Category Archives: Off The Bikes

Hiking to Meet the Hill Tribes

Our public transport northwards in Myanmar ended in the town of Tsipaw (Hsipaw), Shan State. It’s a pleasant place, but the attraction there is as a base for hiking into the hills.
Myanmar isn’t exactly a unitary state. It used to be called Burma, reflecting the dominance of the Bamar people. Indeed, they were expanding quite an empire westwards in the early 1800s, until they met the East India Company expanding the other way, attacked, and came off worst. One reason the country’s name changed in 1989, was to be more inclusive of the other people’s the Bamar had (partially) subdued: the Shan, the Palaung, the Mon, and many others. So, hiking in this part of Shan State, we’d meet Shan people, and also Palaung people. Our guide, Aikethein, is a Palaung.
We’d been told our route would be across the fields in the morning heading up into the hills during the afternoon. No such luck. Barely across one field we started on our incline. The broad track occasionally opening out into panoramic views, eventually shrank into a ‘sheep’ trail across the steep edged hills winding it’s way up and down. We didn’t see any sheep, just a few motorbikes.
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Forest paths wound over tree roots and rocks as we crunched through the leaf fall, passing cleared areas used for crops, often, at this time of year, burnt to clear them for the next growing season. Towards the end of the day, small plantations of tea bushes ranged up steeper slopes.
A small boy dancing from rock to rock  across the burbling brook, swiftly crouching to take aim, catapult in hand. The bird flew off as junior sprang into action again, for another shot. Aikethein fumbled in his bag seizing his catapult for a more experienced attempt. Peeyaang .. another shot flew out but still the bird fluttered away. We now know why we hear, but don’t see, birds in the forest.
We stopped in a Shan village for lunch, although at the house of a Palaung family. Shan and Palaung have their own languages, and the Palaung generally live higher up in the hills, where they grow tea. I nabbed the only chair, a small plastic garden chair the same as a few others on the veranda that stood next to the bamboo ‘deck chair’, the fomer probably for tourists when they arrived. Our food was on a circular low table in a large sparsely furnished room. Our hostess bustled away at a bit of sweeping keeping the room spotlessly clean once we had eaten. The small pile she had swept with her traditional handmade broom quickly disappeared down a lifted floor board to the ground 8 feet below – how neat was that!
The roomy houses are lovely. There’s stuff lying around showing just how much can be made out of bamboo and twine: hats, walls, plumbing, fences, gates, chairs, bridges, it’s endless. There are now some concrete houses, but most are a traditional chunky wood frame with bamboo mat walls. Sometime in the last 100 years, corrugated iron roofs replaced thatch in most cases. The light woven walls keep out the sun but provide ventilation.
The cuisine is one of the many things that defines each culture. We were first introduced to fermented tea leaf salad on the Myanmar International Airways plane where Gid tried it but declined a second helping. Here in the village, having done a days hike and with no other option, we both tucked in.
Aikethein was telling us that whilst the main ingredients may stay the same across regions of Myanmar the method of cooking them has slight changes from village to village. He pointed out that the food we were eating was less greasy than in Hsipaw which we agreed with. Sourbanyan tree leaves, cabbage soup, a solid  wad of steamed rice were three of the things on our supper table.
Manns Tan, a Palaung village, perched on the edge of the hillside, is a cluster of 15 houses. There are numerous children all keen to smack your hand in a high 5 greeting calling bye- bye, hello, tata. Relatively recently, the trails to it have been dug out to be passable by motorbike as well as horse. A motorbike can carry two 50Kg bags of rice, plus a bit else.
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18km (11miles) walked. Mostly up, as we climbed to around 1000m, amongst small tea plantations and wandering water buffalo whose bells clonked musically as they browsed. Fortuitously, the buffalo don’t eat tea bushes. We noticed the Myanmar (SE Asian) water buffalo are indeed different from Indian.
Aikethein Taw was our guide. His village is 50 km away but is not accessible to foreigners because, like many places in Myanmar, there are civil, and not so civil, disputes between tribes fighting over the natural resources in the land. He left his village to move to the ‘city’ as he didn’t want to be a farmer, and has been guiding now for quite a few years. He has big ideas for more work in the growing tourist trade.
Aikethein is one of twelve siblings. Two of his brothers died from cocaine addiction, one from measles which in the last ten years is now immunized against.  In families where there are three male children one has to join the “army” (that is, the tribal militia, not the national army, whom they may fight). In villages where there are less than thirty children there is no formal education but children will often be sent to a nunnery or monastery at the age of six or seven and are free to leave when they like.

