Category Archives: Practical

On the Road in Guatemala

After Mexico, we were lulled into a false sense of security by the smoothish roads in Belize.  Except for the road approaching the Guatemalan border.  That was full of pot holes, dirt, gravel and was generally broken up in places.  At the border the bikes, as usual, demanded more time than we did – numbers had to be checked against documentation- registration and vehicle title,  photocopies of driving licences provided, wheels and underneath framework sprayed.  The whole process took 2 1/2 hours with the guidance of a local helper, who magically appeared at our sides. Strictly speaking, his services were unnecessary, but he knew where everything was, and probably saved us 30 minutes. No specific fee was solicited, I think we tipped him 50 Quetzals – about £5 – probably too much.

Then – we were back into the bumpy ole Mexican style roads.

Initially we stayed on the main road into Guatemala.  The decision was easy as it is the direct route to one of Guatemala’s key tourist attractions – Tikal, which we were keen to visit.  After that we went a bit more freestyle.

Until we left Mexico, we had had quite good navigation. My Garmin Zumo XT was the mainstay, and Gid’s cradled and powered Android phone with OSMAnd was backup and a second voice.  Both systems often came up with different routes and both maps had a different interpretation of ‘no dirt roads’/’no 4×4 roads’ and other criteria.  The Garmin also scores in crowded areas because it verbalises the instructions.  ‘Turn right at the traffic lights’ is useful in crowded unfamiliar areas.  Although maddeningly, it cuts off the intercom not only while it does so, but for many seconds before and after just at the point when we are trying to discuss the intricacies of our route.  OSMAnd verbalises too, but it’s instructions (or mapping) are poor, and utterly useless around slip roads, which it can only display in very limited circumstances.

As a back-up and for planning we always have a paper map, old farts that we are.

But as soon as we left Mexico, Garmin’s North America mapping finished, leaving a blank screen. Occasionally it did show a road but we wouldn’t be on it.   It wasn’t a big problem in Belize because it is a small country with relatively few roads.  The small scale free tourist map did just fine, although absent from it were the new bypasses of some of the larger towns such as Orange Walk.

Gideon: In Belize we hit quite a bit of rain, so the cradled Android phone was pretty useless. The charging arrangements are not waterproof, and it can’t run all day without power. The Samsung A series phone is nominally waterproof, but water got into the camera, and it now often won’t focus properly.  It’s not just waterproofing as such – a phone touchscreen can’t reliably distinguish raindrops from fingerprints.  Clare’s Garmin is a totally waterproof device wired into the bike’s main battery and has an outdoors touchscreen (and big buttons), so it isn’t fazed by riding in wet.  Thankfully, we’ve just discovered, I can at least download the free Open Street Maps onto the Garmin so we have reliable navigation in rain but now it’s the same data as Gid’s phone, so we lose the useful combination of different mapping systems.

Why not use Google Maps? Well, the basic reason is that one pretty much needs to be online, and in the trickier or remoter areas there’s frequently no signal.  Also our IT incompetence and my strange priorities and meanness means that we don’t have a good, mountable, phone which will work on American cellular frequencies. The upside of this is that if some hood does nick one of our phones, we can giggle about their experiences when they try to sell or use it. Clare’s is over a decade old, and its “new” battery holds charge for, well, several hours – if it’s turned off.  Mine doesn’t work on American networks, and the camera focus is broken, and has either an expired Latvian SIM, or an expired USA SIM – ideal to leave on the bike.

Speaking of navigation, for those family members unfamiliar with Guatemala (Map here), we entered the country in the little inhabited, jungly, north.  Flores is a scenic village on an island, in a lake, in the middle, and Quetzaltenango, Lago Antitlan, Antigua and Cuidad de Guatemala run from west to east along the spine of volcanoes that run about 75km north of the Pacific coast.  For the first time on our trip, we actually rode on “the” Pan American.  The carreterre was named on signs.  It runs along the north slope of the volcanoes, from Mexico in the NW, out to El Salvador/Honduras in the SE.  Most of Guatemala’s 18m population is in this southern part of the country.  In retrospect, it’s no surprise that the roads in the north are, err, quite adventurous.

Clare: Heading from Flores down to Xela (Quetzaltenango) was quite eventful.  Gid had programmed in the destination and was informed that the 90 odd miles would take seven hours.  Cursing the lack of information on the map of Guatemala he assumed that the time required for the trip reflected the mountainous area we were coming into and was quite relieved when he realised he’d set the transport option to ‘boat’.  Boat wasn’t so far out.  We did wind our way up and down the mountains, the roads were quite little. It was at the bottom of one of them that our road ended at the river.  Approaching the tail end of the queue of cars Gid was on my left.  I could see the small wooden boat almost full of motorcycles starting to pull away from the shore whilst Gid was looking at the large nearly fully loaded car ferry.  ‘We can make it!’ he was saying, urging me forwards.  Noticing that the little wooden boat was indeed returning for us I gingerly progressed down the muddy sloping bank none too sure about the prospect of boarding it.  Gid, still focused on the car ferry, hadn’t a clue where I was going.   ‘The ferry,’ he was saying ,’the ferry!’.  Well if that’s what you call it I’m on my way I thought.  I stopped 2/3 of the way down none too sure about what I was committing to.  Gid by now could see the little wooden boat and was horrified with where I was heading.  ‘The Car Ferry!’ he shouted.  Too late, half way down a wet muddy bank I couldn’t turn round now.  I decided I was going for it, took a deep breath and was internalising  ‘Give it some throttle over the metal grid, over the lip at the edge of the boat, then brake hard before I hit everyone else.’  The theory was great.  I managed it.  I shuffled forward to make room for Gid knowing he would follow.   Bless him, he did. The crossing was brief, but about halfway across one of us realised that the boat – floored with loose, gappy, planks – only had a ramp at one end. Sure enough, the local riders, clad in jeans and tees, had all swivelled their 100Kg motos around on the side stand. Oh shit! A loaded Him weighs about 250Kg. Everyone was delayed while we sweated our steeds through 25-point turns wearing All-The-Gear-All-The-Time.

Later that day we still had to reach a sensible place to stop as our actual destination was several hours away.  We made the decision to find somewhere to stop at about 3 pm.  Plenty of time.  The first town we entered didn’t have accommodation with off road parking and it was still early so on we went.  By 5:30, and aware that it would be getting dark soon, we were still looking.  Just a bit further up the road towards the next town Gid was saying.  It sounded promising but an unexpected diversion we were meant to take was blocked off.  In amongst a deluge of swearing Gid shouted “next left”.

‘Have you seen it!  You are kidding!’ I replied.

‘Well, it’s got to be one of these, it’s a short cut back to the main road,’ he said, urging me on.

