Bon voyage monsieur!!!
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Tea appears as does a brother, son and friend. The friend, who later turns up in the van, speaks Spanish and talks happily about the cost of living in Morocco compared to Spain as well as assuring me that he IS Bin Ladin?!!. He tells us that there is a place to stay 8 km down the road. My broken Spanish only grasps half of what he is saying. We drink up and move on.
The smiley man with a baseball cap and a black jacket in the van is the friend from a few hours before, why he is now in this town, driving a shuttle, and how be had arranged for the hooded man to host us within minutes is beyond us completely. Sometimes not worth working out. We follow the man back to his family home where we are warmly welcomed by his family. Tea is quickly produced and a snack before we are taken out to meet his friends. He speaks no English, only French. We manage to get a fair bit of what he is telling us. Along a muddy street, we are shown into a poorly lit room, on one side, cabinet is filled with sugary cakes and biscuits, soda bottles stand on a shelf behind. In the back corner, behind a concrete pillar, a plastic table and chairs make for a comfortable place for these young guys to hang out, where are the girls? A round of fanta is ordered and everyone sits around enjoying the sweet, artificial drink. Another hooded man arrives, with the outfit from Starwars, which is, in fact, a traditional outfit from this country. He speaks English with a high pitch American accent, very good English. He tells of not having the money to continue his studies, he hopes to get the money together to continue soon, he’s not sure if it will happen. This town has no library, no Internet, no newspaper and no social activities. Young people only get information via satellite TV which every home has. Our limited experience of that TV makes it a very sad situation. Al Jazeera news blares out stories of war and instruction from Libya, no sign of the disaster in Japan or elsewhere in the world. The sense of hopelessness in this community is tangible. Our new friend speaks of a girlfriend in the US that he met online, if only she was as real as he thinks, hopes and wishes.
Until next time…
Photos from the exhibition in Phnom Penh.
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Two months to the day since I rolled those last kilometers into Phnom Penh, I have had quite some time to digest the incredible experiences of my epic cycling adventure. It’s hard to put such a journey into words as each and every day was so different from the previous one, the terrain, the weather, the people, often the food. It’s hard to summarise such a journey, in fact, I don’t think I need to! I think what will stay with me the longest is just how incredibly similar we humans are, everywhere, what we don’t know about each other we are scared of, this is the cause of so much misunderstanding. Traveling gives us the perfect opportunity to know what we don’t have to be scared of. I’m often asked how it felt to arrive, to reach my goal. As I cycled those narrow and busy roads through the buffalo lined, rice paddies and on to my destination I guess I felt mostly sadness that the adventure was over, no massive sense of achievement, just the end of the road….till next time at least.
I hope that you have been able to share at least a portion of the joy that this trip has brought me, certainly the comments I have received from so many have helped keep me going. I have loved hearing from you all! Let the next next adventures begin….
Thanks to your generous donations, around NZ$10,000 was raised. It’s not too late to DONATE to The Cambodia Trust
Waving “byebye”
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I struggle to concentrate on the road as small voices call from every direction, “bye bye”, “sabaidee” or as I reach into Cambodia “hello, bye bye”. I try to wave to each one like the queen on parade (or King maybe). Sometimes I have to strain my eyes to find the little voice coming from a tree, behind a bush or on top of a buffalo. They are anywhere and everywhere. Sometimes only a small hand can be seen above the window sill as the little munchkin peeks through the cracks in the wall boards. Where this enthusiasm comes from, I don’t know. The parents of the smallest children hold their hands to make them wave as I whizz past. It sure makes a passing cyclist feel welcome, though for me I have found it hard to get beyond this and really interact with the people, I feel too different or perhaps to alien to them. Some kids run in fright at the sight of such a hairy man on a bicycle, only to wave from a safe distance. Those adults who do speak English are not easy to engage and those that don’t quickly give up with the sign language or other means of communication. For me, SE Asia has been an incredibly easy place to be, almost to easy with nicely spaced guest houses and endlessly available food and drinks. I’m happy to have had company for most of my time here as it makes life as an observer more enjoyable. I think years of tourism have meant that all foreigners are seen just as rich people who can afford to pay for whatever. To some extent this is true, though with an interest in the people and places far beyond this, I will leave a little sad that I wasn’t able to find a door leading very far into their lives. This certainly is partly my fault as I have not made a huge effort to try to stay with them as I have done elsewhere in the past. But my confidence to do so usually steams from a feeling of mutual interest which I have not felt here. It probably has a lot to do with the fact that travel is not a major part of life and culture, so understanding what I am doing and why I am doing it is very difficult for them to understand.
With just a couple of days to go before I reach Phnom Penh, I start to feel the pinch of the end of an amazing adventure, my thoughts start to gather as I try to put my feelings into words.
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A Lucky Brake
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My hands desperately reach for the brakes, I pull hard but it’s too late, I swerve right but my left handlebar makes contact followed soon after by me as I hit the back of the vehicle hard. I quickly come to a complete stop, my main concern is my bike at this point. One of the j-bars hangs by the handlebar tape, the mirror is gone. In a bit of shock I speak to the driver before getting off the road. I find the broken mirror on the ground some meters away.
The tail light on the truck is smashed, I point it out to the driver and try to figure out how much I should pay him. 500 baht? Not enough? Hmmm, ok, $20? No, he indicates 3000 baht. Finally we settle on $40 and 500 baht. Only then does the driver point out blood on my arm and leg. It’s nothing major, I realise how lucky I am, could have been worse.
Racing across Thailand at about 25km/h, I look down for a second as a pick-up truck pulls in and stops in front of me, a perfect recipe for disaster.
With less than 2 weeks of cycling left to reach Phnom Penh, I start to feel that I’m reaching the end of this epic journey and the realities of normal life creeping back into my consciousness. But there are still 1000 km of road ahead which I will enjoy every minute of!
Thank you to those that have already donated to the Cambodia Trust, those who would still like to, please click on the link below.
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Lizards and Ladybugs
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“Falang, dey lib dis howd…” My brain works overtime, falang means foreigner so that would translate to be: “Foreigners, they live this house.”
The old mans bare pot belly wobbles as we walk slowly in the direction his stubby first finger points. My mission to find the home of a couple who invited me to stay some days earlier has been successful, but they are not home.
An hour or so earlier after a 115 km day I set off the centre of Vientiane to see what I could make of the poorly hand drawn map in my notebook. It wasn’t long before I was lost, I had all but given up when a building that could only be of Soviet origin appear, as the Russian Embassy was THE landmark to find on my map, I circled to building to find confirmation. Sure enough this huge monstrosity, perhaps the biggest embassy I have every seen (apart from the US consulate in Istanbul) was, in fact, the Russian Embassy. Right, where to now? An ex-pat couple out with the dog walked me the right road, just 150 m to go according to the map, perfect. Not so easy, I quickly realise that the 3 building on my diagram are in fact 3 of at least 100 house in the street. By now the last light has faded, I must try to call. A girl prepares something on a small wooden table by the roadside, I stop and ask (or point in such a manner) if she’s colouring her hair, no, stupid question, she’s bleaching her skin. I ask after foreigners, a close examination of my map later and a phone appears, the number is called but no answer. I search myself some more, a motorbike appears next to me and the boy indicates I should go back with him.
The pot bellied man, along with a swarm of kids, appears explaining how he’s studied English for 25 years, but has all but forgotten it. I understand something anyway. As I wait, they call the number again and again, a girl tries to explain with less than 5 words of English that her middle aged friend is single if I’m interested? I kindly decline. Finally, I’m taken to another place where a man speaks to me in good English explaining where I should find them, we walk in that direction.
Soon after, we arrive at the house which I thought was it 2 hours before, but wasn’t sure. To my disappointment noones’ home. I thank the entire street of locals for all their help and bike back towards town. As my eyes become heavy after a long day, I have a huge grin on my face just thinking about how much fun such a small thing, like finding a house, can be.
The photos are in a random order because of a virus I got on my USB key in Thailand.
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Luscious Laos
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The sound of loud rock music fills my ears, I round the bend and to my surprise find a band practicing loudly in a small bamboo hut near the road. Loudspeaker, guitars, drums, keyboards and the band are all squeezed into the tiny room, in this very primitive village, it’s quite a sight, especially before 8 in the morning!
