Boarding the plane to Hong Kong and knowing to be back on the road soon felt really good after spending almost 3 months in Germany. Arriving back in Kunming made me instantly feel like coming home. Before I could leave the airport I was held back by the immigration police as the only one, and there had been quite a few westerners with me on the plane. I suspect the visa-extension, I had obtained last year after leaving Tibet, or perhaps they had information stored in their database about the fine and the alien travel permit which I obtained in Ali in West Tibet. After a brief check of what a cyclist carries along in his luggage and many apologies I was allowed to leave. Stepping out of the airport a minibus-driver was already waiting for me and the big cardboard box where my bikme was in. Excellent! We loaded up, hit the road, swallowed by Kunming’s crazy traffic. Back at the Cloudlands-Hostel was a big hello. After acclimatizing for a couple of days, revisiting my favourite food places I hit the road. With amazement I had to realize that, apart from having put on weight, most of my fitness was gone. But fortunately, the body seems to have some kind of memory, so, after two weeks I was again able to do the big climbs in southern Yunnan Province.

Southern Yunnan, with its huge rice-terraced slopes, interesting minority people and delicious food everywhere was an awesome place to travel. In contrast to entering the country, leaving China was just a matter of how long it takes to get the passport stamped. Crossing into Laos was easy and somewhat straightforward. Many people seem to like Laos. Laos is Backpackers heaven. And indeed, Laos is nice a nice place. The Lao people are friendly with little ambition in hassling tourists, which makes travelling easy. The climate in Laos was, the same like in Southern China – very hot. From now on my main task will be to stay properly hydrated, and to avoid the hottest time of the day. Having travelled mainly through less-touristy areas yet, Laos seemed a bit boring at first sight: everything conveniently set-up catering for both the budget- as well as the better situated tourist in need for entertainment. But my attitude towards the country grew better the further south I progressed.

Crossing the border into Cambodia was again no big deal, with the immigration staff being extraordinarily friendly and courteous. Just the guy who issued the visa asked for US$ 21 straight (the usual fee is $20), which didn’t leave any opportunity to avoid the $1 “stamp-fee, which probably went straight to his pocket. Not that I’d go broke on that dollar, but as a principle I try to avoid paying bribes or imaginary fees. A few minutes before, getting stamped out of Laos was more exciting: just when I had the immigration officer at the point where he’d got bored of the fee-extortion game and willing to let me leave without paying any extra-money, a minibus with some locals and a Swedish couple showed up. Witnessing our conversation, the Swedish guy toldme, the immigration officers listening, that this would be a legal fee, opening up his “Yellow Bible” the Lonely Planet edition “Southeast Asia on a Shoestring” showing us the respective passage. Well, no need to say how I felt about such an amount of solidarity by fellow travellers….

10 Km’s down the road, I met Stefan, a Dutch cyclist, who provided some useful details about the road ahead. The ride to Steung Treng is pretty straight forward these days with drinks available every few km’s marked by orange freezers alongside the road. Arriving in Steung Treng, I decided to have another day off (didn’t do much cycling recently), but the next day going to Kratie would be a tough one: approx. 150km, hot, headwind, sealed but rough road. I met Alain again, a 19yo. Swiss-french guy which I had previously met in Laos.

We were both quite happy about the unexpected encounter, pushing on the next 3 days to Kampong Cham. There we separated, I went south to Phnom Penh and Alain pressed on to Siem Reap. Getting closer to Phnom Penh stirred quite some excitement, having read and heard lots of wild stories about the place. After struggling the whole day on dusty dirt roads, getting sick from all the dust-intake, I finally traversed the Tonle Sap River over the Japanese Bridge and started the usual quest for decent priced accommodation. I ended up in a new guesthouse, which wasn’t open yet, but the owner was the brother of the owner of the well-running guesthouse next door and happy to make some business. It was not a real bargain though, but it was convenient for the bike and the owner had a lovely young wife, who gave me best of her attention…

Phnom Penh from what I have heard and seen so far, seems to be pretty tamed these days: no people with big guns roaming the streets, no brothel villages and no freely available ganja anymore. All kinds of NGOs and foreign investment have taken over, with masses of expats spoiling the place. The Tuol Sleng (better known as Security Prison S-21) then brought me back down to earth: finding out that under the Khmer Rouge Regime within 2 years time out of 20.000 people (men, women and children) who have been detained, severely tortured and killed, only 7 managed to get out alive, is a fact to digest.