We took next left.  From the start it was a pretty rough narrow lane.  ‘It’s no worse than Mill Lane,’ he assured me, the rough track to our home in the UK.  After 10 mins of up and down past houses and homesteads we were about to reach the main road Gid declared.  Fast acceleration got us up the next sharp incline but no-one in their wildest dreams could call it a main road.  We had an ariel view over the valley of widely spread dirt lanes interspersed with houses and smallholdings.  The stone strewn, rutted dirt track under our wheels continued who knew where.  We turned back.

Thankfully, approaching the nearest town from the other direction enabled us to see a hotel sign.  It had a gated entrance, always a requirement.  In we went.

The following morning we had another look at the map and navigation.  There didn’t seem to be any reason why OSMAnd had directed us off the main road.  The “shortcut” looked ludicrous when we could sit and study it.  Gid figured that perhaps the OSM data for the main road had a tiny break in it, or 5 metres of dirt road, so OSMAnd would not route it unless it was allowed to use all the dirt roads (we’ve seen this before, but then the Garmin was working and happy to make sensible compromises). Determined to stay on the main road we set off.  It wasn’t long before the surface deteriorated.  We had patches of broken road, stretches of gravel and the odd bit of sand.  So much so that when we came to a dirt road that was a legitimate short cut we decided to take it.  It started off fine and generally was but had some interesting sections of hairpins, gravel, rivulets and ruts.  We made our way down the mountain side across the bridge and up the other side.  Nearing the top we thought we had made it and were quite surprised to see the road ahead blocked.  A policeman directed us to his left waving his arm in a snake like fashion to show the direction of the road.  A dust trail to his left confirmed the direction of the road and that other road users were on it.  It was clearly a single track lane with very poor visibility because of the dust flying up.  We set off not knowing how long this diversion was or what traffic we might meet.

We reached a steep hill and approached it behind a 125 that had come careering past.  It whizzed up.  Dust flying.  Gid was right behind it.  ‘1st gear, 1st gear, ‘ he was calling back to me. ‘And plenty of throttle.’   No one was getting up that hill without plenty of throttle but what was about to come down?  Thankfully, shortly afterwards we reached to end of the diversion.  The poorly surfaced concrete road seemed awesome. 

  • Glamour never rests

Heading further south in Guatemala we were back on surfaced roads.  Belize had offered a respite from Mexico’s endless tupes/speed bumps, but in Guatemala they were back with vengeance.  Some are quite brutal – Gid has scraped his bash guard on a number of occasions, and now takes most of them standing.

On the other hand, bikes are a lot quicker across them than anything with three wheels or more.  Both us and the local riders get a lot of (slow) overtakes in at the speed bumps especially when they’re one of the few places the chicken buses slow down. Oddly enough, later, in Cuidad de Guatemala where there aren’t speed bumps, we’ve seen quite a few Porsches (I mean real ones, not repackaged Touaregs) – they and similar low vehicles must be pretty much confined in city limits – odd.

Reaching our destination, Xela, was also interesting riding as in the old town where we were staying it has a great grid of calles and avenidas cobbled with pretty much random rocks.  They’re ok at speed, but stuck behind crawling traffic, the bike’s front wheel swerves all over the place. As the streets are so narrow, it’s an irregular grid of one ways, making navigation tricky, and distances much longer than the map suggests.

It must have been around this time that we started seeing tuktuks. I don’t think there’s a factory nearby, I think they’re all imported from India. For some reason, they’re almost all red. They seem to thrive in mountain villages, or pueblos & cuidades with tiny streets. They’re geared to labour up any mountainside, but with only half the Himalayan’s engine, and six people aboard, boy, they can be slow.  They must be alarming to drive around downhill hairpins, too.

To reach San Pedro on Lago Aititlan from Xela, we turned south-east, aligning us with Guatemala’s volcanic spine. So we encountered the actual Pan American Carretera. Woohooohoo! Here, it’s a mostly well-surfaced dual carriageway. Not, normally, the Himalayan’s favourite domain. But this road corkscrews its way up, down and around the volcanic slopes, and almost all the wiggles are blind, so few folk dare exceed 50mph/80kph even if their vehicle can do so (and many here can’t). The Himis were fine, although a little more overtaking ooomph, or even a lot more, would be appreciated. Still, we tried to exercise restraint: Altogether now: “Drive at a speed that will allow you to stop well within the distance you can see to be clear” (UK HC Rule 126).

Occasionally we’d be passed, sometimes by a chicken bus – these often belching clouds of black muck from a primitive, or maladjusted (depending on age) diesel engine. USA school buses are tightly regulated, and it seems have to be retired at quite modest mileages and ages. So, like a fair few human retirees, they head south in fleets, and live to a great old age as chicken buses. Often these are brightly decorated, usually they have powerful horns, to blast traffic and alert potential customers. The drivers are not necessarily the most cautious and safety aware of señores, although not remotely in the homicidally obnoxious league of their Indian and Indonesian colleagues (or Aussie truck drivers). So they do tend to hurtle around the bends – after all, the driver saw no obstacle there 2 hours ago, so there can’t be one now, can there? We saw the aftermath of one apparent head-on between a bus and something smaller… the bus seemed to be facing the wrong way at that point. Looked like it’d need a new cab.

Finally, a few snaps of curios encountered on the roads. If you’re into 70s/80s car and truck nostalgia, or radically optimised loading, there’s plenty to entertain on Guatemala’s roads.

Postscript: Sadly, a week after posting this, 55 people were killed in Guatemala when a chicken bus crashed, and a few days before that, nearly as many died in a bus accident in Mexico. On our way back from our volcano hike at Antigua, our shuttle passed a fatal motorcycle accident, the poor fellow still lying in the middle of the road.

Missed Opportunities?

After the stunning views of Monument Valley, and the rocky heat of Utah, we decided to stop in the small city of Flagstaff, for a few days of motel civilisation over Clare’s birthday. It might also offer some wifi and shops, for practical things. Ok, it was the cheapest motel in Flagstaff, but it was comfy enough, especially after a small tent.

A relaxing few days, that was what it was supposed to be. I’d discovered the Petrified Forest National Park when idly looking through some advertising info.  We’d planned our next day – setting off from Flagstaff and doing a relaxing loop along scenic roads.  The Petrified National Park was only an hour and a half away.  Of course we could do that in a day.

In a day maybe but we set off at 1.30.  Gid was totally occupied with trying to pull together the resources for our next bike service, at 12,000 miles.  The bike specific service parts, and a location where we’d be permitted to do our oil change (think about it!), the latter needing to have a cover as now we seemed to be subjected to extreme sun and monsoon weather with massive amounts of rain most afternoons.  And tyres this time too.  Both front tyres are wearing smooth in places and Gid’s rear tyre has worn rather quicker than one would expect, and we had been very lucky in Whitehorse, where we’d previously got tyres, to find shops actually holding stock – normally an order has to be arranged. On top of that our chains were now showing considerable signs of wear.  After thousands of miles where they appeared not to wear at all, suddenly Gid was tightening them every 500 miles.  End of life was near. Whilst the chains themselves are sort of standard, the sprockets are not – again an order has to be placed… somewhere. Where? When?