As always, the children line the streets as we pass through every village to wave and shout "bye…bye…bye", the kids here are one step more enthusiastic than the Vietnamese children, they can spot a foreigner at 200 m from before they can walk, and begin frantically waving when I still need binoculars to see them. It is a wonderful habit and sure make it fun to roll through this beautiful country.
Two days of boat rides took us from the dusty roads of the north to Luang Prabang where you could happily indulge in all the comforts of home and eat like a king from the cuisine of almost any country (for quite a price I might add). The bike was calling louder than the beautiful baguettes on the street corner so it was time to again pack my bags and head for the final hills of the journey, and quite some hills they were too! Never ending it seemed, but after 10 km hanging onto the back of a truck, the monotony of 6 km/h disappeared as I hung on for dear life trying to avoid potholes and the roadside as we cruised uphill. Sharp corners would put me into the ditch so I had to let go and pedal frantically to regain my hand hold on the truck. With a soar arm and a smile I gave the driver a toot on my air horn (purchased in China, and the best thing since sliced bread) and a wave and set about pushing myself to make it up the last km’s to the town ahead.
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A taste of Vietnam
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Unconscious and bleeding heavily, two people carry the limp, helpless body into the street, a motorbike comes to a halt and she is quickly loaded on with a third person to behind to hold her upright. Just moments before as I drifted off to sleep I was woken by the sound of footsteps outside the door which was soon followed by a very loud banging sound, like a door slamming, followed by a second, third and fourth bang each one more aggressive than the last. The sound of breaking glass fills us with fear, what the hell is going on? People are talking very loudly, arguing it seems. I edge towards the curtained window to peek through the slit to try to get an idea of the situation. We are already regretting having chosen the cheapest hotel in town. Perhaps the pink lighting and the large ‘Massages’ sign just behind should have been a warning, though this is all too common in this part of the world. We want to leave but it feels more unsafe to open the door and risk getting involved than holding tight and hoping things settle down. The voices continue for quite some time and through a slit in the door I see a man hastily packing things into a bag, from the other window I see 5 or 6 people climb into a taxi and leave, finally we are able to breath easy and get some sleep in preparation for another tough day ahead.
Vietnam came and went all to quickly, we were welcomed and fair welled by endless mountains with not much relief for tired cyclists in between either. The small villages were brimming with wonderful, beaming children all yelling “bye bye” continuously like wee stuck records, each one too cute to not acknowledge. The adults were for the most part happy to give us at least a smile and a wave, or invite us for a thimble sized shot of the rather potent local ‘wine’.
The immense diversity of these mountain people was evident from the ever changing pallet of colours and styles of the women’s outfits, each one of spectacular intricacy and decadence, painstakingly handmade with utmost care. The advent of modern materials is replacing these works of art with printed substitutes as well as more modern but far less faltering attire. The men and children have all but abandoned these traditional clothes.
The all too familiar site of massive earthworks for hydro dams made for two rather dirty, dusty cyclists at the end of each day and made me a little sad to think that all these old villages we were passing through will soon be drowned beneath the ‘progress’.
The catastrophic loss for the French and Vietnamese armies during the wars in the 50′s made Dien Bien Phu an ideal place for a day off to explore the remnants of war and to ponder how it is possible that just half a century later we can freely visit this place and be welcomed so warmly. The 38,000 lives lost seem all so pointless now as we sit at the border checkpoint with the officers on their lunch break and sip tea from tiny porcelain tea cups, ready for more adventures in Laos.
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Ni hau (or not)
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The bed bounces as the grating sound of poorly sung karaoke seeps through every corner of the room to make sleeping a far off dream. This relatively expensive Chinese hotel room provides little comfort to tired cyclists.
Chinese hotel rooms will have, without fail, cable TV, free soap, comb and shampoo, dirty walls and condoms. Bath tubs, air conditioning, vibrators to quote: ‘make your pleasure with or without your sex partner’, buzzing switches, mosquitoes, nightclubs and noisy sex next door are all part of the surprise when you get to the room (or try to sleep). The price varies wildly depending on who you ask, what is written on the wall is never the actual price and the price has no connection to the quality of the room, this is China!
A month in China was enough to see that this is a country full of history and cultural diversity. I had been a bit unsure about cycling here as I had heard lots of stories of communication difficulties and hassles with hotels etc. This certainly wasn’t the case for me. People reacted quite differently to a hairy white guy, many just stared as if I wasn’t human, these people usually reacted to a wave or hello. It became a bit of a game to try to guess who would respond to my “Ni hau” (Hello) and those “or nots” who chose to ignore me and leave me wondering what they were thinking as I whizzed past. The Children were shy but wonderful as always, and if you could break the ice, which didn’t always happen, were very curious and generous with their affection.
China was a wonderful combination of good food, good people and very tough cycling. I hope to return some day for more.
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But wait, where are the leaping tigers?
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A whistle from above brings us to a halt. We turn to see the old man waving us back, the road we are on isn’t right and we must descend the steep zigzag track to the brown, fast flowing river below. Carefully negotiating each corner so as not to loose our bikes down the steep slope, we reach the sandy river bank below. The old man calmly sweeps the area around a small room carved out of the cliff while a small baby in a sling on his back follows us with his eyes. He indicates for us to wait for the ferry to come. Meanwhile on the far bank, a horse is loaded on the rusty boat before pushing off from a safe landing place. The current carries the boat swiftly downstream until the roar of the engine brings it around and back up the where we wait. We load ourselves and the bikes and pull out into the current. The thump thump of the engine is all familiar sound of the standard Chinese engine.
With a scrape and crunch we arrive at the far side, our bike are unloaded onto a rock ledge with a near impossible access way leading to the washed out road above. We portage the bags and bikes in several goes across the boulders before pushing the 2 km up to the road above. Tiny lizards dart here and there as we disturb their peace. The rock strewn track indicates the infrequency with which this crossing is used.
We are now entering the Tiger Leaping Gorge with an incredible 2500 m or more between the peaks of the surrounding mountains and the raging torrents of the river below. After years of work, a road has successfully been blasted into the shear cliffs making for a great days ride along the length of the gorge.
The mountains ease back to rolling hills as terraced farmland takes over. Harvest time is in full swing as we loose altitude, fields are filled with workers harvesting, threshing and winnowing rice to feed the nation. Men run with huge bags to catch the abundant crickets between the fields, women replant the next crops while men carry huge bundles of rice stalks to the roadside. It is like watching an ant colony from the outside, everyone is highly skilled at the task at hand and teamwork brings the food to the table. It’s an incredible sight which stretches for hundreds of kilometers of the ride. I fell small and insignificant as my mind projects this incredible amount of activity to the entire nation where some 800 million farmers feed the soaring population of 1.3 billion in the same way.
After all this I had a relaxing week with old Chinese colleagues that I worked with in Sweden at their research lab at a military hospital in Chongqing. I was treated like royalty during a wonderful week of good food, good company tough table tennis matches.