Alternative transport tried and tested

On leaving Yangon airport, after our flight from India, it was like stepping back into normality albeit with a sauna full on. The taxi had four – count them – wheels, and four – listen – cylinders, real springs, and the driver’s style had only a soothing effect on our blood pressure. Other cars travelled along marked lanes with the occasional brief hoot as we listened to the purr of motor car engines. Motorbikes are banned! Buses cruised along. All very orderly and blissfully peaceful. Melodic bird song returned to our ears.
The city itself was, by comparison, clean, although as we explored further we found many similarities with India: crowds, street vendors, wires draped along the buildings and criss-crossing the streets, surface drainage channels and food stalls filling the pavement. But no cows, no hasslers, and the wares now carried on shoulder poles. And did we mention, no hooting? We visited quietly busy pagodas and restocked on memory cards and a few bike bits.
Our plan for Myanmar was designed to show us some of the country, bearing in mind that we’d flown into almost the “end” of it, near the Thai border. So, we used alternative transports to backtrack about halfway up the country, back towards the border with India. Not that riverboats or Myanmar trains go much faster than a bicycle, but they do keep going for longer and don’t collapse from exhaustion.
Decidedly top heavy, perched on a one metre wide gauge, the sleeper train from Yangon to Bagan lurched and jolted along, frequently caterpillar style whilst wobbling from side to side. Sharing the carriage with Anton from Germany and the many bugs and mosquitoes, left us all with ample space but the mossies seemed rather greedy. Gid resorted to a bug net overnight, carefully tucking me in as well. Lurching along in the train we were submerged in village life: fields being watered or tended to, traffic waiting for us to pass, children, and those young at heart, keen to wave. Vendors tempted us with their wares peering into our gaping windowless chasms, other locals sat just biding their time or peeking from behind their doors but all were near to be seen.
Blue loo and satalite dishes
The river boat from Bagan to Mandalay was not as interesting as the train trip from Yangon to Bagan. Bustling along the river that was  a good half mile wide, despite winding our way back and forth avoiding the shallows, we were rarely in touch with the people. Dancing dots on the horizon appeared to be children playing on the bank. Others were attending laundry or fishing nets, just distinguishable in the distance. Photos taken require dramatic cropping to give a feel of the people and scenery around us. River traffic trundled past but was frequently industrialized; clearly not from the villages that periodically line the banks.
On the boat itself there was an on going game of musical chairs as views versus the sun battled for the prized seats first facing one way then the other.  With about 20 tourists aboard (and one local passenger), there was a chance for some chat. Especially as Nicolas and Elise were also cycle touring. Navigating through the sand banks that were intermittently marked, was highly technical.  Two people stood on the bow of the boat elegantly welding depth gauge poles, arm actions directing the helmsman left or right.
Motorbikes are banned only in Yangon, elsewhere in Myanmar they are ubiquitous. Like India, they’re all small, if a little newer in design. Unlike India, there’s an assumption of observation, and a concept of right of way,  so hooters are used sparingly. Sometimes one can hear a motorbike approaching by the voices of the people on it! We’re still trying to take this on, after immersion in India for three months. In Mandalay, it was our voices, as we took motorbike taxis at one point. They also gave us helmets, but had they just got their motorbikes and wanted to practice? The two times we went on the back of Indian’s bikes, helmetless and three up, admittedly in the middle of nowhere, the riders were much smoother and assured, whereas our Mandalay taxis, two times two up, felt a bit wobbly and less secure. Were we paying for their learner petrol?
Our second train trip, Mandalay to Tsipaw, notable for two feats of engineering back in the early 1900s, was also marked by higher levels of sophistication seen in the farming. Although still mainly small scale stuff with every last patch of fertile land cultivated,  the watering cans on shoulders and the ox ploughs had been replaced by rotavators, hose pipes, sprinklers systems and strimmers.
Unbelievably the train jolted to a halt then went backwards. It was plenty slow enough surely it didn’t need to cover some bits twice. It gradually became obvious; as day was breaking we could see the track layers beneath us. We were gaining height up the side of a mountain onto a plateau, the train can’t do hairpin bends, so it had to switch direction for each zig or zag. A panoramic view opened up before us, lined with receding hills.
The second spectacular event was marked by people peering out of the windows and cries of, ‘There it is’. Fleeting glimpses developed into a full view until the train stopped just before we curved round to cross the Goteik Gorge viaduct. Crowds clambered down onto the track for a better view framing the ‘must take’ photographs.
Goitek Viaduct
Don’t look down. No, that’s not the road we later cycled, that’s errr, downstream?
Think that’s about covered it: Plane, taxi (4 wheels), train, riverboat, motorbike, train. Oh and then  in Tsipaw, tuk tuk, hiking, and in Lyaung Shwe, long tail boat.