Gid’s been quite concerned about his bike pulling slightly to one side, which may explain the fast rear tyre wear.  On a number of occasions he has been doing the ‘no hands’ bit to check how true the bike would run.  Initially his conclusion was that it was pulling to the right   ‘How does yours track?’ he’d ask me.  So once again I’d be going down the road with my hands in the air.  Mine seemed to run quite true but I wasn’t that keen on going hands free with a fully loaded bike.  We’d done this sort of thing on the i2i course back in our early days of learning to motorbike. It was about improving our balance and skills but I will never forget when I very nearly ran into the back of a car when going hands free and reading my comic returning from my newspaper round early in the morning, many decades ago!  Gid had tried to correct the error by relieving the fork clamps and next, tweaking the rear wheel alignment to pull the wheel slightly to the left but that had made it worse.  A couple of tweaks to the right had improved it but he wanted it professionally checked. The Royal Enfield dealer in Reno, our place of choice, was fully booked for the next two weeks and we’d be there in a few days.  Our preferred Reno accommodation, Air B&B host Tyler, with a car port, couldn’t extend our stay to take account of the delays with some of our service parts arriving later than hoped and we definitely needed the shelter to work on the bikes in this weather.

Before leaving America we are going to do one final loop back up and round to take in the coastal road – HWY1  as it’s supposed to be another of the  ‘can’t miss’ roads.  Another two thousand miles perhaps but that will be our final lap in the US.  From there we’ll be down in Mexico.  How easy will the servicing be down there?  It might be affordable not to do it ourselves (a DIY oil change and check over costs $200 for both bikes, a DIY valve check is $0, USA dealer shop prices are about $1400, this for a 6,000 mile service about every 7 weeks). But everything might well have to be arranged in Spanish.

From Flagstaff, starting after lunch, it took us a couple of hours to reach the Petrified Forest National Park. We went into the museum and Visitor centre.  Gid had read that in minutes it seemed – I took more than an hour.  I knew how petrification took place – vaguely, but found the information fascinating.  200,000,000 years ago back with the early dinosaurs all this had taken place.  It explained on a time-line that if a year was the wakening of the journey of life on earth the early life was about the summer, dinosaurs the autumn and man was the last 15mins – 11:45 on the 31st December!  Back with the dinosaurs these trees had fallen down into the river/stream been covered in silt and gradually turned to crystal, absorbing colour from the minerals around them.

We wandered off through the exhibits .  But again Gid hadn’t been totally ‘in the moment’ as the pressure of the servicing was all consuming.  I’d offered on a number of occasions to pull my weight with the mechanics but my approach is far more laid back.  ‘I wasn’t even doing my POWDDERSS checks every day,’ he’d chastised me.  No, barely once a week to be truthful (Gid says: Not even sure that’s true!).  I’d need a lot of support the do my own servicing and clearly it was far easier for Gid to do the lot.  Then he’d know it was done properly, was clearly in his mind!

As we wondered round the exhibits I read some of the information but Gid was pressing forwards.  I think he did relax into the event but only briefly as ominous clouds were brewing with lightning flashes signalling the storm to come.  Once back at our bikes, whilst looking at the weather Gid asked what route were we talking home?  ‘Through the park and the Painted Desert‘, I’d replied.  He queried if I knew how long it was and suggested that I came back to the Visitor Centre to look at the map.  Yep, I knew how long it was and that it would probable take us another hour or so.  This was my trip – through the park we went but I had agreed that we wouldn’t stop at any of the other sites along the way. It was rather a dramatic ride, with lightning flashes on both sides of the road and strong winds.

Arriving ‘home’ at eight o’clock Gid was straight into service mode urging me to focus on our campsites for the next week leading up the our arrival in Reno.  I’m not sure he’d thought of anything else all day. We’d booked the Air B&B for Sunday night but of course that meant we couldn’t pick up the service parts during the day.  I was still in Petrified Park mode.  I sat and read the booklet I’d picked up and was rather sad about the things we’d missed – petroglyphs, we’ve seen some before and very much enjoyed their creative form and direct link to so much history, and we’d missed the longest petrified log in the site together with some wonderful views and walks around the Painted Desert – an area of layered rock showing different periods in history as different sediments had left their colours of rock behind – one building on top of the other.

It seems there are more opportunities to see petroglyphs and many areas we have ridden through have got vivid rock colours displaying the high mineral content in this area.

Getting Up To Speed – Starting on the Pan American

Our flight to Anchorage was a great improvement over the last time we came here – thankfully. This time all our bags made it too. Based at Melissa’s AirBnb with all we need (bed, space, covered workspace for fettling motorbikes and a helpful host), we strolled over to The Motorcycle Shop (TMS) where Andrew McConnell was very helpful and there’re the bikes. A slick operation later and we’re off to the insurance place. All is good, the quote for us foreigners comes up fine. But. But the actual insurance co only takes cards … that have zip codes. Oops. Cue an afternoon of thrashing about. Unfortunately a Friday afternoon. Which isn’t enough to sort it. Paperwork is sure stressful. But, anyway, we leave with a one week’s cover.

It also turns out that getting a local SIM card isn’t entirely simple either and certainly not cheap. In the UK I pay £6/month for a good enough service. Last summer, in Latvia, my SIM for Europe was about €10/month. Here, there’s nothing below about $30/month. Wow. And the only card we’ve tried so far in my phone, wouldn’t work – we’re told none will. AAT, $40/mo 15GB, works in Clare’s, but what a price!

One gallon milk bottles are a rather daunting prospect for a motorbike tour. Customers are advised that they can only purchase two bottles. Some of the shelves in the store were also running low of stock too. Very covid-esque. Local news told of a propellor being broken on the supply ship which had failed to reach its destination. Thankfully powdered milk was still available. Sorted! But it did start to explain why goods at least are so expensive.

Fully loaded we set off for Seward as our first 300mi initial running in trip. A max of 3000 revs means our top speed is 40mph. We soon observed the signage that states ‘5 vehicles following – pull over and let them pass’, which seemed to work well enough. Gave us time to check out the locals…

Seward Highway Traffic

The Seward Highway, featured in ‘501 must take Journeys’ is indeed very picturesque. Views across sea inlets to snow topped mountains are all very dramatic but the road itself is rather dull. Although it follows the coastline and gently sweeps in and out my lasting impression is of it being on an American highway – mainly broad with long sweeping curves on the sections when it isn’t dead straight. But at 40 mph it doesn’t really matter. Running in a Himalayan is a slow process.