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A Room with a View
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Hands waving and pointing in the picture book gives us little more than that we should follow the man on the motorbike who will show us a place to camp which is near the ferry, or so we understand it. We struggle to maintain pace with him as we pass cows pulling heavy trailers of corn stalks, ladies tending their herds, paddies laden with ready to be harvested rice and school kids yelling the all to familiar “Hello” which, along with “bye bye” are the only English words any countrysiders speaks in China. The road turns to a dirt track then road again as we take numerous short cuts, where are we going? All will work out I tell myself. We pull down a small lane and pass under a persimmon tree, I notice a small sign saying Guesthouse in English. We are shown a simple but beautiful room with a balcony looking out over the famous Tiger Leaping Gorge in the distance, incredible! Before we know it tea is poured and fresh, juicy pomegranates are placed in front of us. Available everywhere, this unusual fruit has quickly become a favourite snack here. We ask the price and are told 1 and 5, ok, 150 then? The man draws with one finger on his open palm, 15 yuan each, just US $2 or so. The previous night we spent 200 yuan for an incredibly noisy room in the crowded tourist city of Lijang.The advice we had been given on the roads was great but did not take into account the magnitude and frequency of the hills along the way. With limited time, we again flagged down a passing pickup and caught the last rays of sun hitting the fields through the dusty windows the
ever of the vehicle as it raced towards Ninglang. One less than happy, but not dead pig and several close calls with dogs later, we were again on two wheels in total darkness at an intersection somewhere. Speculating as always, we tried to predict where we’d be in an hour as we rolled through dark streets past card playing shop keepers and
barking dogs. Our speculation, for once, was correct as we tucked up into bed after another unknown but delicious meal. The landscape became lush and green as water cascaded down mountains sides to huge, brown rivers in the valleys below. Teeth rattling as we descended again on cobbled roads made it seem possible that we’d reach
our destination, but that was only a dream. As the light faded and the barking dogs didn’t, we searched for a place to camp, cliffs and drops left little flat land for anything, only that which had been manipulated into terraced rice paddies, but these were far and and cultivated. At last a rocky outcrop appeared close to the road, we gingerly sett up camp trying not to put too many holes in anything on the endless sharp rocks. A man and his goats observed and left us in peace. Lijang hit us in the face with hundreds of thousands of camera happy tourists wandering the picturesque streets of this ancient city amongst unhappy looking locals who appear less than pleased with having to dress up in traditional costumes each day to create a Disneyland like atmosphere where everything is exactly how it ‘should’ be. For sure a beautiful place, it’s hard to, in the famous words of the Lonely Planet, ‘soak up the atmosphere’ of this place when meter long camera lenses (mine included) clutter each scene and crowds gather in such volumes that you must pick your way through, careful not to stand on any toes. As with any such place, head one street east or west from the main drag and you find a quiet empty street to
yourself, but this is short respite from the madness. Pedaling north out of there offered quick relief until we reached the toll gate where we were obliged to pay not only a fee for passing through ‘a natural area’ but, would you believe and 8 euros just for visiting Lijang! Now we know that it is Disneyland. In China nature is canned and sold as a consumer product. It is not possible to experience it first without paying someone something. This creates an expectation of perfection, natural wonders are even modified to make them ‘more beautiful’. Visitors centers in the natural areas are packed with bus loads of domestic tourists all vying to have their photos taken next to the man made rocks and water
features while the real nature is left more or less unnoticed. Walkways, viewing platforms and obtrusive signs naming individual features all make for the perfect picture while creating a tangible gap between what really is nature and the people. Luckily there are hundreds of authentic villages and beautiful forests and mountains to make up for the Chinese way of seeing nature which differs so greatly from my own. As the road descends towards. The Tiger Leaping Gorge we are treated to unforgettable views with
incredible interactions between sunlight, clouds and a multi coloured landscape, real nature.
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Chicken Feet and Chopsticks
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Drowned in mouth numbing Sichuan pepper, you must close your eyes and forget that you are eating chickens feet, somehow black in colour and chopped up in such a way so as to guarantee an annoying piece of bone in every mouthful of fatty skin. But, believe it or not, it tastes quite ok. Each meal is ordered by pointing at pictures of mushrooms, eggs, cow (or pig or chicken if met with a frantic negative head movement) and a general finger motion over the page with vegetables. Of all the meals so far, we have not eaten the same thing twice, but we have eaten amazingly well.
This is day 3 of cycling in China, and what a roller coaster it’s been. Due to limited time we spent the first 12 hours on a packed train, scrounging for every centimeter of space we needed for any sort of comfort. Meanwhile a young boy slept under our seat and 20 others crammed into the space designed for 10. Among the hustle and bustle by some miracle, a wagon of hot food is ushered down the isle, over a foot here and a child there, but all without stopping the constant cry of, who knows, “food coming” maybe? If only I knew. Soon after the merchandise begins to circulate through the throng, first UV lights for helping with the Chinese obsession of checking for counter fit money, then flashing toys, cigarettes (even though it says No Smoking in the carriage, wishful thinking), tiger balm, tacky holograms and finally my favourite, a torch with a built in electric shaver! Just what everyone needs packed like sardines in a sauna-like train.
The bikes had to be shipped as goods separately, pay the money and hand them over to be collected at the other end the following morning. Works well if you use an elbow or two to hassle your way to the desk where dozens of locals “assist” the clerk by putting all their papers in place for her. In due course my papers make their way to the right place and two bikes are produced as shipped.
Chinese road builders are far less patient than their Indian colleagues, opting for steeper, shorter routes over the incredible topography of the Himalayan foothills. Sweat pours as I work for each turn of the pedal in the tropical heat. The weather cools, but the hills don’t as we pass deep, rugged ravines, wide, lush valleys and numerous rivers stained brown from the over active erosion in this ever changing landscape.
It’s not long before we are invited for walnuts, roast potatoes, apples, mandarins, pomegranates, cucumbers and Chinese moon cakes. Communication goes little beyond a smile and a hello in most cases, often we are met with just total silence. A curious stare or total indifference. It’s not long before be arrive at a Chinese tourist attraction, an answer to why we are passed by hundreds of fancy Japanese and European cars everyday. It is the 60th anniversary of the Peoples Republic of China and the wealthy city dwellers are on holiday. After another gruelling climb our first glimpse of Lugu lake is a line of 200 cars waiting to pay a rather expensive fee to enter the national park. We fork out and head into the park where we are quickly invited to join a group of young people for dinner before cycling to the lakeside in the dark to pitch my tent on a deck out over the lake with at least 100 others. Here many holiday makers speak English, a total contrast from the previous days.
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Supporting A Great Cause: The Cambodia Trust
Click on arrow on the right to see the next photo. All photos care of Cambodia Trust, all rights reserved.
It has been my intention to support a charity with this trip since the beginning, it has taken me this long, and extensive help from my friend in Phenom Penh to find the Cambodia Trust. This organisation fits my philosophies and motivations perfectly and I look forward to seeing how I can be involved with some of their projects into the future. Their work is encouraging because they not only give but also train locals which empowers them to continue their amazing work well into the future, with or without the support of the organisation. Their work coincides perfectly with my own in the medical field and my long-term interest in prosthetics and support for the disabled.
My trip has so far taken me from Budapest along the Danube to Serbia and on to Bulgaria. I then pedaled east through Greece to Turkey and on to Iran. I then took a short flight over Pakistan to India where I have just completed 2 months of tough cycling in the high Himalayas. I’m now 10 kg lighter and fit as a trout. Ready to move on to central China and then on to Vietnam, Laos and finally Cambodia. I have so far covered 6,000 km and plan to cycle 4,000 more before reaching Phenom Pen.
My trip will cover a total of at least 10,000 km through 11 countries and at least 100,000 m of mountain climbing. I have passed through areas speaking 15 languages and 8 religions. I will take more than 10,000 photographs and shake hands with an estimated 2000 people. I will drink more than 500 litres of water and just 6 inner tubes. My pedals will rotate more than 10 million times and I will replace my brake pads at least 3 times. Burning about 5,000 calories each day, I will churn through a whopping 1,250,000 calories during the 7 months on the road.
So, with all that in mind, please read more about Cambodia Trust and donate what you can, however big or small your donation is.
Thank you so much for your generous support!
Swapping my bike for my FEET (and a horse or two)
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At each step of the horse, I have to close my eyes as my bike passes millimeters from large rocks, after just 500 m of the 130 km we have to walk, it has already grated the rock twice. The only solution is to walk far enough ahead so as not to hear it. This is the only way to get back out of the beautiful Zanskar Valley without back-tracking. I must get my bike and gear up and over the road less (though construction is well under way) 5000 m Shingu La pass back to the Manali – Leh Highway.
As the risk of snow closing the passes increases everyday, we opt to bus the first 220 km to Kashmir where we start cycling down the Sulu Valley. At each village we are greeted by swarms of children from every direction screaming “Happy, one pen”. Since we don’t carry any pens (and if we did, we would need thousands), we can only say “Salaam” or “Hello” in reply and continue on our way. This does not satisfy them all and some choose to show it by throwing large rocks at us. For me this is a huge insult which leaves me feeling very sad and unsure of why I’m here. I travel to see new cultures and get new perspectives, and sheltering from pelting stones is not one that makes me any wiser. Instead it makes me realise how detrimental tourism can be in some situations, one tourist has given each child they have seen a pen once, not every child has gotten one which has made caused problems amongst themselves, they then assume that any westerner that passes has something for them, in Nepal it was pens, balloons and sweets, in Tibet it was money and so on. If we don’t give them anything, they feel left out, some retaliating by throwing stones. It’s makes me quite sad.