Camel trek – Thar desert

It was with great excitement that I climbed into the jeep to set off on our camel trek. That lasted until I saw the camels and started to wonder what were we doing now. The camels were loaded up, all we had to do was hop on. That was where the trouble started. With no stirrups to help, how was I going to get my leg over that hump. And this camel is as tall as a pony – when it’s still sitting down.
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The first couple of hours felt rather traumatic. I was so thrilled to be going on a camel trek, I wanted to snap away as we went but was too scared to take my hands off the saddle.  This was compounded by the terrible itch that, it was clear, my camel had.  He regularly half stumbled / lurched into a step, first his front leg kicked back then the back kicked forward but neither could reached this itch.
There is a deer further along the track.
As time progressed I did get used to it and my camel husbandry improved; we were able to productively assist with managing and loading/ unloading the camels during our lunch break and at the end of the day. The camels wandered off if unhobbled and would have to be rounded up. Gid’s camel, even when hobbled, still made a break for it. The camel was tied into a sitting position, using his rein running down his chest to the hobble rope, only to shuffle along on his haunches. We started using the foot loops, which helped a lot, although locals don’t use them. By day three Gid, who was altogether more confident with the camels, was going solo and I could take photos at a trot.
The trip itself was awesome. We rode the camels, for an hour or two at a time, along tracks through desert scrub, across sandy sections and over dunes, visiting the odd village as we went.
The villagers are used to tourists so we caused some excitement but weren’t mobbed. Rather fabulously we were invited into homes and regularly offered chai which was made on an open hearth in the corner of their courtyard – homes here are designed primarily to keep the sun off and the goats out – any breeze is most welcome.  Most people were happy to pose for photos; some performed a mini concert. Even very old people came out to see us. It was delightful to get a glimpse into village life. A small donation was always exchanged: 50 rupees for chai or photos, or 200 for a mini concert. To put this in context, a  labourer might earn 250 rupees a day, that’s about €4, so a couple of tourist visits in a day is a big bonus, especially at present in Mr Modi’s cash crisis.
Children repeatedly asked for ‘school pen, school pen’. One 15 year old lad, able to speak some English, told us there was a village school. The teacher might come on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, he said, but then miss Thursday. He also told us he couldn’t read or write. That, it would appear, is not uncommon. Our guide, Harish, who had picked up English from tourists, proclaimed that he could not read or write but his younger brother could because school had opened, in his village, in 2011. Our second guide, Saleem, couldn’t spell his own name for us when he asked us to mention him in our reviews.
The desert camp experience was fantastic.  We learnt several desert life ‘tricks of the trade’ such as hollowing out a bed in the sand and, in winter, lining it with covered stones from the fire for extra warmth and how to catch a goat to milk it for fresh milk in the chai (someone else’s goat, that is, so it may be, ahem, not entirely welcome). ‘Washing up’ with sand we’re already familiar with from our background in canoeing and kayaking trips but it was a first for sleeping on dunes under the stars with gerbils scurrying around in the shrubs behind us.
Don’t know if the goat’s owner would appreciate this…
Harish up the tree, collecting firewood
Tough mouths!
Harish cooking supper
Gid is still asleep in this bedding
Day 2 Gid asleep
The Thar desert is the most populated desert in the world. The Indira Gandhi canal must have done much to improve the water supply but, when the rains fail, as had been the case this year, the crops don’t grow and we passed a few ploughed fields where nothing was growing. Harish had to reach deep to get water from the storage tank. But it seems to be being managed – people and animals get enough to drink, and some fields are irrigated.
There’s quite a bit of wildlife, too, although apart from birds, we only saw gerbils, chipmunks and beetles, during the actual camel trek. There were several different large birds of prey, and also Egyptian Vultures. The high point was a lunch spot near to an eagle’s nest in a tree, we saw them visiting their chicks from a distance, but when Gid tried hiding behind a tree about 70m away, the parents spotted him, and waited on some rocks a km away before returning. So not much in the way of photos from that encounter.
The path to true love never runs straight…
This was our Christmas card photo
End.

Dealing with Delhi

Traveling across Europe into central Asia, we thought, would be a gradual adjustment in terms of cultural differences, road traffic conditions, food etc. and I guess that’s been the case. But, arriving in Delhi has been a whole new ball game. From the start, in the shuttle from the airport, we were dicing with death. Our driver must be on a reward for fast delivery, as on the crowded road he weaves for side to side, our battered Suzuki micro van was rolling alarmingly; Clare’s bike box threatening to fly off the roofrack. Vehicles weave across the road trying to fill the smallest of gaps in the blocked solid traffic. Bicycles, scooters and motor bikes (women usually side saddle on the back), a selection of motor vehicles, all palm wedged on the horn, accelerate in every direction regardless of any perceivable traffic regulations such as, travel in the direction of the traffic or pavements for pedestrians. Certainly, the ‘Look left, look right , look left again, use your eyes and ears before you use your feet’ applies on both sides of a dual-carriageway as much as anywhere else.