Not to forget about the other 2 million who have died, by just being randomly killed due to suspicion of being a traitor, a spy, an enemy of the system, or simple being starved to death by malnutrition and forced labour while producing rice (!) to be exported to China in exchange for weapons. However, compared to Laos, Cambodia is still a wild place. Having had 2 (!) prime ministers for quite some time, no special permits needed to pick up work or ride any kind of motorbike, 20 people, 2 motorbikes, 3 fridges and a lot more stuff travelling on a minibus designed for 8 passengers, eating fried spiders as a substitute for vaccinations, or a fish paste made from by fish which is soaked in water for a week, before further processed…

The owner of the guesthouse seemed to be a nice guy, but became a bit annoying soon with his lack of professionalism. So when I left, he ripped me off a bit. Not badly, and probably not on purpose, rather his non existent bookkeeping skills where the reason for this. More or less it was my own fault – I shouldn’t have been so trustworthy or at least have asked for receipts. So I just accepted the facts trying to not let it spoil my day, headed downstairs, packed the bike, stole a kiss from his lovely wife and headed towards Siem Reap!

Siem Reap, with it’s gorgeous ruins of the ancient Khmer-Kingdom, better known as Angkor Wat, is the main reason why tourists are attracted to Cambodia. Fortunately it was off-season so most sites were peaceful and could be appreciated respectively. Apart from the temples, the main attraction for a cyclist was the town’s Pub-Street and not to forget the “Tell”, a Swiss German restaurant with probably the best schnitzel to be found in Southeast Asia.

Apart from the climate and the dust, which both do not suit very well to do extensive physical exercise, I could have stayed another month or two in this lovely country. But, as my visa was about to expire and I did’t feel like heading back to Phnom Penh to get an extension I had to say good-bye and leave for the final leg: a 160km-stretch of dusty, corrugated dirt road to Poipet, the border town to Thailand. Quite a few people told me horror stories about the condition of the road, as well as the border itself. As for the road condition, I am not on a bus or pickup truck so I can take it easy. As for the dodgy character of the border: Central Asia had been a good training. The road was tougher then expected but the border was piece of cake: after I started queuing with the rest, an official made me advance the line of backpackers to get my passport stamped! These are the times when I strongly realize that cyclists and backpackers are different species… After the exit stamp was in my passport, I rolled over to Thailand, my 21st country.

I left Guiyang following the motorway. Unless there are alternative roads, taking the motorway with a bicycle is legal in China. I didn’t know wether there was another road nor how to find it, so I just continued and was rewarded with a nice 140km ride on perfectly smooth tarmac, little traffic and moderate climbs. Passing the ‘Dragon’s Backbone’, the rice terraces of Longshen, the first part of my ride that day took me along the banks of a stunning river in the direction of Guilin. Guilin, biggest city of Guangxi province, is well known for it’s surrounding environment, unreal-looking limestone rock formations, grottos and the Li River. Oringially, my plan was to cruise down to Yangshuo on the Li River, while taking my bike to avoid backtracking.

After checking into the Youth hostel, I went to check opportunities with the travel agent downstairs. The girl in the travel agents office was a real cutie and quite supportive, but didn’t fuel my aspirations in terms of taking the bike with me. Believing that there would be some kind of jetty along the river flowing through Guilin, I soon found out that the jetty was quite a bit out of town and tourists are taken there by transfer bus. She told me that the busses would not be designed to accept large pieces of luggage like a bicycle so I left to think it over and decided that it would be time to have some dinner. I went outside and had a seat in front of one of the restaurants which were located in the back alley. Shortly after I had ordered, a young Chinese woman with a tall German looking guy came along. They where obviously looking for a place to eat, so I made eye contact and offered them a seat at my table. It turned out that he was German indeed, and she herself a medical doctor from Guilin, now living in Germany. We ordered some food and started the usual traveller chit-chat. The good thing: they more or less told me straight away that they were also planning to do the cruise, were about to hire a boat and were looking for people to join in to cut down on expenses. The deal sounded ok moneywise, so I decided to skip my original plan and joined in.