The Himalayan could be described, as Itchy Boots (an infamous motorcycle tourer and blogger) has said as, ‘under powered and over weight’. That’s rather harsh but probably right. I was highly amused to see that the Owners Manual states a maximum speed of 70mph. It’s low down torque and overall speed make it a perfect bike for mountain climbs with sight seeing. In second gear it pulls steadily up the steepest pass. Even when the throttle is released, because of deeper gravel or a series of pot holes etc., the speed drops off but is perfectly happy to pick back up again.

We made it down to Homer, a thriving peninsular with a mix of commercial and tourist activity. A sign displayed that short term parking was no more than seven days but the tourist scene has a board walk of all the familiar niceties- ice creams, snacks, coffees and a few attractions. Undoubtably the star of the day was a bald eagle consuming some road kill perched on a sign across the road. A close second was a moose with her newly born calf we’d seen along the way.

Homer Resident

Back from Homer, and our fleeting visit to Seward, we handed the bikes back to TMS for the first run-in 300 mile service. It has to be said shop servicing is expensive up here, especially in peak time – now! But we’re beginning to realise that everything is. Got them back, and spent the next 24 hours adding our previously prepared and brought accessories to the bikes. Gid’s appeal on the ADVRider forum, for loan tools or covered space (posted before Melissa, our host, had offered her garage), raised a few great offers, as well as alerting the locals to the presence of two ‘clueless’ Brits: Thus Mark, a frequent ADVRider contributor, accosted us with a friendly tease about our English voices as we perused the chain lube at TMS. The best offer though, was from Tim, who invited us into his spacious workshop, where we admired his various moto projects before cracking on with final jobs needing tools we didn’t find it sensible to bring. As icing on the cake, Tim treated us to a lesson in tubed tyre dismounting and mounting, for puncture repairs. We hadn’t got around to this back home – our experience is with tubeless and the “worms”.

Finally, we set off North. The wrong way! But really (or anally), one has to start at the “start”, and the northern end of the Pan American Highway is Deadhorse on the coast of Alaska’s North Slope.

Dead Horse, the end of the road, is not a town but an industrial camp that supports the Prudhoe Bay oilfields

The Dalton Hwy Guide 2024

Just thirty people live there all year round with an influx arriving for the summer season, although a lot of construction is in the winter as ice is more stable than the ground.

That step north, and back, was possibly the most challenging riding we’ll encounter for many months. It requires carrying extra supplies. Not just food and water but also gas – a new one for us (spot the 2 gallon gas can in the photos). The longest hop between gas stations or food outlets is 240 miles. Gid’s bike runs for approximately 210mi including his tank’s reserve of 50mi. That’s taking it right down to the fumes before topping up from his reserve container. Mine for some reason does an extra 30mi per tank. Obviously my smooth and economic gear changes, optimum tyre pressures, unaggressive acceleration make all the difference! The Camping is (mostly) free though which includes a drop toilet but usually no water unless filtered from a stream: So the bikes were loaded up with gas and drinking water. Once at Deadhorse basic rooms at about $220-$260/night are little better than a run down dormitory block, although with private rooms and comfortable but after a couple of days on challenging roads it had a shower and felt like a palace.

To reach Deadhorse, iconically the start of the Pan American, the Dalton Highway is the only road, built as a “haul road” for the oil industry, and it has a reputation for being challenging.

The road is narrow and has soft shoulders, high embankments and steep hills. There are lengthy stretches of gravel surfaces with sharp rocks, potholes, wash boarding and, depending on the weather, clouds of dust or slick mud, Intermittent sections of pavement can de deceptively smooth, until unexpected and sometimes very deep potholes. Watch out for dangerous curves and loose gravel.

The Dalton Highway Visitor Guide Rev 2024

Dear Reader – don’t think we’re all alone: We’ve already lost count of the number of other folks we met who are also attempting (or, rarely, finishing) the PanAm. In our “camp” at Deadhorse, two cyclists had flown in to start. We met bikers doing it. There are those military looking German-registered 4×4 trucks at regular intervals. Names, alas, have already slipped our minds. There are also many bikers on shorter adventure rides (Short? Rhode Island to Deadhorse – try asking Google for a route) and on tarmac, Harleys and the like.

On our way north, three bikers arrived in Coldfoot, one of the very few settlements and gas stations along the way. They had just come in from the north over the Atigun Pass, where the Dalton climbs over and through the Brooks Range. There, the guide book informs us, storms can dump snow at any time of the year. They looked worn out. Conversation sparked off and one chap exclaimed that they had had a really difficult time getting up the northern side of the pass to the elevation of 1422m as they had had to cope with thick mud. Their bikes were certainly extremely dirty. He paused for a moment and said that on reflection it had been worth it but we should expect a tough time.

We had a couple of hours or so to ride before reaching the pass. Our route up seemed fine but we’d been warned that the northern side was much steeper and that we could expect the temperature to drop significantly. From our own monitoring of the recent weather forecasts of the area up to Prudhoe we knew we could expect fog or freezing mist. Temperatures further north at Prudhoe had been as low a 1 degree C. Freezing mist would be a new one on us.

Both of us must have been pondering the ordeal to come and how we would fare. We had contemplated doing some off-road courses this last winter but the weather was so wet in the UK and our bikes at home were fitted with 70/30 tyres, not knobblies that are suitable for mud. Gid on his first off-road effort back in the UK covered 100m before sliding into a tree, whereas, on a different occasion I had made it a whole 10m before the front wheel slipped away from beneath me in mud. Our bikes, now fully loaded, with the same 70/30s tyres weren’t going to cope well in extreme mud.

Our trip over the Atigun Pass was awesome. The wind and strong sunshine had dried out any mud and the truckers had flattened it. We only saw the merest hint of mud. My concern was burning my brakes out on the way down the steep mountain side. In fact, we were lucky with the weather the whole trip: No mud, no snow, and the freezing fog burnt off at Deadhorse, giving a clear view of mountains 120 miles away.

I was retelling the tale to a cheerful flag man who controlled traffic at one of the road work stops. With large machinery working along the road passing traffic is guided behind pilot trucks through the road works. He proclaimed in a slow American drawl, ‘That ain’t thick mud’. He continued with a broad smile across his face, ‘But they like their story so we’ll let them run with it.”

One week earlier, he exclaimed they had had 1 1/2 foot of snow in a day. ‘It only cleared a couple of days ago,” he said. The snow and subsequent ice had been the cause of a wide-load trucker veering off the edge of the road down the embankment. We’d passed that a few miles back. Its load of pipes had already gone. The truck itself would be salvaged just as the other three up ahead had already been retrieved.

Southern ascent of the Atigun. No mud today!