 

Stark evidence of poverty is very present in the city. There are not only beggars, as in many countries, but also shanty towns along the streets just off main highways together with debris piled high. Loads of people bedding down in the street (where do they go during monsoon?). Dirt and litter is almost everywhere.

There are so many warnings in the media, on tourist/hotel notices, and in guide books about the ingenuity of Indian people to rob, one way or another, unsuspecting tourists that it has made us uncomfortable talking to the locals, especially when we recognize some of the opening gambits or stock phrases such as, ‘I don’t want any money but …’ or ‘I just want to practise my English …’ . After a week we knew the pick up points and phrases but still got gulled a couple of times; not so badly though, as these fellows were just trying to steer us into their favoured establishments.  An auto-rickshaw driver (tally: 3 ok, 1 maniac) told us that some of the big tourist shops reward drivers with a 1L fuel voucher (about $0.70) for each tourist delivered.

The general atmosphere is one of hectic bustle and over crowdedness. If there is a space someone or something will fill it rapidly. Amusingly, dogs have cracked the system. Whilst we’ve already seen a starving horse who had a broken or deformed leg and just enough flesh to stretch over it’s bone structure, the dogs look fine and seem to find a safe place to hangout or kip. Cows roam about, apparently eating garbage. Some folk keep a few goats. In Delhi, ox carts aren’t uncommon; later in more open country, horses were preferred. A few donkeys seem to be used for riding or carrying loads. But small motorbikes and scooters dominate the transport sector, at least, numerically.

This is good fun…

http://m.driving-tests.in/learners-licence-practice-test-3/

I got 26 out of 30, a pass. But some of the questions seem a bit unrelated to real road practices here.

Delhi has been a place of many firsts:

-first time we’ve seen oxen pulling carts in the centre of a city,

-first time we’ve had to call reception to get our water heater turned on for a shower,

-first time I’ve watched people washing their clothes on the ground in the streets (a few had bowls most didn’t),

-first time I’ve seen ladders up to dwellings on the first and second floors above shops,

-first time I’ve watched a man tapping off the drips in one of the many recessed ‘toilets’ along the streets, which leave an ever present stink of urine,

-first time I’ve watched a man spit three metres out onto the street (I wonder what the world record is?),

-first time I’ve seen so many electric cables draped along outside of the buildings and spewing out of a sub station.

Gradually we have got used to the chaotic nature of Delhi. Like chrysalis slowly emerging from our hotel room, we have now been out and about seeing the sights and still have all limbs intact, despite a few close shaves.

Sub station
Mughal architecture in white

Cycling out of Delhi still fills us with fear and trepidation. To conquer this one we took a cycle tour of old Delhi – their bikes, our helmets and gloves. A definite plus was that I lowered the saddle so that I could comfortably touch the ground. A real plus when constantly stopping in the many tight, crowded situations. The tour itself was fantastic. We frequently ‘whizzed’ along streets and passages wiggling in and out of traffic, people and other obstacles, initially waking people from their slumbers. Nerves of steel were required for the ‘Russian roulette’  or ‘balletic’ interactions between traffic. We soon cracked the rapidly repeating bell manoeuvre to add to the constant cacophony. The main tip, though, was “start at dawn”. And later on, going out of Delhi, it worked well.

At times, modern sky scrapers graced the sky while at ground level they seemed precariously close to the decay, detritus and dirt of the old town, despite, we were told, that the government having cleaned up the area by removing the slums.

Our tour took us round the back streets, starting with a visit to Jama Masjid, on to Delhi’s traditional bread making industry, next to a lofty view of both the Shah Jahan’s wife’s mosque and the spice center of the world, inside a Sis Ganj Sihk Temple, further on to one of the four remaining city gates and a number of other notable land marks and sights. All jigsawed in and around a four kilometre radius.

Deteriorating pockets of ornate architecture amidst the hotch-potch of cables, crumbling brickwork, faded signs, patched repairs, mark, we were told, India’s rich heritage and are left over from the Mugal society, dating back to 1857 or earlier.

Under our own guidance, and mostly in search of cash (India’s government having just invalidated all the currency over about $1 value, causing something of a nationwide crisis), we visited Connaught Place and other parts of New Delhi, built towards the end of the British period, and travelled on the shiny new metro out to some new malls, at Noida, to get some bike parts at the big Decathlon store (note to other cycle-tourists: Don’t expect much in terms of spares, we took the only 9 speed chain).

Bye bye Bishkek, Farewell Central Asia

Tomorrow morning we fly to India. Here’s a final mini-blog for Bishkek.

At the AtHouse

Where we’ve been so wonderfully put up, and put up with. And met so many other travellers.

Angie’s birthday party
Nathan helping fix Michal’s bike
Alex and Richard, setting off for Almaty, with impeccable timing.
Michal chose to test his kit…

Between the snowfalls

It’s butter, in a cow’s stomach.