But, was I at first relieved for her commitment to get us a good deal, it soon started to become a bit annoying. Haggling with the travel agent on the phone all the time and being constantly suspicious about him and the deal was quite tedious. The cruise itself was worthwhile, but turned out to be shorter then usual. It was wintertime, so the river didn’t carry enough water, which made it impossible to float down all the way to Yangshuo. It also caused a bottleneck at one of the river bends and led to a traffic jam of cruise boats!

After a transfer bus had taken us in town, we had a stroll around, but Yangshuo these days is nothing but another tourist trap, packed with Americans, western junk food everywhere, stalls selling cheap overpriced crap, prostitution, petty crime and every second place had Lonely Planet recommendation adverts attached. I don’t have a clue why people spend big money travel to places like this on purpose. Honestly. Without question, the scenery is nice, but for my taste I enjoy the less spoiled, but more authentic places. In the evening we took a local bus back to Guilin, the next day I left, rode my bike to Yangshuo again. Not because I had changed my mind, but it simple was en route to Hong Kong. Getting to HKG was still an effort, and I had to make it to the megalopolis of Guangzhou first.

After a few days I met the Pearl river which I followed, and once again, I had managed to safely make my way into a mega city without maps and getting lost. Guangzhou, better known to westerners by its other name, Canton, and the Pearl River Delta is an acknowledged economical hotspot. From Macau in the south, all along the bay to Shenzhen and the Special Administration Region of Hong Kong is one big industrial area with a population of 15 million people. To know what that means, one should walk the shopping streets of Guangzhou at any time of the day. After relaxing and hanging out there for a couple of days with some English expats at the local youth hostel, I left for the final leg to Hong Kong. The somewhat surreal ride led me through approx. 150kms of industrial suburbs. I arrived in Macau at noon the next day, but decided to skip it and advance to Hong Kong straight away.

Reaching Kowloon after nightfall, I found Nathan Road and the notorious Chunking Mansions, but decided to deserve some luxury. So I checked in to a place of the slightly more upmarket Mirador Mansions. The owner was a bit greedy though – everybody in Hong Kong is – but in the end we found an agreement and both of us were happy.

Hong Kong is all about making money. Which means the centre is quite busy, packed with people, heavy traffic, and literally one huge shopping mall. Usually, I would find places like these very annoying. But Hong Kong is an exception. Hong Kong’s different. It’s like an organism: alive, pulsating and it never sleeps. And then there are the notorious Chunking Mansions on Nathan Road: a micro cosmos of shops, restaurants, hotels and exchange booths mostly run by Indians and Pakistanis. Many people would consider this place to be a bit dodgy. Personally, I just love it. One of the downsides of Hong Kong is its restrictedness. Everywhere one can spot signs letting one know what is not allowed to do along with the maximum penalty in case of violation. Still, I found the mood a great deal less oppressive than in my home country.

Unfortunately I have to suspend my trip soon and go back home for a while. Hopefully it won’t be for too long…

Northwest Yunnan was spectacular with its authentic Tibetan culture, gorgeous views and friendly people. But also, there was a big presence of package tourists, Chinese and international due to relative ease of accessibility of the region. Reaching the town of Zhongdian, better known as Shangri-La, was another milestone: being back to “civilisation”, and the first and best place to obtain the desperately needed visa extension. After I had found the PSB Office, I managed to get another two months on the spot without hassles. I also got my camera repaired. Mr.G, the manager of the place where I stayed, had a look at it, fiddled about a bit when suddenly it seemed to work again. I had done the same, spending ages to get it going, unfortunately without success. Apart from that it felt good to enjoy the company of fellow-cyclists and of course, a wider variety of food than instant noodles and tsampa.