Our spin chilling moment was when faced with crossing 20m of freshly tipped rubble, forming a low berm along the centre of the road. The side-dumper truck, whose load needs a vehicle with 16 axles along its 20 metre length, was blocking the lefthand carriageway. Our pilot car merrily jumped and bounced across it. Well … we made it! But not without some heart stopping moments as the bikes bucked and jerked their way across. On our way back this memory was still with me but there was no sign of where the work had been. All was smooth and flat. I shouldn’t have been surprised as the Dalton Hwy had taken a mere 159 days to construct the entire length of the road back in 1974, describe by many as a ‘momentous feat’. Of course they’d finish that bit in 24hrs!

Most of the campgrounds are provided by one or other of several apparently competing public bodies, and follow a formula of lots of space, gravel to pitch on, a sturdy restroom hut with pit toilets, picnic tables, bear proof rubbish and food bins – and that’s it. Usually no water supply other than treat it yourself from a stream. On reaching Galbraith Lakes, a fabulous spot in the lee of the Brooks mountains on the slopes down from the Atigun Pass we realised we didn’t have enough water. A previous campsite had got the water filtration kit out of the packing. Using our tiny hiking/emergency filter confirmed it as a back breaking lengthy process. Signs at Galbraith stated that the stream leading into the lake was highly contaminated with giardia. Either, boil the water rapidly for 5 mins – our biggest saucepan is 1.5 lt and how much gas have we got? Or, filter it to reduce the risk. Yep, we’ve got a filter. We decided to ration our water.

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Most campsites provide bear proof rubbish bins and food lockers but on one occasion the food lockers were missing even though a sign declared that there was bear and wolf activity in the area. Gid cunningly fitted his food panier with an alarm exclaiming, ‘That should be enough to scare them away’ Revisiting the panier a little later it all seemed to work ok as off went the alarm. Equally, he’d lined he entrances to our tent with throwing rocks in case of a bear or wolf attack. Relieved at our cunning we relaxed into a deepish slumber. It wasn’t ’til the morning when I went to retrieve our breakfast that we learnt that Gid had failed to reset the alarm.

On the northern side of the Brooks range the land is cold, flat, featureless Tundra. Very little can grow. The permafrost 1ft down limits the depth of roots and the resulting height that bushes etc can grow. The plants have developed strategies to deal with the harsh conditions. Some of the spruce trees although they look emaciated might well be 100yrs old. The dark buds of the Blackish Oxytrope plant absorbs the sun’s heat at the onset of spring, whilst still under the snow. Thus warming and melting the surrounding snow to get a head start.

At Galbraith lake we spotted our first caribou. It was a snow patch that moved which was pointed out to us by a Wild Life and Fisheries ranger who was there with a group of children. Caribou eat lichen which is a nutritious, high energy food but in the last few years the snow has melted during winter and frozen leaving the lichen covered in ice. With their food source inaccessible the numbers of caribou have adversely suffered.

Further north we started to see muskoxen. The art of spotting them if they weren’t near the highway was to look for semi rotting hay bales. Voila – now you’ve spotted muskoxen in moult.

We survived the Dalton Highway! And, of course, got a few stickers.

Sumatran Struggles – Beaten?

A double posting tonight – you might have missed Sumatra continued – Photos?
Sumatra is the toughest place we’ve been on this trip. We’ve given it our best shot, but after a month, we’re still a week from the ferry to Java. Legs are aching from the endless very steep hills, and skin is blotchy and spotty from the endless sweating and humidity. It’s time to take an easier path. I wrote that on a Jakarta-bound air conditioned bus.
Its tough because of the hills. After Toba, we made our way south, along the volcanic spine, for a way, before going West, so as to benefit from the coastal lowlands. Well, they are low, but they ain’t flat. For much of it, spurs or ridges extend to the sea. They’re only 100m or so high, and the coast road takes them in endless savage little hills. In the heat and humidity, we can’t climb fast, or without cooling breaks; progress is sometimes demoralisingly slow. Two of our last three cycling days gained only 60 and 52km, little over half our average. And there was a rest day in between two of them! On our last day of cycling in Sumatra, we were a week later than our planned crossing to Java, with 500 hilly kilometres to go. By 4pm we were still 40km short of the day’s target. Then, on a narrow bridge, this big bus had to wait behind us to overtake (nb: a technique unknown to Java’s bus drivers). We turned and signed “bikes in bus” to the driver. It worked! We covered the 40km to Krui in comfort. Well, sort of comfort, as the road remained the same bumpy corkscrew we’d struggled on. There we rested a day, and sorted ourselves onto the next day’s bus to Jakarta. That recovered one lost week, by skipping roughly 500km. I guess I should add as a postscript that we didn’t cycle east Sumatra, which the maps suggest is flat and swampy, and might have been easier, but less scenic.
Pictures of hills – oddly, we have lots…

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It’s tough because of the heat and humidity. Shortly after starting, every day, we were soaked in sweat. Towards the end of Sumatra’s big hills, Clare started to suffer from heat rash. All day pedalling hard, then often sleeping in hot, stuffy rooms, was too much for her skin. Gid later showed some signs of this too, but generally coped a bit better, perhaps cooled by his stylish Bukittingi haircut or just baring a silver cyclists chest with shirt flapping in the wind. No wonder the girlies are all in fits of giggles. Clare bought some cotton clothing hoping it would be cooler even if not designed for cycling. It seemed to be working… The rash not getting worse.
Err, no pictures of the sweat and rashes, sorry.
Accommodation was difficult at times. Once out of the highlands, it’s way too hot to camp, especially in our rainproof, but poorly ventilated Scandinavian tent, as there’s rarely much breeze. Hotels and guest houses are usually good value, often offering AC, but thinly spread, though not so thin as  OSM and Google suggest. Although we’d agreed not to try for big distances, often mapped accommodation is over 100km apart, and not always do we find somewhere unmapped. We have new words – Penginapan, for lodging house; Losmen for inn. Rarely in electronic maps, these can be found in smaller towns. Even towns not on the map but deduced from a road junction – some surprisingly big towns show up that way. We’ve been taken in by locals, which was a great experience, but a hot, sticky night, fully clad, in a communal room. Once we crashed out in the utility block of the local police station, which isn’t uncommon for Sumatra cycle tourists. I reckon if you can stand the heat, you could sleep free most nights. If you can’t, fan cooled rooms start at little over $10, air-con from maybe $15, so long as you can find a decent sized town. We always aimed for aircon, for a night’s sleep and dry skin, although we didn’t always get it. It’s the best option to dry out laundry overnight – we’re only using two sets of clothes. Finally, aircon’d places have most vents closed, whereas the traditional method of staying cool is maximum ventilation; this means there’s many fewer mozzies in an aircon room.
One afternoon, we were pulled over by a roving Warm Showers scooter patrol. Mati offered us free accommodation pretty much exactly where we were heading. How cool is that? Well pretty cool, as it was a kind of substantial beach hut, with the best overnight breeze, and a very well aimed fan. A shame we were keen to press on, it would have made a nice beach break. There’s a fair number of Warm Showers hosts in Indonesia, it’s got to be a great option if you sleep OK in the heat.
No pictures of hotels, either…
Talking of beaches, we did see some surf, and some surf dudes, on the west coast. The best action is supposed to be out on the western islands. The coast we saw looked attractive for some surfers and maybe sea kayak too, but perhaps tricky, for sea kayak landings.
Though tough, Sumatra is a very rewarding place to tour. 2,300km long by the shortest road route, the mountain views are stunning, the rainforest, even roadside, is full of lush greenery and noisy beasties. The agricultural areas range from fascinating and colourful gardens and paddy fields to duller palm plantations. Some tourists find the palm oil plantations depressing, mostly as they often represent torn up rainforest. But they’re not so bad to cycle in. Sumatra is big, but it’s always had a modest population and limited development, so there’s not much history to see, it’s more the landscapes and the people there now that are the “sights”.
They are not all the same people – we see different cultures as we roll struggle through, but always the people are friendly. Each day is spent grinning and greeting. Clare realised she’d been wearing a fixed grin for 30 minutes passing through some town, so many folk wanted to wave and call. As usual after a couple of months in a country, we got up to a shamefully poor vocabulary of maybe 20 words of Indonesian. It was enough, with gestures, and a few Indonesians speaking English (“Hello” is the same, and all Indonesians know “yes”, “no” and “selfie”). I guess there are about the same number of selfie stops as India, but here it’s mostly girls. And very giggly ones too, at least two per scooter.
People…