With today’s and yesterday’s snow

That’s 16th and 17th November, for posterity.

By Bus Around Lake Issy Kul

Sight seeing is fairly limited in Bishkek: a few statues, the tourist shop, the square, the goose step guards who are currently ‘off’ due to the building being under repair, and the bazaar. We’d done the lot, with many visits to the bazaar and needed another diversion.  Ysyk-Kol Lake did the trick: not too far away, public transport so it’s cheap, a nature reserve and local holiday spot.  Angie, our hostess at the AtHouse, sorted out our first nights accommodation; a second outing for Nathan’s old rucksack and we we’re off.

Tamara, our hostess at Tamga, booked her ‘cowboy’; we were all set for a morning’s horse ride. 10 she said and the deed was done.  At 10 we we’re ready: togged up, breakfasted up, camera sorted or so we thought. 10 came and went. Tamar’s cowboy couldn’t find his horses.  Once he arrived it was easy to see why as they must have been deeply submerged in a briar patch. Both manes and tails were matted to a lump with burs.  The ubiquitous padded sleeping mats came in handy again as they we’re draped over the saddles for our comfort and under the wooden runners to protect the horse.  Plaited string reins were given, together with the usual instructions: left, right, stop & fast ahead with the use of a birch twig whip, and we were off. The first hiccup occurred as our horses headed off the track, down a small bank into a stream for a drink. Eider, our guide, already had the measure of our riding skills coming quickly across to chivvy the horses back on track. My horse was keen to be the leader of the pack. It frequently broke into a trot and occasionally a canter, much to my alarm,  to make sure it’s nose was ahead. Gid was less fortunate and had the opposite problem, it wouldn’t budge. Eider soon sorted the problem. Along we went; down steep banks, across mountain streams, along mountain side sheep trails, all of which I would have baulked at on foot, until we reached an open meadow where Eider eagerly suggested we could canter. I firmly declined the offer. I’d grown quite fond of my saddle and didn’t wish to part with it.
Tamga Tash – Tibetan inscriptions
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It was a superb day, not a cloud in the sky, and a light dusting of snow visible on the sharp-edged mountains behind the foothills we climb. The dusty track rose straight from the village, up the valley. It wiggled and dipped through scrubby, hilly, grassland and a few streams. About ten times we saw a vehicle lurch up the bigger track up the valley. We greeted a couple of farmers. The two dogs were annoying; otherwise, outside the village it was just us.
We ambled back down, once I’d managed to convince my horse we weren’t going to canter for home the whole way. That was until a rare occasion when we’d dropped behind and watched three dogs aggressively worrying the two horses ahead; one hanging off the tail of Eider’s horse. It didn’t seem such a bad idea when my beast took flight and delivered me some 30 metres up the track to the front of our group again, with Eider brandishing his whip at the dogs as I flew by.

Fairytale Canyon

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Barskoon Valley Waterfall

Taken more or less at the waterfall, but looking the other way. Hard to believe it’s the same day – the waterfall must be shaded most of the day.

Around Tamga

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Moving on from Tamga was entertaining in itself. Tamara had warned us that the bus timetable was approximate, not deterring an ambitious driver from speeding away early despite the bus having a schedule. True enough, 15 mins early we were chased up the road by the bus that did a quick flit round and was off again.
Being already full didn’t deter a further four of us piling on. I  was given a seat as usual, with Kyrgyz politeness showing deference to age. On this occasion it may have been the short straw. Gid clung to the single roof rail in a throng of people who surged forward when someone want to depart, until one burst out, whereupon, a ripple of people retreated in a backwash. I was perched on an upturned metal, bottle crate; one leg slowly going numb. My face was approximately at arse height as I sat amongst the throng. One pair of legs squeezed mine in a pincer gripe as I tried to casually glance away. Gradually, as we passed through the villages, space became available. I moved to a comfy seat to admire my former perch and truly admire the view.  My admiration sank as a man near us repeatedly rasped up a mouthful of spit ready to gob. Inhibited, perhaps, by the enclosed space the final deed was unfinished, much to our relief.

Karakol Valley – Walk up to the Ski Resort

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Karakol Museum

Karakol Animal Market

The animal market, Angie from the AtHouse in Bishkek had said, was quite a spectacle. The biggest in the region the Lonely Planet guide claims.  For once we were in the right place at the right time. I woke at 5:50 my internal alarm well tuned in and was instantly absorbed by thoughts of the animal market. Early in the morning, all over by 10 were phrases ringing in my head.