From Shangri-La I took a back road leading to the northern end of the Tiger Leaping Gorge. I went through the TLG, and headed straight for Dali, deciding to skip Lijiang. There were several reasons, but the main reasons probably were that I needed a break to digest my experiences and that I was missing a goal, now that with reaching Shangri-La the great Tibet adventure was over. Dali Old Town was a pretty touristy place as I expected it to be, I didn’t feel like staying there, so I decided to head straight for Kunming. Later on in Kunming I heard lot’s of good stories about hanging out in Dali, so I kind of regret to not have stayed there. Anyway.

Naïve as I was, after mastering the big climbs in Tibet I expected the stretch to Kunming moe or less to be like cruising. In reality it was more strenuous than most of the cycling in Tibet. In Tibet I knew what to expect from the road ahead, being rewarded with great views most of the time, here it was going up and down steep hills, no good views, and quite often lots of air pollution caused by the heavy traffic. In addition, the days have become mostly grey and rainy, so reaching Kunming and having a break was again a big relief.

Kunming a.k.a Spring City due to its elevation of 2000m (6500ft) above sea level, charmed with international and slightly French flair. And, I’ve been told there was supposed to be a decent bike shop in town because I desperately needed a new chain. To find a certain bike-shop in a city with a population of 5 Mio is not an easy task, but at least I had the name of the shop and knew that it would be well stocked. I managed to find it, bought a new chain and replaced the old one. Unfortunately I had sent the sprocket removal tool home when going crazy about saving weight for the Tibet leg in Kashgar. Therefore I couldn’t flip it and had to file the worn-out teeth in place for working together with the new chain. In the beginning it worked reluctantly, but after a few hundred kms the moving parts had re-adjusted to each other. All parts did, except for the chain ring up front. The chain ring which I flipped was actually not meant to, despite the mechanical possibility, but when climbing up hills I was accompanied by a squealing sound which didn’t vanish and was quite annoying. Kunming will probably also remain in my memory as the town with the cheapest hair styling service ever. I couldn’t resists when I saw the shop’s advert of a special hair cutting service offer for the equivalent of 0,70€! I walked in, not expecting much, but was treated to a nice haircut, beard trim and my hair washed 3 times accompanied by a head massage each time!

After staying for about a week in Kunming I left for the Shilin, a place with bizarre geological rock formations and one of greater Kunming’s main attractions. But, as usual in China, the Chinese tend to make such places some kind of “Disneyland”, catering for the package-tourists. Problem with that is, that the atmosphere is almost completely taken away from the place and, in comparison with the average Chinese income, ridiculously high admissions are being charged. On the other hand, I sort of find this typical chinese peculiarity fascinating in a bizarre way.

So I continued on to Guiyang, another Chinese metropolis. The ride to Guiyang was even tougher then before to Kunming. It was even more a struggle – short days, grey and rainy and many long, steep climbs had a strong impact on my emotional well-being. Additionally camping was next to impossible, so I had to cover certain distances every day to reach a place with a hotel. On the other side, people have been surprisingly friendly, which was compensating a bit for the depressed mood I was in. Cycling into big places like Guiyang is always a bit of a headache – but thanks to the good descriptions of some locals this time, I found the hostel on the first attempt! Guiyang itself amazed me in a different way.