Rounding the corner, the religion changes, the greetings return to the Ladakhi “Julley” and the mobbing stops, one child in ten still asks for a pen or sweet but shows no aggression when we don’t oblige. We are left free to enjoy the most spectacular hanging glaciers which reach down to the road. Open valleys and small ponds with snowy peaks beyond make splendid backdrops for wandering Sheppard’s heading their sheep and small Tibetan villages with their extensive supplies of yak dung in piles on the roof in preparation for the brutally cold and isolated 5 months of winter. A monastery sights majestically atop a small hill in the middle of the breathtaking valley. We are kindly invited to food by a group of Swiss cyclists on an organised tour in the other direction, their guide provides every detail we require in order to follow through on our plans to walk the final section.
Feeling the time pressure and making incredibly slow progress because of the terrible road, we take a bus for the last 40 of 230 km to Padum to purchase supplies for our trek. With an extra 15 kg of food and fuel on the bike we ride the 25 km to the village to find horsemen. It’s not long before we have paid far more than we should and are ready to leave at 8 am the following morning.
Ready in plenty of time, but no sign of the horseman or horses. We wait, “Indian time” I’m told by a local.
Finally he arrives with Ompo and Marpo (gray and brown in Ladakhi language). The bags are loaded and we’re off cycling the last km’s to the road end. The bikes are most awkwardly loaded and we continue on foot.
Our horseman invites us to his home in a distant village, accessible only by foot. His uncle (the only member of the family who speaks any English) tells me how each log for the house roofs is dragged for 3 days on the frozen river in winter, each step hoping that the ice won’t break. It is harvesting time and every man, women and child is occupied in the fields bringing in barley, potatoes, peas and some vegetables for the long winter months during which the inter-village cricket takes places on a snow cleared area of land nearby. Dinner is cooked on the yak dung fired stove placed centrally in the low room, the dirt floor is sprinkled with water to keep the dust down. An unresponsive child stairs blankly at us, wrapped in a filthy duvet and hat. An old military Jerrycan lies on it’s side in front of the fire, one side peeled back to catch those glowing embers as the paper thing metal door is opened to refuel the fire. A large kettle bubbles over an open hole in the top of the stove, its’ bottom charred and blackened by years of flames licking over its’ surface. Milk tea boils on a pressurised kerosene stove nearby, filling the room with the insidious smell of kerosene which is the trademark of India. Wisps of gray smoke escape from small openings in the stove top creating the an atmosphere somewhat like a 1930′s smoking den, or at least as I would imagine it. Everyone coughing in unison. The roof is made of trunks, branches and twigs arranged in that order, each supporting the layer above. It is all singed black by years of rising smoke. Everything else is made of mud, small glass windows sit haphazardly placed in 2 rows on two walls. A little daylight glimmers through the layers of caked dirt, lighting up the room just enough to see to the other side.
Food is served in stages, first milk tea followed by yak yogurt with sugar and tsampa (roasted barley flower) as a warm up. Butter tea is then poured in bottomless cups after the soup-like broth of tea, salt, yak butter, yak milk and water is churned in a special churn found in every home. After refusing the 5th cup, production of the momos begins. A type of dumpling made from wheat flour and filled with, in this case, potatoes, onions and tomato and steamed. Delicious.
Next door two small carpets are laid out for us to sleep on. The 1.2 m high door, dust and total darkness makes it feel like the huts we used to build from hay bails as children. A small transistor radio hangs from a nail above the window, a picture of a baby is also impaled on the same nail. Animal bones with wisps of dried flesh are resting on the top of the post which supports the ceiling, a small chimney sized hole opens to the air above, I notice in the daylight that it is covered by a thick layer of cut grass. On one wall two thick yak wool robes hang with matching scarves on nails banged into the mud wall. A wood saw hangs on another wall while several adzes for shaping wood balance precariously on the door frame.
Eyes fully open, I admire the total darkness. The door suddenly swings open and our horseman comes in, using his 3 words of English he says “horseman sleep here”. He places the blankets from the horses saddle next to me and goes to sleep completely clothed. The wind makes a low noise from the missing window pane. Sleep comes easily.
I’m woken by the sound of a baby yak crying outside. Breakfast is chapatti with curd (yogurt), sugar and tsampa before we set off for the bottom of the pass in low cloud. The seemingly endless valley is crowed by a needle of rock reaching into the sky, a holy mountain under which we spend the night with several other groups of trekkers going both up and down the valley. There is some anticipation in the air as we must face the pass in the morning. We can see large amounts of snow but are told the way is clear because of the dozens of horsemen who pass daily.
I wake as the sun puts a golden icing on the peaks of the mountains, trying to keep warm is my top priority as I pack my things as load the horses. We move off across the valley where we quickly climb into the snow, switchbacks take us higher and colder, past several small glaciers and on to the pass adorned as usual with hundreds of colourful prayer flags. The wind rips through every layer of clothing, we can only stay some minutes before descending into the valley past a partially frozen lake. It is the home stretch as we descend 1800 m back to the road below to continue by road to Manali to reaquant ourselves with the wonders of a shower and good food.
Swapping a bike for a BIKE
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The front wheel skids to the left causing the motorbike to tip onto its’ side. I don’t have time to put my feet down as the full weight of the bike pins us to the planks of the bridge. I pull free while the back wheel is still spinning. No one is seriously injured, just a few scraps and bruises. We lift the bike back up to find the starter and air filter cover laying on the ground. In no time and with the help of a large stone, they are again attached to the bike. One kick and it roars back into life, only to die again 2 km later. Luck is with us as we are just outside a very run down guesthouse where we, after doing some major repairs on the bike, are forced to sleep the night snuggled up with some friendly bed bugs and curious flies.
My eyes become heavy to the sound of screaming babies, passing trucks and loud voices, the broken pane of glass providing little protection from the din outside. My thoughts wander back to the morning when we embarked on this adventure in Leh.
The roar of the Indian made 350 cc Royal Enfield filled the air. Its’ tremendous weight requiring two people to pull it onto its’ stand as we park it outside our current favourite breakfast spot. Swapping my bike for this poorly designed machine with a cool factor which can’t be beaten in India. All walks of life straddle these metal beasts to cruise the wild roads of India in search of themselves (or, in many cases, others), and always to the most distinctive vroom which only an Enfield can make. At a rate of about 8 euros per day, you can’t complain about much. No brake lights or indicators is no reason not to ride, so we’re off, us and the open road.
It’s not long before back brake locks up on one of the bikes, sending it skidding 30 m down the road. Two passing locals on a scooter lend a hand to get us back on the road. Soon after one bike skids on loose gravel and the other falls over while crossing a bridge. By now one is missing a foot pedal and the other has lost the starter lever and air filter cover, nothing that can stop us. But just a few k’s later one of the bikes stops and refuses to start, petrol drips continuously from the engine. Locals are summoned but fail to solve the problem, luck has it that we are in front of a very run down guest house where we are forced to stay the night. Working in the dark I remove the carburetor to try to solve the engine problems, I clean it and replace it, still no luck, the engine is flooded. Waiting and hoping for the morning for it to have dried out is the only option.
I’m woken early by passing trucks, one after the other from 4 or 5 am. I drag myself up and head straight for the bike, with no key required (that surely broke off years ago), I kick the start (replaced with the help of a large rock) and Vvvvvroooooooom, it roars into life, yes! We’re back in action. Not giving up easily we leave as quickly as possible, 3 out of 4 of us are left suffering from stomach problems from the dinner the night before, heading further to Lamayuru Monastery where we should have slept the night.
The road begs the nerves to remain calm as dozens of hairy switchbacks take us up up up to a cliff hugging road where each blind corner is made more exciting by the oncoming army convoys, with only the horn (working on just one bike) to warn them of your approach. With the rain starting we finally arrive to have a quick look at the monastery before heading back to Leh to re-acquaint myself with my far more reliable mode of transport. A two day adventure with more mishaps than 3.5 months on the bike. Lucky it wasn’t for a week!