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Credit: We don’t know her name!
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With fairly heavily loaded road orientated bikes, and limited time, we stayed mostly on minor main roads. Like in most hilly regions, the minor roads rarely joined up to provide alternative routes. But away from Medan and its horrible road to Berestagi, traffic was light. We were there mostly in June: Monsoon downpours happened at times, but most days were dry.
A self-inflicted accidental challenge was that we left the Christian region around Lake Toba at about the start of Ramadan. Thereafter, roadside eateries were shut all day, we had to make very boring picnics from the small supermarkets. And there was a bit of a feeling of it being somewhat impolite to drink or eat in public. But we had to, as finding roadside  privacy proved as impossible as in India. The degree of fasting rigor varied as we travelled, some regions appearing more devout than others. It was a relief when it ended, by that time we were in Java.
Our final thoughts on Sumatra differ. Clare was thoroughly fed up with it by the end. The endless hills, and their brutal steepness, the enforced distances to hunt aircon, the problems with food, the heat, and the frequently off-road experience when we avoided the highway, was all too much. Gideon is more positive, but thinks to get a great tour there, we’d need a bit more youth and/or heat tolerance, a lot less baggage, fatter tyres and maybe suspension, and stronger legs. Oh and maybe three months, just for Sumatra, not Indonesia.
Clare claims North Java is flat, find out if it really is in the next blog!

Sumatra continued – Photos

Clare in the Town

Gideon

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Brickworks – one of many
New rice plants
Bukittinggi
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New shadow, old crop
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Look who’s…
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Ok, it’s a merge….

Clare in a Paddy

Gideon

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Probably Sumatra
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Clare on the Beach

Clare in the Quarry

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Cheap As Chips?

A tiny blog posting – a Micropost!

I thought it would be interesting to see how the countries we pass through compare economically. Thanks to Wikipedia, it’s pretty easy.

Here’s a chart showing the Per Capita Income in each country we’ve passed through, or hope to pass through.

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And here’s the same chart, adjusted for the cost of living in each country (called Purchasing Power Parity, or  PPP).

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PPP seems to have the effect of making the people in middle-income states better off. And Singapore.

We can even divide one by the other, to give us a rough Cost of Living Cycling. However, this is a bit rubbish, as in most of Europe, costs were kept down by camping. From about Bulgaria/Romania onwards, it felt a bit insecure rough camping, and hot – we really appreciated the comfort of a shower, so mostly stayed in guesthouses and cheap hotels. In tourist cities, that was often pretty cheap, but out on the road, I would guess that it very often was close to $20/night for a room for the two of us, irrespective of country. So far the most expensive nights have been Uzbekistan ($70 for a yurt), India (~$70 for a tent, ~$40 for a palace (really it was, gorgeous)), and Myanmar ($50 at two of the hotels, trading on scarcity). Not normally regarded as high-cost locations. The Caspian Sea ferry was also an expensive night, but did cover a fair bit of ground as we slept. The Tajikistan Toyota Tour was by far our most expensive week, but wasn’t exactly integral to the trip. And it didn’t include the (cheap) guesthouses!

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Turkey, Uzbekistan and India have been most costly for souvenirs, not because of prices, but because of the wonderful handicrafts, and their availability, and perhaps more stop days, and maybe the timing of Christmas.

End of micropost!

(Note to self – master spreadsheet stored on cloud, in case plans change!)

Uzbekistan – On the Road

Uzbekistan had so much to see, do and snap, that we made a number of themed blog posts, instead of trying to tell one story.  We hope this posting will give an overview of our tour in Uzbekistan, and show of the pictures we took between the “sights”.

Our posts on Uzbekistan:

Uzbekistan’s roads were generally good to us. We were often on main roads, which were often dual carriageways. But this was rather like Turkey – there was plenty of room and not too much traffic, albeit the roads were not as smart and new as Turkey’s. It was flat. And it was sunny but not too hot. Not too much wind. Out of the desert, there were plenty of little shops and teahouses. Really nice touring conditions. The only bugbear was trying to comply with the hotel registration rules. We mostly managed this, with a few deviations into teahouses.

Uzbekistan’s people were invariably friendly and helpful. We were often flagged down, or addressed from a car crawling alongside: “atcuda, atcuda?” – Russian for “where are you from”. Strangers rushed to take pictures of themselves, or their friends and family, with us. In towns especially, young people would come up and ask to practice their English with us. We were, of course, given melons. And one lovely family invited us in, with delicious food in the local style, and the extended family all joined in too. That was an especially lovely experience, and we thank them again for their kindness.