It’s a city with not much of interest for the average tourist. And, relevant for me and quite remarkable for a place of this size, Guiyang doesn’t have any McDonald’s restaurants, only KFC’s. It might not be politically correct, to admit supporting exploitative junk food places like this, especially the icon of this industry, but, who’s responsible for their success then anyway? I admit, I do have a craving for junk food at times, and yes I like McDonalds, I even prefer it over all the other stuff to be found out there. Ok, back to Guiyang. Walking the streets of Guiyang being perhaps the only “long-nose” in a city with a population 1.7 Mio, one can experience a rare kthing which can still be had in a lot of places off the beaten track in China: EVERYBODY will turn heads to catch a glimpse of this “Laowei” – Perhaps because most of them only know westerners from Television and haven’t seen one in real life! Isn’t that an awesome experience, feeling completely alien? Next destination will be Guilin, so stay tuned…

I had planned to stay five days or so but in the end left Lhasa after almost two weeks. I had caught a cold with a strong cough and cycling without being well didn’t sound like a good idea. The cough was persistent, though after a couple of days when I felt fit enough I decided that there was no point in hanging out for another week, so I hit the road hoping it would vanish with some exercise. Lhasa is a great place to hangout and I could have easily stayed for another month or two, but the winter was approaching and my visa was about to expire – and try was no way to get an extension in Tibet. So I left on the 2nd of October. The first part of the road was flat, and then climbed steadily up the Mila La to an altitude of about 5010m (16450ft).

A long descend followed which lasted for some hundred km’s until the road climbed up the 2nd pass behind the town of Bayi, a newly built Chinese town, and best avoided because of potential trouble with the PSB. In general the scenery in Eastern Tibet is completely different from the west, green and lots of trees, somewhat like in Scandinavia. From Serkhyim La, the 2nd pass, the road dropped down from about 4500m (14800ft) to less than 2000m (6560ft) into the Brahmaputra valley. Further up one could see settlements that could be mistaken for ones in Switzerland, Austria or Bavaria. It was quite humid and in some parts there was a serious problem with leeches in the underwood when leaving the road. I didn’t have any, I had been warned and passed this area within a day anyway. What followed was a long climb up to the 3rd pass, Ngajuk La, again almost 4500m (14800ft). In the next town, Baxoi, I slept the first time in a hotel since I left Lhasa.

This was due to the special circumstances that accompany travelling in Tibet: officially it’s illegal to travel individually or without a travel permit, which individuals can’t get for Eastern Tibet anyway. And because of this I didn’t want to get in trouble with the PSB until I had made it at least half the way to Yunnan-Province. I have chosen to camp whenever possible (I usually prefer camping over paid accommodation anyway). From Baxoi the road dropped again into the valley of another big stream: the Salween River. From here, it was a climb of about 2000 vertical meters (6560ft) on unsealed road up to my favourite pass, the Game La.

It was a long tough climb, and further up there was no place so crash safely, so I pushed on. At 9pm, it was already dark for at least an hour, I had finally managed to reach top, immediately pitched the tent and fell asleep without having dinner. The next morning began with a downhill on tarmac to the town of Zhogang. What I had expected to be an easy day turned out to be more strenuous than climbing the pass the day before: lots of road construction, annoying kids who regarded me as some kind of entertainment, and headwind. Worst of all, I dropped my camera which made the lens stuck, so I couldn’t take any pictures any more. That sucked pretty much!

When arriving in Zhogang I was pretty exhausted and therefore didn’t care about the PSB. I checked in a quite expensive hotel (the only one) to relax for a few hours – there was no suitable camp spot before Zhogang anyway. After I had checked out the room, I saw police down in the backyard… I thought… and yes I was right, they came for me! The receptionist approached me and took me down to meet them. They demanded to see my passport and started asking questions which was funny because I still didn’t speak Chinese apart from numbers and they didn’t speak much English. Furthermore, the receptionist also spoke only very little english. I told them that I was going to Yunnan, but it seemed, that they were not PSB interested in my illegal status, but just ordinary police satisfying their curiosity.

In the morning after I had left the hotel and bought some supplies I was greeted by headwind and another 5000m+ pass on unsealed road was waiting for me. This time it was quite a struggle, but once I had made it, I was amazed once again, how far one can push oneself if the mind is adjusted in the right way! As tmy camera was broken, I didn’t bother remaining on the chilly top for long and went downhill as fast as possible (actually pretty slow…) to reach some warmer regions. I didn’t like to stay in any of the villages I passed through, so I camped a few hundred meters behind a small village on a harvested field. The next morning the day started with another climb, but this time a minor one. On the other side the road dropped down into the Mekong Valley with some gorgeous views!