I got a groan or two out of Gid, who mentioned something about 01:30 bed time;  6am wasn’t going to happen for him.  I lay there trying to content myself with thoughts such as; we’d seen animals at Kumtepa Bazaar in Margilon so presumably it would be similar but bigger.  We’d also seen herds of animals spilling out onto the dual carriageway way-back-when so I had conjured up something in the middle: loads of wild fowl, loads of herds and maybe a pen or two like our now discontinued sheep fair, in Sussex. But my thoughts were running wild.  I’m here, I’m awake, my only chance.

I bounded out of bed and shortly after was ready to leave. Our windowless room gave no hint of the pitch black outside. Gid, now awake, agreed to come and let me out.  Through one locked door, on to the next, but the final door was locked and we couldn’t find the key. Our efforts had woken the receptionist who came to investigate.  By now Gid was fully sort of awake and agreed to join me.  The receptionist phoned a taxi, a whole 70 som, to save us the 30min walk.

I became apprehensive sitting in the taxi waiting for Gid. I’d dragged him out and it was still pitch black.  What on earth would we be able to see?  Nearing the venue the roads were becoming more and more  blocked by lorries whose loads were nowhere to be seen.

Spilling out of the taxi into the dark, we followed the throng; many people had torches but ours were tucked up in bags at the hostel.  Most people were leading small flocks of sheep, the odd single one or cows, through copious amounts of ‘mud’.  All were either lining the edge of the road together with the vehicles or squeezing along it.  We went with the flow bearing left into a large opening stuffed full of cows and horses.  As there was barely anywhere to stand we tried to tuck in at the edge, finding a couple of rocks raised us up to get a better view.  Traffic passed backwards and forwards; all squeezing through.  The occasional beast refusing to budge. The huge area was absolutely filled.  As the sun rose the spectacle opened out before us; deals started to take place, animals were inspected and some exchanged hands.

This was in Karakol bazaar the previous evening
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Cholpon-Ata

Petroglyph park dated 8th century BC – 5th century AD

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From the bus on the homeward journey

I shall miss the ‘Stans’ as we move on into India. I have grown quite fond of the vast plains dotted with numerous herds of horses, cows, sheep & goats as they mooch across from one side to the other in search of a mouthful to eat. Especially here where the plains span right across to the foothills of the snow capped mountains. Herdsmen, frequently on horseback grace the scene. Their former nomadic lifestyle is evident with ‘sheep’s people’ high up on the mountains together with the occasional sight of a yurt.
Passing along the lakeside highway idly admiring the view, with vast expanses of golden ‘fields’ has been delightful. Hay stacks piled high in gardens nestling between fruit trees, on roof tops or jammed up beside the house. The houses, no frills, working machinery sits amid the ancient relics,  museum piece tractors splutter along with over filled trailers, donkeys dwarfed as they trudge along with the last of the seasons crops. All add to the atmosphere that for me captures rural Kyrgyzstan.

 

Pamirs Take Two – Gideon’s Pictures

As explained in the previous post, we took too many pictures on our Pamir trip to fit in one post. So the previous post has the Pamir text and Clare’s pictures. This post separates out Gideon’s pictures.

Best Shots

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The Toilet at the End of the Universe
Tajikistan
Last chance to go…
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Gotta fix this truck

Phone Snaps

This little collection shows some of the character of the trip, but doesn’t quite measure up to the quality standards we’d like to set. There’s a limit to time when shooting from a moving car, especially on bumpy roads. But thanks to both drivers for keeping the windows clean!

Happy start to the trip to Osh
Snow heading south from Osh
But very little snow on Tajik side of the border
Bed. Lots of covers
Stove, keeping room bonkers hot
Pamir crochet. As seen at Koroug, and hardly anywhere else

Road Trip

Snow heading south from Osh
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ZIL 130
Kevin and Brecht (see Crossed Paths page)
Kyrgyzstan side of the border with Tajikistan
China’s border fence
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Driving down toward Langar
Near Langar
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Exercises in Panj valley (China/Tajik). One of the tracked vehicles must’ve broken down, was being towed.
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Japanese solo cycle tourist, we met twice, see Crossed Paths page.
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Snow on Kyrgyzstan side of border with Tajikistan, this time we’re heading north.
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Ladas are outnumbered nowadays, but still common.
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Alongside China’s border fence
Top of the pass heading north to Osh. A lot of stuck trucks. Also many trucks not stuck. Chains seem to help.

Mountain Textures

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Historic stalwart of the high valleys – a yak
Modern stalwart of the Pamirs – a Land Cruiser (model 100 I think?)
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Landscape

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The Toilet at the End of the Universe
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Langar, early morning. Mixed flock of pigeons and crows (or choughs)
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Afghanistan on the left, Tajikistan on the right. At least, I think so. Maybe that’s a Tajik island?
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Murghab
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Around Town

About halfway between Murghab and Saray Tash. Tajikistan.
Wait here
The Toilet at the End of the Universe
Karkul
Freezng in Karakul
Early morning, Karakul
This the typical stove, since Georgia
Last chance to go…
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Building on the plain
Langar
Old and New, Langar
Langar
Work in Progress, Langar
On the way to school, Langar
Langar in the morning
Near Langar
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Langar
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Near Langar
Around Langar
Georgia to Kyrgyzstan, this is the most popular colour for anything made of steel.
Gotta fix this truck
Owner of truck, on left
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Truckers of Saray Tash
Saray Tash
Dead Volga under Kyrgyzstan flag- Saray Tash
Honey man
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Panj valley irrigation channel – they’re everywhere.