Just before we got to Uzbekistan, on the ferry, Clare had a severe, if short, bout of food poisoning, and Gid’s tummy was a bit uneasy as well. The timing of it made us suspect a pre-ferry pasty rather than the actual ferry food. But Clare’s tummy then kept suffering from recurring problems which had us calling on pharmacies as we went along. It wasn’t desperate, but the overall effect was weakening and depressing. We took a few extra rest days in an attempt to ease the impact. With various tummy pills and a very plain diet it was sort of kept under control. We needed rest and a long break stop, but the Uzbekistan visa was only 30 days. Whereas we’d always planned a long stop in Bishkek (visa free for 60 days). Thus we altered our plans a bit:

  • Original Plan: From Samarkand, south into Tajikistan’s capital Dushanbe, then loop south taking the Pamir Highway along the Afghan and China borders, then north into Kyrgyzstan, Osh, then Bishkek. A classic, but tough ride, and in the back country.
  • Plan B: From Samarkand, north to Tashkent, then east over mountains into the Ferghana valley (this road might’ve needed our Tajikistan visas. Across this valley; flat, fertile & historic (have you heard of the Bactrian empire?), to Osh in Kyrgyzstan, then north to Bishkek. Less back country, and three significant passes to cross, but easier  and shorter than A.
  • Plan C: From Samarkand, north to Tashkent, then north to Shymkent in Kazakhstan, then east to Bishkek. This route is pretty flat, and on major roads. This we took, and indeed were able to make pretty long distances most days.

Gallery

Cotton Picking

Lots of three wheel tractors in cotton areas, but rare elsewhere.
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That’s one big pile of kapok

On The Road

Mosque under construction
House under construction
A mud roof to fix
Ayuz Kala 1 and 2
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Not a great picture. But interesting for western Europeans like us – look at the dates.
GAZ 52 or 53
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On the way to market?
Bukhara furniture shop had a fleet of these.
Bukhara furniture shop had a fleet of these.
Tashkent

 Generous Hospitality

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All Aboard

Deciding early on we didn’t like the hassle of Turkmenistan’s visas and conditions, left us the route options of a northern route via Russia, or taking the “ferry” from Baku, Azerbaijan to Aktau (Aqtau), Kazakhstan. The “ferry” is not arranged like a scheduled public ferry, it’s more that tourists can have spare space on a rail/truck shuttle. That was what we chose.
Cycle touring blogs abound with tales of the hassle, faff, and hardship involved. A lot of it is probably due to language issues and Soviet approach to service: Although most individuals are helpful, the system isn’t. The operators publish no user information, so the web is full of garbled advice, from everyone’s individual experience, but perhaps too often folk assume their example shows what the system is, when really it’s quite variable and ad-hoc. So here’s our experience:
Following online advice, we went to find the Baku ticket office. The directions on welovemountains were helpful, although Baku changes fast and the last bit differed: the rough road and grey tatty building are gone. The new port entrance is smart. To the left of it, the port’s electricity substation is stone or marble clad and lettered in gold. Right and just inside the port entrance barrier (and its helpful guard) is an old shipping container, painted white and turned into the ticket kiosk. The recommended lady, Vika, inside from 11am on our days, does indeed speak English. So far so good.
It took me a while to fully grasp what Vika was saying: “Call tomorrow to find out if there’s a ship tomorrow. Yes, on the same day. We open at 11am. The ship will go from Alat, 80km away.” So depending on sailing time, it may be impossible or a terrible scramble to actually catch the boat.
I asked, “Can we only buy tickets here”: Answer, “Yes, here”. It sounds clear, but three English lads in a car bought theirs in Alat, so clearly incorrect. Probably Vika didn’t get the “only”. Or meant that she didn’t sell anything but tickets (my bad English!). But I believed it, so with a day or two in hand, we checked out travel options to Alat:
Cycle: Allow 6 hours, dual carriageway, not too hilly. Ok if getting to port at 6pm is acceptible. Actually, on the day, it pissed down, so just as well we didn’t.
Coach: Station is about an hour’s crap ride from the ticket office. Bus ticket sales staff not able to help, I couldn’t find timetable. Not even sure if a full size coach goes that way. Small coaches can’t take bikes.
Bus: Service 195 apparently, from 20-ci. But getting bikes on buses is not easy.
Minibus: (from coach station, services for Sabirabad). No fixed schedule or tickets, drivers helpful about the bikes “no problem”. Probably best cheap option, but cycling cross town, then waiting for it to go could make it little faster than riding.
Train: English no use at train station, couldn’t even get times. Staff told us bikes not allowed on Azeri trains, although other Azeris say that’s not true.
Taxi: Almost all are saloons & can’t carry bikes. We wandered about the day before until we saw a big estate taxi, flagged it down and got a number. Got the hotel to call driver, agree a price and times. This worked well, and was quick, although at the end there was a disagreement about the fare. No idea if genuine or if driver was trying it on. We took responsibility for the last stage of navigating, driver wasn’t familiar with Alat Port.
Anyway, next day at 11, I call, and wooooo, there’s a ship: Be at Alat at 17:00. Rushed over to ticket office with both passports (needed), and cash. Prices were quoted in USD, but Vika said we could be paid in Manat or USD. $110 each, bike free, including cabin, bedding, food. I took Manat, using the typical exchange rate, and had a pleasant surprise that the exchange rate used worked out significantly cheaper. There was some delay finding the cashier person, but really it was smooth enough.  I did, however, get entangled in Baku’s one-way system on the way home. Anyway, we got tickets for Merkuri 1.
Again advice was confusing, we saw stuff online that cars and trucks can be loaded at Baku, whereas rail and foot passengers board at Alat, or occasionally vice versa. We boarded at Alat, where we cycled on, via vehicle ramp, noting the presence of rail tracks from inside the port onto the boat, so they could have loaded rail cars. But in fact we were followed by trucks, and finally a Ford Fiesta containing three English lads, Ivor, Martin, Andy on a post college jolly. I suspect that, as the entire fleet has the same dimensions, any of them can load anything at either port, but perhaps they don’t mix road and rail cargoes – another ship alongside was filling up with railcars. I don’t think trucks were part of these ship’s or docks original design, as the artics and dolly towers alike all had to reverse off.
The whole paperwork and loading process, both our personal bit and the whole ship, was way slower than a European car ferry. We’d been told to arrive 17:00 and were early, waited to be called up about 17:15, and were on-board about 18:15, bikes tucked in a corner before loading trucks. The three lads in a car, waiting before us, boarded last, car filling last gap, after 21:00 when the canteen had closed. Actual departure was about 22:30.
On boarding, and lashing down, we carried all our bags up (groan) to our room, including the heavy provisions we’d bought for the journey, after terrible online warnings about the food.
There’s no announcements on ship, but it’s easy enough to stroll along to the bridge and ask the current plan. I was originally told we’d dock about 22:30 (having departed almost exactly 24 hours before). But at 22:00 we heard the anchor going down, and I strolled f’ward to be told it’d be the morning (the dock was occupied). That was good for us – a comfy bed for the night, instead of dumped ashore at midnight. In fact it was about midday when we docked. And the crew were correct in predicting about an hour for Kazakhstan customs. All passengers had to leave the ship (and bulky luggage), do the paperwork (ok), reembark, and roll off. Customs then did a moderately thorough search, and in my case, had a go on the bike. I guess we were rolling by about 13:30. In our case just into Aqtau, to stock up for the long empty roads of Western Kazakhstan.
As for the ferry and voyage, it was fine, nothing matching the dreadful online reports. The sea was calm. Merkuri 1 was showing her 31 years, but everything important worked. The 2 bed cabin was rather tatty, but spacious, with an opening porthole, shower (sometimes hot, sometimes not), desk, loads of storage, and really comfy new mattresses. The 3 meals a day were basic but ok. It took me a while to find it, but there was always cay available. There didn’t seem any way to spend money on the ship, except for using phone data while near land.
Clare was violently ill in the first night. It must’ve been food poisoning.  But the timing makes it difficult to pin it on the ship’s cook. Just as likely to be the dodgy supermarket sausage sandwich she had while we waited to board. However we did thereafter both avoid the salad at mealtimes, as raw, unpeeled, fruit is generally a known risk.
Crew were friendly and helpful, but mostly without English. But in a fix, make for the bridge – I guess English is mandatory for marine VHF on international waters. Special mention for the stewardess who bangs on the doors at mealtimes, actually she more or less dragged us out of the cabin to the dining room. Below, she is putting out the laundry.
Other passengers mostly Turkish truckers, all friendly, the 3 English, and 3 folk from Aqtau, 2 ladies and a little pickle, who was spoilt rotten by everyone. I’m sure P&O wouldn’t have been keen on the round-the-ship-chase, climbing the mast at night, and steering-the-ship-even-though-you-can’t-see-over-the-console (tho’ I suspect the autopilot was on).