Delighting in the Dalai Lhama
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The sound chanting fills the air as tens of thousands of locals crowd around crowd loudspeakers to listen to the prayers and teachings of the Dalai Lhama. After rolling the 7 km downhill to the venue, it was as if I was back in Delhi, soldiers with whistles guided traffic as car loads of colourful and enthusiastic locals arrive in droves to the event. Buses and trucks carry people from far and wide, many having travelled through the night in order to get a glimpse of their hero.
Bamboozeling Beauty
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White waters cascade over huge boulders in a tremendous torrent towards the sea some thousands of kilometers away. The national highway which runs alongside resembles a river as water rushes across it leaving the road covered in sharp or round boulders and many small river crossings. The bigger rivers are bridged by many temporary Baily bridges which have seen better days, large gaps often have formed as heavily laden trucks noisily lumber over the creaking and bending structure. Great glaciers reach for the river like giant longs longing for a sip of fresh water. Boulders litter the surrounds as if pebbles in a giants sandcastle, and we, the minute cyclists roll steadily towards the next highway. The infamous Manali – Leh Highway where the high mountain passes quickly sort the men from the boys and entertain only those tough (or crazy) enough to negotiate the spectacular terrain and monumental passes. This gateway to Ladakh has earned a reputation as one of the most spectacular rides in the world and thus attracts an equally spectacular range of enthusiastic cyclists to it’s windy way during the 3 month snow free season.
During the 6 nights on the road there was no shortage of characters to keep us in good company.
“Well f*#! Me, is this really it, f%&!, f#*!, f#%*!” were her only thoughts as she cascaded over the cliff in Bolivia while mountain biking on the worlds most dangerous road. Sipping chi outside a makeshift village made from stones and plastic sheeting we are entertained by a pair of Irish cyclists full of hair raising stories from the road. As a strong tailwind pushes me towards the next tent village, I come across a bike on the side of the road, it’s owner struggles over another bike on the bank above. A scruffy looking guy in a sweatshirt explains that his tire is flat and he has spent the day trying to fix it with little success. 19,000 km after leaving Switzerland, the other cyclist tries to lend a hand. Finally we manage to get him back up and running with a new tube. We all cycle together to the next village to camp the night. The young English guy has managed to make it this far on a poorly adjusted bike which he hired in Manali while carrying a 25 kg backpack on his back. Stories quickly come out about a Japanese guy cycling the highway on a single speed Indian bike he purchased for just $24. Then there is ‘dogman’ who takes photos of dogs for a living. He is now several days behind because he doesn’t like the rain so was waiting out a storm down the valley.
As we progress it becomes a game of tag has me travel towards Leh, the two English lads who turned up in the village pass us on a truck after discovering there is nothing in one of the valleys where they had planned to stay while the Japanese fellow labours endlessly to push his bike up the huge passes. There is no sign of the young fellow until well after dark when he turns up looking very dirty after pushing the bike up more than 30 km of hills before riding along cliff edges in the dark without a torch for the remaining kilometers.
And so it continues, three burly Czech guys in shiny Lycra arrive at the final pass the same time as we do, they have cycled the 10 day trip in just 5 as if they are going for some sort of record in a whirlwind tour of northern India.
The mountains continue to amaze with there diverse colours and photogenic landscapes. Soon the valley widens and we arrive, after a final 5 km uphill, in Leh to an official welcome from the Dalai Lhama who waves to us from his vehicle as we pass through the entrance to the city. A perfect welcome!
Monsoon to Mountain Madness
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Sometimes it is hard to believe that we are in India, most everything around appears like in Tibet. The villages look like Tibet with white, flat roofed mud brick houses decorated with bright colours interspersed with Tibetan monasteries and ever rotating prayer wheels. There is a much calmer feeling in the air as people go about their business growing barley, sweet pees and potatoes in terraced fields on any land that can be provided with water from the many pristine creeks and rivers which run from the remaining snowy areas high in the mountains. Picturesque monasteries attract many western Buddhists to spend extended periods of time here, experiencing a simple life of chanting, eating, sleeping and, well, playing cricket or volleyball. The monks lifestyle is incredibly simple and easy for them as they have no duties beyond the occasional ceremony for the local villagers to cleans them of any demons. In one such ceremony all the villagers crowd into a low, dirt floored room light only by two intense beams of light from small holes in the ceiling. The thin high altitude air combined with the smoke of sage being burnt by the lhama makes my very dizzy. Children cause mischief amongst themselves as the next stage of the ceremony is prepared. The lhama then cleanses each person by spitting into an ornate silver teapot of milk with a haunting sound and heavy breathing before pouring a steady white stream onto the face of each man, women and child. The milk is quickly rubbed over the face and taken into the mouth before being spat out onto the floor in front. This process takes quite some time, once complete each person receives is touched on the head by the lhama using peacock feathers with the sick being given extra attention. Finally (for the kids especially) the ceremony is over and everyone flocks out into the extreme high altitude sunlight to continue their daily lives.
We cycle on to the next monastery where I spend the night overlooking another quaint village which interrupts the dry landscape with vivid green fields and colourful white houses. The stars seem close enough to touch as shooting stars cruise through the night on a silent journey to nowhere.
Gravel turns to asphalt and asphalt to stones creating a patchwork of roads as unpredictable as the Indians themselves. The road crosses plateaus of peas, potatoes and barley as it weaves its’ way towards the pass, many steel bridges straddle the rivers and the mountains continue ever higher towards the sky. Glaciers hang precariously from the high valleys, just threatening to disappear as the temperature increases year by year. The road climbs ever higher, the air thins and my breathing becomes laboured and fast, my pedals turn slowly and the wheels bump and grind over sharp rocks, as I pass the last stream and reach the top of the pass I feel somewhat elated as the speedometer clicks over to 5000 km exactly at that point and my notes tell me I have been on the road for 3 months that day. Where will the next 3 months and 5000 km take me?
In the Belly of Delhi
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Large droplets cascade to the ground, each joining the next to create rivulets, streams and rivers which quickly fill the gutters, alleyways and streets. I gather my courage (and rain jacket) and run in the rising water towards the bus which is waiting 100 m away, on arrival everything which was left exposed is totally soaked as water buckets from the sky. Water laps around my ankles as I frantically try to squeeze the 3 bikes into the cramped luggage compartment on the bus. As we pull away, the rain continues and the water rises, motorbikes are the first victims, scattered on the sides of the roads as their owners try to find home on foot. Cars are next as water reaches the top of their wheels slowing traffic to a painful crawl. My eyes become heavy despite the mayhem, I drift off only to be woken by the constant left, right, left motion of the bus, I smile knowing that we have finally reached the base of the mighty Himalayas, rising 8000 m above. The 40 degree humidity of Delhi feels like a dream as lofty clouds shroud beautiful dense forests and the cool air is filled with the fresh smell of rain. We find suitable accommodation and head into town to plan what will certainly be some of the most spectacular cycling of the trip.
A few final words on Iran
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I wander in a dazed state, just 50 minutes on the plane and I’m in another world, Bahrain International Airport. Awash with people of 100 nations, Arabs in long white outfits, Indians in saris and turbans, men in business suites, European backpackers clutching their guide books and Nepali guest workers all coughing in unison as if they’ve caught the same cold. A masked man screens me for Swine Flu, do I have a fever? Not yet I respond. I purchase a Greek salad from an Asian women named Minnie Cho who speaks impeccable American English then sit with an American of Syrian origin working in Bahrain, waiting for that flight to Jordon. As I wait, two middle aged Iranians on their way to the disco’s of Goa, who, almost as if compelled by their culture, buy me a huge bag of nuts for the road. I feel somewhat hollow inside, I’m again anonymous, just another human being amongst the masses seeking to make a better life in this oil rich Arab state. I’m no longer strange and intriguing, no staring or giggling scarfed girls, no “Hello Mister, where are you from?”. I feel sadness to leave a country where I felt always so looked after, as our last host said “A guest is the son of God” and we certainly were treated that way, totally spoiled you could say. Though this sense of obligation to take care of the guest pull many emotional strings inside too, why couldn’t we just interact as friends, or brothers. Why do they feel so compelled to give, give, give. In my world a true relationship is a two way interaction, give a little and take a little. This is not quite so in Iran.