The Pamirs by Toyota Land Cruiser

The Pamirs, a highway across the ‘roof tops’ of the world, a dream destination for well ‘ard cyclists that had been on my wish list since Gid gave me a 501 must do trips book for Christmas 2013 and there, together with the Karakorum Highway, it was. Then he gave me the Adventure Cycle Touring Handbook for Christmas 2014 – was there a plot?

We took far too many pictures! The area is both photogenic and varied, and, we had loads of time for photography. Even half of our pics is blog-bursting, slow to edit and view. So all the pictures below are Clare’s. Gid will make a separate posting for his photos.

I had nurtured my dream, but Gid was more in touch with reality and had realised we wouldn’t be able to do it quite early on in our trip.   Something to do with my groaning and state of depression when faced with endless mountains.  I had kept on trying to convince myself that I would miraculously: shed half the weight on my bike, toughen up both mentally and physically, and fit large mountain bike tyres to cope with the dirt road conditions, by the time we reached Dushanbe.  Not to mention the further difficulties such as the likelihood that there would be snow and very few places to get drink, food or shelter along the way. The advice, also, was to take two to three weeks to acclimatize before attempting any strenuous exercise at high altitudes and time was running out.
As mentioned in an earlier blog, we went to visit the CBT office to see what was on offer as a possible excursion around the Bishkek area having been told that the Pamirs were off the cards – this is Kyrgyzstan, they wouldn’t be organising or promoting trips in Tajikistan.  A three day hunting trip with eagles was very attractive, well, to me at least, but nothing really hit the spot so I thought I’d drop the Pamirs into the conversation.  At that point there was no looking back. Eye wateringly expensive with just two of us in a 4×4, it could all be organised from Bishkek.  At least we already had Tajikistan visas…
A flurry of activity ended up with us in a shared taxi – 11 hrs, two snow covered passes and numerous dodgy overtaking manoeuvres later we were in Osh, the starting point for the Pamirs from the eastern end.
Sary Tash
Border
Karakul
Karakul lake
Karakul lake
Wakhan valley turn off
A typical cooker, Karakul homestay
In Osh we met Baktir, our driver, who made us very comfortable from the start. His broken English was enough to make some conversation and he ablely informed us of the sights and some historical information 0nroute .   Equally, he readily stopped for us to visit and take photos at major sites, and whenever we asked, although we frequently snapped away as we went along.  It was only when snaking down a mountain road into the Wakhan Valley with Baktir peering out across his left shoulder that I started to panic about cliff edges.
The central plateau of the Eastern Pamirs is classified as desert due to the lack of rain. Temperatures, Baktir told us, can drop as low as -40/50C but generally it will only snow in January or February – true enough it was brown mud/rock mountains unlike the snow covered passes and mountains we’d seen earlier, especially north of Osh.  This didn’t stop the ‘sheeps people’ who live in the mountains and have permits to cross into China to access ‘pastures’ for their sheep and goats, from being there.  Together with the ‘sheeps people’ were the yak people.  Some yaks wandering freely; others were vaguely linked to a village while some, miles from anywhere, were with a herdsman. Cattle, chickens, horses and donkeys also roamed freely or at times with a herdsman. Sometimes the herdsman was on foot, sometimes on a horse, sometimes on his mobile. The prized Marco Polo wild sheep, although occasionally near the road side we were told, where nowhere to be seen.  This, to me, wasn’t surprising; despite being a listed endangered species they are still hunted in the area by wealthy tourists – and probably hungry locals.
The Pamir area is huge, but has a tiny population. Down in the deep river valleys on the Afgan border,  the climate is mild; grain, vegetables and fruit all grow, as well as keeping livestock. These areas looked more prosperous, although large numbers of working age men at the roadside testified to a significant employment problem. Up on the higher plains everything looks much worse, and indeed, Murghab is about the poorest place in Tajikistan, which is itself a very poor country. Wikipedia’s Tajikistan entry is not up to date but reported, in droughty 2015, imminent famine conditions in the Murghab area.  This would have greatly  affected the population of 4,000; probably the largest town in the eastern Pamirs.

Murghab

Think it used to be a Moskovitch. Murghab.
Hanging the washing out
Letting the sheep out
-11 degrees off to ‘pastures’
One of the shared facilities
Shared facility
Another shared facility
Well
Our route was a bit of a whistle stop tour, Osh – Karakul, Murghab, Langar, Khorog, Murghab, Osh.