Approaching Aqtau 1.
Approaching Aqtau 2
Tying up in Aqtau
Thoughtful, or possibly indigestion.
Leaving Alat. Think that’s Ivor.
Fortunately not one of the lifeboats.
Standard ferry shot. Note Azerbaijan colours.
Working ship
Mysterious gubbins
Pickle on lookout

So yes, we had to be a bit flexible on timing, but apart from needlessly rushing from ticket sale in Baku, and Clare’s tummy, it was a walk in the park.
We celebrated passing this milestone with a dip in the Caspian (much cleaner looking in Aqtau than in downwind Baku). As it started to patter with rain.
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Baku

Baku was a curious place. Rural Azerbaijan was a very natural feeling synthesis of what we’d seen in Romania, Bulgaria, Turkey and Georgia, plus more apparently rich people, and a tendency to build ornate walls around scruffy areas. Baku was thus, writ large.
We came into Baku on a big busy highway, amongst increasingly smart, and large, cars & SUVs, generally driven quite soberly. They and the trucks must have been newish, too, as the air quality wasn’t so bad for a city. Buildings got smarter and newer, until in the centre, it felt very developed. There were gleaning new public buildings, malls, loads of swanky shops, and innumerable little phone shops. There were gleaming limousines, a Bentley showroom, and in the car park also serving the hotel, I spotted two cars fitted with the pricey option of the Valeo Surround View system I used to work on: Never seen so many in Europe!
We spent an unnecessarily long time in Baku, because we took a while to be ready to buy our ferry tickets. There were things to see and do, but to a lesser extent than Tbilisi. Here we are seeing and doing old Baku:

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Moving ahem, antique, samovars from SUV to antique shop
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Zaphorets, Baku

New Baku:

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Yes, those are London taxicabs: Baku ordered 1,000 of them a few years ago.
Human Baku:

Market
Checkout the teeth.
Slow trade.
Sold by weight, how sensible. We bought a big spoonful.
It does.
Clare in clover
Our first glimpse of the Caspian – through the gates at the old palace. An SUV, naturally, is in the way.
South of Baku are oil fields and supporting industry.
Moving ahem, antique, samovars from SUV to antique shop
Ah, a ZIL 130. Baku.
The sick kitty, and hotel receptionist.

Baku is not liked by every visitor. Perhaps it’s a bit raw. The new bits have no history yet, and the old bits are few, or it seems that way because they were often restored so as to look new. And perhaps there’s a suspicion it is trying very hard to look grand, but not doing so much for the locals. Yet it seemed a perfectly good place to just be. And reasonably safe to cycle around in, albeit in great loops because of the one way systems.
The hotel was the Guest House Inn, with a guest kitchen which helped keep costs down, comfy beds, and helpful staff. Hope the sick kitten made it! We used both 2Teker and Velosport (?) bike shops, conveniently they’re in almost the same road. Both a bit limited for cycle tourists, but we didn’t need much (although dry weather lube would’ve been good). Couldn’t find anyone selling “outdoor gear” although this shop situation was reversed in Aqtau.

Istanbul – Getting In

This is posted out of order as we’d overlooked this nearly-finished draft!
Research into getting into Istanbul, whilst all agreed on using the D020 and approaching from the north, was mixed – catch the ferry, use the river-side route/ cycle path – the latter lasted for a whole 200m, catch a bus.  All at least agreed that cycling was to be avoided due to the heavy traffic and manic drivers.  Gid spent some time looking into the ferry option.  Despite finding a 2016 timetable, pinning  down a departure point, time and destination that met our very flexible needs was impossible. Actually, there probably isn’t a ferry that runs along the coast in the way we wanted – the buses meet the needs of that route. Cycling it was then! Initially we took the aerial route into Sariyer.

View down into Sariyer
The top of Sariyer
Chimneys or minarets just visible on sky line – in Istanbul

Having been reduced to pushing the bikes up the hill (we no longer have bike friendly gradients) I pushed my bike down. The back wheel was skidding as I tried to keep the bike under control whilst walking down, this didn’t inspire confidence in my ability to ride.  At the bottom we abandoned any hope of back tracking to find the elusive ferry ‘terminal’ and headed on down south.   Istanbul old town, where our apartment was, was 30km away.
Initially there was a wide promenade and all seem good.  This came and went as we progressed from one town to the next along the route.  When ever it existed we sort it out as it provided a respite from the traffic.
Into Istanbul, the Garmin couldn’t locate the apartment.  Frequently places have been spelt differently on road signs and the map which makes the navigation more difficult. The Garmin may recognize one spelling but not the other.  So it was down to Gid who used his phone to track us in to his pin-point, but we had to keep stopping to check our route.
It’s a city, so the traffic was heavy but two local youngsters showed us how to do it by giving a demonstration on how to dart backwards and forwards across the traffic using all three lanes going in our direction.  Gid again fared better than me as he boldly stuck his arm out, to fork left, and crossed all three lanes of traffic, at a major junction.
 Finally, AirBnb’s habit of sending all communications to email, itself, and texts, meant we easily met up with our host and were tucked up into the comfy apartment a few km into the suburbs.