Before entering Iran, avoiding politics and religion was a top priority. Quickly it becomes apparent that almost every conversation leads to this topics as they burn on the tip of every Iranian’s tongue. After recent elections, we were told by several people that the announced winner received no more than 6 million of the 40 million votes. It is said that the Mullahs, who hold a position of power higher than the president, pulled the right strings to put Mr. Ahmedanejad back into power, this sparked deadly protests in the streets which led to the deaths of more than 20 people, these protests continue in Tehran in another form. At night the people are going to the roofes of their apartments and yelling “Allah akbar”, God is great. The reason for using this expression seems strange to me and I was never given an explanation, but the people of Iran continue their struggle for freedom.
Not everyone is against the government, in small, generally poor towns and villages it seems that cash handouts, building schools and other government funded projects have created support for Mr. Ahmedanejad. Posters of the president can often be seen in shops and in the homes of people in these areas. I met just one person from a city who supported the current regime, his viewpoint being that a lack of religion in the world is the cause of all conflict. I chose not to get into a discussion with him on that one. I was told that nationally less than 65% of the population attend the Mosque once a week or more, which is the minimum requirement in order to be a Muslim. The law stating that women must be covered in public extends only to the gates and doors of homes all over the country, with a very different life inside. Alcohol, drugs, sex, parties etc. are all very available, you just have to know how to work around the law and where to look.
As we enter the boulevard, a few guys can be seen leaning against parked cars on the side of the road, each trying to show off their muscular bodies. We choose the more common method, driving in the best car available (on a scale of 1 to 100, I’m told that our Nissan pick-up truck is a 75.) around the avenue, a 2 km strip of 2 lane road where car loads of girls and car loads of boys circulate in search of each other. Once a person of interest is spotted, a game of cat and mouse begins, we maneuver our car alongside her vehicle, with a short toot of the horn and small wave she opens the window, after a brief introduction, they are interested. My friend arranges to meet them in a quiet ally near by, away from the view of the vigilant police who can arrest us for such interactions with the opposite sex. We follow their small car as they adjust their hair and makeup in the rear view mirrors. We pull up alongside and stop, the driver lets her head scarf drop to reveal a meticulously tended hair style. As I don’t speak Farsi, I don’t understand what they are saying, however the seductive tone or her voice is obvious. I’m told I have beautiful hair and eyes by the curly haired girl in the front seat. They exchange numbers as we must move on, my friend tells me that we can meet them later if we want. I decline the offer, more than content to experience what lengths humans will go to in order to fulfill a basic desire, law or no law.
Back at my friends place, the door bell rings, he opens and in walks a tall, blond girl dressed in a tight white top and pants. She carries a dish of pasta in one hand and a blue headscarf in the other. My friend tells me this is one of his 3 girlfriends as she begins to clean the kitchen in his small basement flat. Once finished they sit together on the couch to discuss the upcoming operation to ‘correct’ his nose. Earlier they had visited the plastic surgeon with the girlfriend of his friend to convince her how much better her life would be after the $3000 operation. This kind of surgery is incredibly common in Iran, women and men can often be seen with the characteristic bandage on their noses, almost a symbol in itself of a certain status. In a country where interaction between unmarried boys and girls is illegal and all must be covered apart from her face, such superficial details count for a lot.
Traditionally the women are supposed to be introduced to their future husband by a friend or relative, more or less only meeting their future husband once an engagement has been arranged. This continues today though more and more people choose to flout the law and interact with the opposite sex in what I would consider a normal way. In Iran, this can have it’s consequences. One girl I met was arrested and put into jail for three verbal abuse filled days of what she described as hell. Her crime: driving in a car with boy and girls who were not relatives or married. She was so hurt by this that she was trying to leave the country as soon as possible, by whatever means, in her case to study withthe hope of never returning. This was not an easy thing for her as she loved her country and so many things about it, but this had tipped her over the edge. Most people we met who spoke English has thoghts or plans to try to emigrate to anther country. This process takes several years and often they are rejected.
Once married, the place of women is in the home. While more women than men study at university, it is more for fun than a career, instead most of them stay home to cook, clean and raise children. In many cases this made me feel uncomfortable because the man is the one to take care of guests, while the women must provide food and drinks. In most cases we ate in the presence of the man only while the women stayed out of sight. Sometimes she only got to eat the leftovers of the meal, if we ate everything, then she had to find something else. Tradition says that this should make her happy as her food was appreciated, though for me it was an uncomfortable feeling because I didn’t feel that she was given the dignity she deserved. One women told me that, in fact, rights for women are actually quite good apart from the head scarves and social restrictions. In many ways I think this is, to some extent, true though Iran has a very long way to go before men and women have equal standings in society.
When Tuesday comes, each Iranian is supposed to call his friends and arrange where they will have a picnic on Friday. Picnicking is really a national sport, each Friday, Iranian’s pack themselves into cars, sometimes 8 or 9 in each, and head to the many green areas of the country. Water is the primary goal so all waterfalls, rivers and lakes, provided they have sufficient shade, will be packed with crowds of people. In fact shade is the primary criteria for the picnic, so parks, traffic islands and even the roadside will do, provided those brutal rays are kept at bay. A proper picnic requires a BBQ, this is made in record time near by, with hot embers being ready to sizzle chicken shish kebabs in under 15 minutes. After eating the tender morsels wrapped in bread with raw onion and salt, a gas stove is produced to brew the favorite drink, tea. Many choose to sleep the hottest hours of the day before packing rugs, plates, tea pots, stoves, skewers, charcoal and children into neat bundles, each secured with rope and placed like a huge birthday present onto the roof of the car to make room for the extended family inside the car for the long, windy journey home. If, for some reason, we were not invited to join in a family picnic, we were forced to look further afield for something to eat, in Iran this is very limited as 90% of all restaurants sell only shish kebabs, sometimes with rice, sometimes with just bread, but that’s it. The other 10% sell some other specialties and in the big cities, of course you can find pizza and hamburgers everywhere. But the shish kebab is king, like it or go hungry. Quite another reality is found when you are invited to someones home, many different delicious meals will be served, usually with rice. Rich sauces, soups and meats are complimented by many spices and condiments. Often salad is served, a mixture many types of strong herbs to be nibbled with the fingers or perhaps a Shirazy salad made from onion, tomato, cucumber and mint. Breakfast is always Iranian flat bread eaten with butter, jam, honey and cheese and walnuts.
Negotiating city traffic in Iran like playing chicken, you must be assertive but careful in order to place yourself in such a position so as to force the oncoming driver to stop. A near complete lack of traffic signals means that the only way is to ease you vehicle into the path of an oncoming vehicle, forcing that vehicle to break heavily to let you in. This system creates a haphazard continuity in an ever lurching mass of vehicles. A total lack of regard for lanes means that traffic on the right may suddenly decide to swerve across 5 lanes to make a left hand turn, apparently a normal (but hair-razing) maneuver, though as I saw, turning around in this manner can go wrong. As a car blocks 4 lanes of traffic to turn, a motorcycle sneaks past behind, the car accelerates quickly backwards sending the motorcyclist flying into a parked car. Quickly a crowd forms around the crying rider who appears to have broken his leg, clutching his back he tries to stand, I try to tell him to remain flat in case of spinal injuries, I place a shoe under his head as it is all I can find to make him a little more comfortable. Realising that I can not do so much more, I leave the crowd, hoping the ambulance will arrive soon. On a bike this total chaos makes it quite easy to bike, though incredibly dangerous. A simple wave of the hand will slow an oncoming car. The steaks are high. I chose not to think about it.
Donation boxes line the streets in Iran, they can be found in most shops and many homes. With a symbol of an old person on the side it is clear what they are for. In their religion, Iranian’s should put money into these boxes before commencing a journey to ensure safe passage. Even at motorway pay booths, the buses first pay the toll then pay God to ensure that they survive another excursion into the deadly traffic. Rumors have it that this money, in fact goes into the government coughers and only a portion of it is used for caring for the sick and the elderly, but who really knows. As the bus driver leans out to pay this holy insurance, a young soldier runs his fingers over a picture of his wife and baby child as he is transported back to base where he and each male of his country must serve 18 months of their lives. With very few options to get out of doing military service, most are forced to put their lives on hold in a distant city form their own with little chance to see their loved ones. Some may pay a $15,000 bond to study abroad, paying a further $7000 to skip the service should they obtain papers to remain in a that country. For most however, this is impossible and the only option is to declare themselves homosexual which has major implications when searching for a job. One man told me that homosexuals were a huge problem in Iran, though he was not able to tell my why, for those that are they must live a secretive double life so as not to face ridicule in daily life. Ironically, males can often be seen walking down the street hand in hand.
