood lifter for me, and the bitter taste of my last days in Mongolia were melting away.

As the sun dropped closer to the horizon I found a nice place to camp by the river, all to myself.

It’s good to be back in Russia!

The next day the landscape flattened out and agriculture took over, and at Biysk I found a gostinitsa for a much-needed shower and a non-camping meal. Outside of Rubsovsk I stopped at a gas station for a stretch, and the attendant brought me a cup of hot tea. We chatted about the bike (usual questions: Max speed, cost, max RPMs, no Harley?), and about him (he’s also a farmer, has a wife and two children), and eventually he asked if I’d like to stay at his house with his family. I accepted, and at around dark his shift ended and we made our way to his home in a nearby village.

We watched Russin-dubbed western television programs and had a pleasant dinner of soup, bread, kielbasa, honey, tea and small cakes. He cleared a bed for me — I think it was the main bed, and he and his wife slept in the children’s room — and their cat curled up at my feet and stayed there all night. Well before sunrise I was treated to the farmer’s alarm clock (rooster’s call), and in the wan light Andrei started his morning chores of tending to the chickens, ducks, sheep and cows. We had breakfast (same filling menu as dinner), and his children went off to school. When it was time for me to leave, he led the way in his car to the main road to make sure I could find it, and we said our goodbyes. I palmed him a few hundred rubles for his troubles, which he refused at first but finally accepted. It was a heartwarming farewell to Russia. A few hours later I would cross into Kazakhstan.

I followed a track north toward the aimag capital of Arvayheer with the goal of replenishing food and water for camping. In the smaller villages, the store shelves are stocked with food items with expiration dates that are measured in decades: instant noodles, colas, candy, canned soups and sauces, powdered soup bases, and pasta. I like to have some of that on hand for emergencies, but for day-to-day living I need something with less sodium and preservatives. At the aimag capitals I could find locally made bread, dried fruit, fruit spreads, cured meats.

The road north from Arvayheer took me past Erdene Zuu, site of the oldest surviving Buddhist monastery in Mongolia.

The next day the landscape changed from desert scrub to grassy hills, and I arrived at Tsetserleg, probably the prettiest aimag capital I’ve seen yet. I found the highly-recommended Fairfield guesthouse and set about scrubbing off the grit and funk of my week of Gobi camping.

Gassing up to leave Tsetserleg I came across an unexpected sight.

Maarten Hoeben(NL) / Jan Bruintjes(NL) in their 1931 Lagonda 3L Special

And later during a rest at a cool volcanic canyon…

…there were more.

In front of the 1938 Alvis 4.3 driven by Scott Greenhalgh(GB) / Patrick Walker(GB).

I’d been caught up in the dust cloud of the Peking to Paris Rally. Hats off to these folks driving vintage cars (and one 1922 motorcycle) across harsh landscapes, rather than having them languish in garages and museums. I stayed with the pack for a while, but at Tosontsengel veered off onto a more direct track to Ulaangom.

Another dreadful Mongolian campsite.

As I traveled west, the scenery went from this…

…to this.

West of Ulaangom, the track climbed a 1200 meter pass and I had my first view of snow-capped peaks.

The elevation eventually climbed again to 2200 meters and outside of Tsagaanuur I was treated to lake and mountain views.

Entering the village of Tsagaanuur I was greeted by a young Mongolian (who identified himself as Kazakh) and invited to his home for tea, bread and cheese. I was delighted by the offer and followed him to a humble house where I met more generations of his family.

We spent about an hour going over maps while granny cut up bread and cheese and kept the hot, milky tea flowing into bowls. Kids came and went, neighbors popped in to see the foreigner, and I practiced a few Kazakh words. I gave them my LP Mongolia guide as a way of thanking them for their hospitality. When I was leaving I wanted to take a picture of the family, but couldn’t find the small camera that had been living in my jacket pocket for nearly two months. Thinking I’d left it at a previous photo stop, I was quickly on my way, backtracking up the road. I noticed that the motorcycle wasn’t running very well, but chalked it up to kids fiddling with fuel taps and choke settings. Soon I realized that my jacket was missing a lot more weight than a digital camera, and on closer searching noticed that I was missing a multi-tool, MP3 player, sunglasses case, and tire pressure gauge. (Later I found more missing from my other luggage: My supply of spare nuts and bolts and laundry soap.) With mounting dread it dawned on me that the pleasant hospitality of the Kazakh family had only been a method of distracting me while my valuables were pilfered. (And as it turns out,  my fuel was drained and replaced with some vile liquid that caused the bike to run poorly until I was in Russia, two days later.)

I returned to the house to ask if they’d seen any of the items that had disappeared, but their welcoming smiles were replaced with stony looks and shrugs. This was a no-win situation for me, and they knew it. It was my word against theirs, and they had half a dozen witnesses who could tell the police their version of events. So I rode away on my sputtering bike, feeling violated and instantly suspicious of any friendly overture from the locals. At the magazin I stopped for water and snacks, and found my bike mobbed by rosy-cheeked, giggling kids. One wanted to climb on — what else could I do? — I helped him up to the seat and let him have a view from the captain’s chair for a minute. After starting the bike another young fellow wanted to give the throttle a twist. Sure, why not? The turn of events had me smiling at how my bike brought a little fun to the lives of these kids, but my guts were still churning over the deception and theft that had just happened. I said goodbye to the kids and found a campsite a few kilometers out of town. Tent-flattening wind gusts and impotent fantasies of violent retribution kept me awake through the night.

I still had a day to kill before my Russia visa became valid, so I headed out of town toward Olgii, if only to put distance between myself and the scene of yesterday’s crime. My plans were aborted when the road crossed a river that was a little too deep for comfort. The other roads out of town were back the way I came, and toward the Russian border. The gusting winds had not subsided, and it had gotten colder since last night, so I made it a priority to get out of the wind and brew up hot soup and coffee. About ten kilometers along the road toward Russia I found a bridge for shelter.

I decided to spend the day here, sipping hot liquids and nursing my emotional wounds (a.k.a. feeling sorry for myself), and made a plan to sleep here if the winds didn’t subside. I set up a kitchen area between the concrete supports, and cleared an area for my sleeping pad and bag. I passed time by inspecting the Mongolian graffiti, which included names and dates, declarations of true love, and the expected depictions of the human form with exaggerated body parts. After nightfall the character of my abode changed. The tomb-like silence of the place, being broken only by the rumble of passing traffic and a sprinkle of Soviet-era cement dust, combined with the stink of old concrete and rat droppings, drove me out into the gravel of the dry riverbed. Fortunately the winds subsided and I slept, albeit fitfully, thankful to be under the stars again.