Wakhan Valley

Langar village
Langar village
Off to school
River Panj, Afgan mountains
Buddist shrine
Spinning wheel
Yamchum fortress
Rush hour
There were many highlights along the trip.  The numerous snow covered mountains were truly breath taking but for me the sight of a caravan, all be it of horses, was truly awesome.  As always, yesterday, we were later told,  it had been 15 camels.  But, we were close enough to chat across the River Panj to the Afghan riders who were on their way down the river to sell produce at a bazaar.
Caravansari
Lead male, women and children follow
Caravansari

Way Home

Baktir decided his Land Cruiser need a wheel bearing fixed before it moved from Khorog. But guess what – his cousin Kusbai has a Land Cruiser too.

Sary Tash
Lenin Peak

 

The Fergana valley

Ferghana is a watered, fertile and temperate valley in this dry and mountainous region. It’s been the centre of ancient empires, and fought over many times. Now it is mostly part of Uzbekistan, spilling into Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan, with very complex borders that don’t match the (mostly old Soviet) road and rail networks. Until a month before, travelling from Tashkent into the Ferghana Valley meant going via Tajikistan, which involves two border crossings and significant wasted time – and for the round trip we’d needed a double entry Tajik visa and a triple entry on our Uzbek!  But only three weeks before we embarked, a new rail line was opened, which stays entirely on Uzbek territory, albeit pretty winding, and thus slow, for a significant part. The carriages were new, and by UK standards, extremely roomy and comfortable. One suspects a UK operator would put twice as many seats in the space, and charge at least double. The line was built with Chinese help, and includes a substantial tunnel. Which we never saw. Because, it’s secret! As the train approaches it, the staff draw the curtains, and then, one stands at each end of the carriage to ensure nobody peeps. Goodness knows what they keep in there – the world’s only plov mine, perhaps? Anyway, it does translate to a splendidly attentive train crew for the rest of the journey.

Margilon, being roughly in the centre of the valley, was a great place from which to explored by bus and shared taxi, with Al Cave, another travelling retired teacher from the UK.

Yodgorlik  silk factory Margilon – Clare

 Yodgorlik  silk factory Margilon – Gideon

 

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Rishton ceramics museum

Where the clay is so pure that they only need to add water before putting it on the potters wheel.

_ctf3020

 

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Kumtepa Bazaar, Margilon

3 piece suite. And very nice metallic respray.
Marghilon Bazaar
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Marghilon Bazaar

Kokand / Qo’qon – Khan’s Palace

And, in case anyone thinks the entire Ferghana Valley is only full of old things, here’s a photo of downtown Ferghana itself:

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The Aral Sea, or rather Not the Aral Sea

Sorry folks: This posting from the beginning of our time in Uzbekistan is published out of order, after some ‘later’ ones. We went on this taxi trip during a rest day at Kungrad.

Kungrad (also transliterated as Kongirot/Qo‘ng‘irot, all of which seem an improvement on an old name of Zheleznodorozhny) is not a major, or even minor, tourist town, but for a road traveller entering Uzbekistan from the west, it’s the first town of any size (see end of the last posting).

This western area of Uzbekistan is also known as Karakalpakstan, which in some senses can be regarded as a different country, with its own language, Karakalpakstani. We realised, too late to take much of a photo, it has its own hats, too – giant fuzzy wool ones, making the wearer resemble Michael Jackson circa 1975, if not usually so cute. As discussed in earlier postings from Georgia or Azerbaijan, in this part of the world there’s a complex overlap, or often difference, between the citizenship of the states, and the identity of individuals. There’s significantly more edge to being, for example, a Tajik in Uzbekistan (thus an Uzbekistani, but not an Uzbek), than being, say, a Scot in England, assuming you can work out who is such (Sorry Nicola). We were told by one local that Kyrgyz and Tajiks can be distinguished by nose size, and it is true that in the four ‘stans we visited, one can roughly distinguish different numerically dominant facial types. But just in case this doesn’t work, each ethnicity has its own hat as well.

Kungrad is about the nearest place on the main west-east road to the Aral Sea. The owner of the place where we stayed was happy to arrange a taxi excursion to Muynak, previously a significant port on the Aral Sea, now a desert town. To actually set toe in the remains of the sea involves a much longer road trip, substantially off road (If I remember correctly), we couldn’t face the hours in a car to see not much, so we settled for Muynak.

It’s rather a sad place, as you might expect. The town has helpfully lined up the abandoned hulks near the war memorial.

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After Kungrad, we cycled on to Nukus, capital of Karakalpakstan. It has one tourist attraction – an outstanding modern art gallery. Where, naturally, we didn’t take pictures.