Almost everything was wrong, where did my information come from? The internet? Radio? Word of mouth? Newspapers? Where? It is hard to say, but I can now say that my picture of this country has changed majorly. Before I entered Iran, I expected to find a very religious population, I expected the sound of the call to prayer to echo from every rooftop and I expected that I would find some of the friendliest people on earth. Contrary to many, I did not expect to find a country of terrorists. In Turkey, any mention of Iran was met with a brisk movement of a finger across the throat, certain death in other words. In fact, the biggest danger I met in Iran was the lightning storm on the first day. Iran is perhaps the only country in the world where a carpet seller first tries to sell you a carpet, then, after telling him my story, pays for the sunglasses I was looking for. This act sums up Iran for me. If the chance ever comes up, don’t miss go there!
I am now in Delhi, India. Tonight I will travel by bus to Shimla from where I will start my 2 month Himalayan adventure on the bike. Looking forward to being back in the saddle again. I’m joined by my friends Bridget and Carlos for this part of the trip. They both are far more expereinced cycle tourists than me so it’s great to be cycling with them.
Another side of life
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It’s like searching for lost treasure
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Warm water runs over my head and across my face before cascading to the ground below to send blobs of dusty water onto my feet and ankles. Hands rub and massage my hair, this is for sure the first time I have had my hair washed by a farmer in a small mountain village. Once the process is complete, he insists on brushing it to. Without any common language, there no other option than to go with the flow. Stefan is already sporting the latest hair style as he laughs at me from the other side of the room. Our invite home to this mans house to sleep has proven more than we bargained for.
Stopping to ask for directions we were quickly invited home, a nice gesture after perhaps the toughest day of the trip to date. A combination of 25 km steep uphill combined with a total inability to trust ANY information about road conditions, distances, etc. We are exhausted and gladly accept the offer.
Obtaining information has almost become a bit of a joke now, every person you ask will tell you something different, sometimes a factor of 10 different. Or they will say that they know the way, for example: “Ok, from the waterfall go to the bottom of the hill and turn right, 6 km uphill then you can get water, from there it is just 4 km downhill to where you want to go, the road is sealed all the way”. Perfect we think, and since our two maps are wildly different from each other, and neither show this part of the country properly, we go for it. The right turn is correct, but that’s where it ends, after about 8 km uphill, no water stop, only 5 out of 50 km sealed and several unmarked intersections, we arrive at the place we asked for. At least there was a road!
We follow the farmer 5 km or so, where we are greeted very warmly by his family and, soon after, the rest of the village. At one point, I counted more than 30 men, women and children crowded into the tiny front room too oogle at the big strange hairy guys on bikes. With concrete walls and a mud roof, the house was decorated with only 3 framed pictures and certificates on one wall, a small charity donation box on another and a cabinet with a TV and DVD player on the third. A steel door with a large padlock, which had been repaired, stood open. Opposite, a low, narrow door lead to a small kitchen where a gas stove stood affirmatively with pots of tea and rice on the boil. A green carpet lined the floor, well worn and sporting a range of holes and stains. The ceiling was decorated with a plastic table cloth, nailed meticulously to the slender tree trunks which supported the mud above. Turkish music soon filled the room from the satellite dish mounted precariously to the roof of the shed outside. Our host then teaching us the latest dance moves for the area as delighted onlookers laughed loudly, many with their mobiles trained on us. The videos would be distributed amongst friends and family for future entertainment and bragging rights. Many cups of tea were poured, though only to us and the man of the house. The same was the case for dinner, with the children also being allowed to eat. I’m not even sure if the women ate at all, perhaps in the kitchen while preparing the most delicious meal of rice with chicken, beans, courgettes and tomatoes, washed down with, what I’m sure is a luxury for them, Fanta. Once refusing thirds, fourths and fifths forcefully, the meal is over and we are allowed set up our tent on a mat outside. Rugs, pillows and blankets are placed in the tent. We are shown how we should sleep under the blankets, but the heat of the day remains and I’m more than happy to sleep with just some respite from the constant onslaught of mosquitoes. With a crowd around the tent, peering in at every possible angle, I finally drift off to dream land, more than content with the day.
After sleeping in a haystack we packed quickly and moved off at 6.30 in an attempt to arrive at the waterfall before the temperature reached 40 degrees. Again our maps were grossly inadequate and our attempts to obtain information from locals had yielded anything from 25 to 100 km. An initial 19 km climb to a ski field had brought breathtaking mountain scenery, the valley below promised to provide the perfect setting for us to rest our bones till evening. In the village we were told 10 km further, 2 km later 3 km, 2 km later 10 km then finally after being towed for 2 km up the steepest part of a 5 km hill, the turn off appeared. A sign indicated 18 km to the waterfall! Well into the hottest part of the day, we had to eat something before proceeding, not believing that 18 km was possible, but it was. Mostly very steeply downhill, but about 4 km steep uphill finally got us to the holy grail, a lush green area in a desert landscape where hundreds of families had driven for hours for the famous Iranian picnic. It wasn’t long before we were invited for a BBQ which we gladly accepted. But first, a very refreshing shower, fully clothed, in the waterfall along with dozens of others. Fully fed and with the hottest part of the day past, we proceeded to find an alternative route to our next destination.
Avoiding a trend (I hope)
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Adrenalin fills my vains, I thrash about in panic. Out of the corner of my eye I see a hand raised with a knife. From the right a hand tries to cover my mouth, but no chance. I scream “F#*! OFF” as loud as I can. A swing left and right and I’m free from their grip. I waste no time dashing the 30 m to the door of the hostel.
An innocent stroll to fill my water bottle at the water cooler turns into the biggest disapointment on the trip so far. As I fill my bottle, at least 6 men appear behind me on motorcycles. Suddenly I feel my bag being pulled at, then my arms grabbed. I react quickly realising that they are still half on their bikes and not so mobile. My bag strap is over my shoulder and not so easy to remove which adds to the panic.
With a bleeding nose and totally soaked from my own water bottle, I enter the hostel yelling. Within seconds the police arrive wearing bullet proof jackets and carrying automatic weapons. After ascertaining that I am ok and nothing is missing, then leave, helpless to do anything.
Nothing was taken apart from a little of the trust I have for these (mostly) trustworthy people. I didn’t realise at the time but my sunglasses also went missing druing the scuffle, probably fell to the ground, could have been worse! This taints another day of Iranian hospitality where we were looked after by the friends of the cousin of the friend of a friend of a CouchSurfer whom we never met (Iranian networking).
Apon our arrival in Esfahan at 6 am, they were waiting for us, after following them 20 km, we were provided with breakfast and somewhere to rest before being taken on a tour of the city, as usual our attemps to pay for anything were politely but deffinitely refused. Finally, after a phone call from the police saying that we were not allowed to stay with them, they took us to a hostel. They then biked home then drove our bags to us in the city. How exactly the police knew we were there, I don’t know but they know everything.
It is a strange feeling for me to be at a hostel with everything that entails, backpackers, laundry service, booked tours etc, etc. I must say that after 2 months cycling, it was really nice to be here, though I can say for sure that after one day, I will again be longing for the freedom of the bike. Ironically, I had made a comment to a Canadian backpacker earlier in the evening about the dangers of touristy areas, my point now proven!
Digging deeper into a Culture
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For the first time in my 6 years of experiencing our world, I feel a longing for my friends, a deep and unfamiliar sensation that something is missing. After thinking long and hard about this, I have concluded that the culture in this country makes it very difficult, if not impossible, to have real interactions with people that are 100% genuine. This can be traced back to concept of Tarof, a uniquely Iranian concept (as far as I know) which overshadows any interaction between people in this country. Tarof is an Arabic word which translates as ‘to know each other’. In Farsi it is referred to as Roudarbayesti which translates to ‘to stand behind the door’. These two translations are a pretty good summary of what Tarof means in this society. It is deeply routed in the society and thus creates a challenge for the foreigner which can lead to real frustration and sometimes anger. So, what is this Tarof thing? Tarof is a complex system of social bluffing in a game of mental cards where each person is trying to out do the other to show ultimate politeness. Play the wrong card and you will be labeled as a social failure, or at least made feel that way. Sound complicated? It is! Tarof creeps into every aspect of life, it infects conversation and ultimately masks the true intentions of everyone. This makes developing strong relationships near impossible because you never know what intention lies behind an action. An example of the complexity of this. We, as guests are invited, along with a local, to spend the night in someones home. There are only two beds, so naturally the local finds every excuse to justify sleeping on the floor. When the host discovers the other man sleeping on the floor, he insists (in a confrontation lasting several minutes) on providing a mattress. To save face the mattress is accepted, but when the door closes it is placed to the side so as not to reveal to us that giving us the beds was, in fact a Tarof. These situations leave me wondering what the intention was behind providing us with a meal or a place to sleep. Was it genuine? Where is the line drawn between genuine interest in me and the cultural requirement which requires that the guest be looked after 150%? Then there is the issue of money, in my culture we feel good when we do not place much or any financial pressure on our hosts, it’s a game of balance. We give and take, you pay this one, I’ll get the next and so on. Not so simple here. The host wants to show the ultimate hospitality and with this will proceed to pay for everything from a watermelon which I bought as a present for the family (can this still be considered a present? Not really I guess) to passport copies and bus tickets. Sometimes with lots of discussion, the host may (just may) accept payment for such items, but it’s not easy to say the least and I don’t want to seem rude either. Initially it left me feeling quite uneasy, though after some consideration I have realised that if I convince them to let me pay, they will be left feeling like they have let down there guest, in this case, their tarof has been trumped. So let them pay as long as it’s reasonable and avoid those situations where they feel obliged. Buy the watermelon when they are not looking, save those biscuits for after you have left and so on. So after 2.5 weeks here, I have found an answer to my feelings of loneliness. Tarof makes it impossible for people to interact in what would be considered a normal way to me. I must analyse their body language, tone of voice and speech of my counterpart in an attempt the establish the level of Tarof involved in the interaction, sometimes none, sometimes complex and totally incomprehensible. The consequence being that the many people loose their self confidence for fear of treading on someones toes. This has the flow on effect of making a real human to human interaction very difficult, especially for me as a foreigner. Combine this with the tradition that the guest must be provided with the best there is (and lots of it), it is not surprising that I’m left with a range of new feeling which I have no previously encountered. The most believable history which I have heard so far behind Tarof goes back thousand of years to the reign of the kings, each citizen was obliged to show nothing but respect for their king when near by, but when out of his city, they freely ridiculed him as they wished. This has somehow developed into what it is today, a phenomenon which paralyses these incredibly humble and friendly people, sometimes in a good way, and sometimes a bad one. It has become clear to me that the best way to get the most out of this incredible country is to go with the flow, to think less and observe more, to forget about your norms and try to accept theirs and most of all to enjoy the ride cause it’s a roller coaster!
Making sense of it all
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A guest is sacred in Iran. As over the top as this may sound, it has, in fact, been proven many times over already on this trip. It doesn’t matter who it is, weather we were expected or unexpected, invited or uninvited, the people redefine hospitality, in my world at least. Being such generous hosts does have its’ downsides for a weary cyclist also. An unexpected guest or even passer-by will almost always be greeted with something that sounds like “Hastanaboshy” (This is my best attempt at spelling it, it is probably several words in reality), this translates to “Don’t be tired” or “Are you tired?”. What kind of question is that? After a few days here you realise that it is a wonderful way of lightening the load of a working man (or woman, though, as yet I have not heard this from or to a women) and is usually answered with the same question in return. The next question can come in a range of languages, Farsi, English, Ajari or one of the 100 local languages in Iran. It almost always translates to “where are you from?”, or at least I think that’s what they want to know. I normally have to produce my wonderful world map to indicate where New Zealand is, the distance always brings some amazement. By now we are acquainted, it is time to get the formalities out of the way, usually in English “what is your name?” “my name is Ben, what is your name?”. Usually the answer is there unpronounceable last name as most of them have the first name Mohammad anyway. In these few short second, quite a crowd has formed and the critical information (my country) is relayed around the circle like Chinese whispers. I’m sure the last guy to arrive thinks I’m from New England (which is equally interesting, even if it isn’t actually a country). An invitation for tea will soon follow and often food also. Here is where the real challenge begins for the unsuspecting foreigner. The first challenge is to ascertain weather the offer is genuine, or are they interested in getting you into their shop to buy something, or even better yet, giving you something and expecting you to pay for it. This is quite uncommon, though to avoid offending anyone it is a good idea to make at least three attempts to pay. If they still refuse, you have made a friend, if they accept, I guess you have met a friend and a business man. This concept applies to everything, open a packet of biscuits and offer them around once, no takers (guaranteed, even small hungry boys), twice, no takers, three times, hungry boys only. With a final pleading attempt, your supply of cookies will be reduced to nothing in seconds. But don’t worry, your humble offer will be rewarded 10 times over when you are invited by them for lunch or dinner.
The second challenge begins once you’ve accepted their kind offer. On arrival you will carefully remove your shoes in such a manner that your socked foot will touch only the doormat and that neither your foot touches the “dirty” ground around the mat, nor that your “dirty” shoe touches the mat itself. First hurdle overcome, now you must greet the family, carefully observing how formally you are greeted by the woman, if she doesn’t look at you, don’t look at her, if this is the case (which, so far, is quite rare), she will be almost completely covered, with just her mouth, nose and eyes exposed. If she greets you with a look in the eye, she probably will have her hair and neck covered completely. Then there will be those who offer you a hand to shake, these women generally have most of their hair covered, though there forehead and neck may be exposed. So, introduction’s out of the way, time to wash your hands, for which there is a procedure too. Once located, the bathroom will almost certainly have a wet floor, to save your feet (or socks) there will for sure be a pair of cheap plastic “bathroom sandals”, usually brown or blue, neatly placed at a 45 degree angle from the door too allow the door to close and to not allow the constant bad smell to escape. Squeezing my size 45 feet part way into them is enough to waddle the half meter to the sink to wash my hands in a (at least until I’m told something else) normal manner. So, time to eat. A plastic cloth will always appear and be spread out in the centre of a Persian rug which covers the floor of the more or less unfurnished room. Wrapped within this cloth is the Iranian flat bread, its’ exact form and flavour differs from region to region. Soon after, plates of meat, rice, cooked and raw vegetables and often yogurt will appear. Sometimes non-alcoholic ‘beer’ or imitation soft drinks will appear along with water. Normally the men only will sit cross legged around the feast while the women keep to themselves in another part of the house. In some cases the women will also join.
Once the meal is finished, there will be several rounds of tea during which the second challenge comes into full swing, you must convince (mostly) yourself and them as to why you must leave, why not just stay for dinner and the night? With such great food and company, they often win. Dinner is usually served between 10 and 11, which for me is another challenge as by this hour, I’m usually more or less asleep, after dinner photos are often shown of home or Iran and there are always difficult questions about which country is best to move to. When the time (finally) comes, A heavy cotton mattress is placed on the floor in the living area and blankets and pillows are provided for sleeping. The Iranians normally sleep this way too, beds are less common though not unseen.
Far too soon, breakfast is served, again on the floor. It usually consists of bread with a range off topping such as cream, butter, soft cheese, honey and a range of (often homemade) jams. Each of these is carefully spooned onto bite sized pieces of bread in a precarious balancing act between gravity and getting the entire portion into your mouth without loosing any of it.
After at least one more tea, you finally are allowed to leave feeling happy, full and a little frustrated that you have covered so little distance on the bike. That’s the price you pay experiencing such exceptional hospitality.
Each evening you shut your eyes wondering when you will next have a chance to sleep a full nights sleep.
I am now in Tehran trying to arrange the visa for India. It looks like I will be here for a few days, but fingers crossed I will be out of here ASAP and back on the bike. Everything is calm here for now. I have left my bike in another city to avoid the mad traffic of this city, it was a good decision for sure.