Down at the shores of the Mekong a small town with the barrier across the road. Pushing my bike I ducked underneath and was greeted by a friendly policeman. In the shops I bought some supplies and decided to have lunch in the restaurant, when a mixed group of Chinese and Tibetans invited me. This was quite interesting because it had never happened to me before that I was invited by locals in China, and also because I had never before seen Tibetans and Chinese who were obviously friends or at least didn’t mind each others company! After I was finished with lunch and just about to continue, an older Chinese guy walked up to me gesturing that there would be some cyclists staying at a somewhat camp site further down the road. It turned out that it was Patrick and Sophie from Holland, and the place they stayed was something I would have never expected to find in this area: a nice park with shady trees, perfectly well kept lawn and even a swimming pool – I am pretty sure that there’s no other place like this in Tibet!

Two cyclists, nice locals and a perfect camp spot – it was not difficult to call it a day. But Patrick and Sophie had to leave the next day and I crossed the Mekong, followed by another long climb up a double pass which ultimately lead to the town of Gartog/Markham, a key location for every Tibet traveller. Having heard lots of stories of people travelling in the other direction, who where visited by the PSB in the middle of the night, interrogated, fined and sent back to where they came or worse, been deported, I was excited how this town would be. For me, as I only had two cycling days left to cross the provincial border into Yunnan Province, and with it being legal again, there was no need for them to cause me major trouble. On the other hand, I wouldn’t have liked to pay a fine, now that I almost made it without any trouble. After I had found a cheap hotel I went for a stroll around town. At a corner, I was trying to decide where to go next, I was stopped by the police! They demanded to see my passport, and after handing it out, the officer browsed the pages with a serious, expressionless face. Then, one of them who spoke a little English, explained that they would like me to be their guest and to have diner with them! A basic conversation developed when the head of the Police even wanted to host me at his house for the night!

After Markham the road led through some villages populated with people kids and adults sporting strange behaviour. Approaching them, they smiled but once one had passed them, stones were hailed. It didn’t happen to me, but later on I met cyclists who experienced this. The only strange experience I made was a little kid throwing his big plastic toy truck right in front of my bike when moving. What for? To raise attention? To do me harm? I don’t know, these are the moments when I deeply regret that I’m not able to speak their language. In the afternoon I climbed the final pass on Tibetan soil. From halfway up it was all road construction, which, as a cyclist I doesn’t bother me much, I can’t go faster uphill anyway. The, when I reached the top, I was greeted with gale-force winds. I descended a bit and the wind was gone. Soon after, I found a nice camp spot with a beautiful view on the snow-capped peaks of the Meili-range. The next morning was downhill through 40km of road construction, until I finally crossed the provincial border of Yunnan. I was really annoyed a great deal that my camera didn’t work any more. The scenery was just spectacular. The Mekong and big mountains with huge glaciers which sometimes appeared as close as if one could touch them when reaching out with one’s hand. From here I had three more passes to go to reach Zhongdian, the place where I could get the desperately needed visa-extension – a big triple pass and 2 minors, with 50km of downhill down to the banks of the Yangtze River inbetween.

I reached Lhasa on Sept 19. We left Kashgar as a group of four: the Catalans Imma & Pep, me and Joe from Switzerland. On the 2nd day out of Kashgar a few km’s down the road from Yarkand, we Claude, the Yakman. The perfect time for a break to hang out with this bike-celebrity. The usual bike-traveller chit-chat started and when the topic came to broken rims, I mentioned that my back wheel was behaving funny since Tajikistan. Claude mentioned that he had cracked several rims on his seven year Round the world trip, so we had a closer look and discovered a crack on the rim’s braking surface. I removed tyre, inner tube and rim tape to find out that there was another crack inside in the middle of the rim underneath the rim tape, covering the distance of 5 spoke holes! I didn’t like the idea of backtracking to Kashgar, but it was too close and had a fairly well stocked bike shop. The next place with a slight chance to buy a decent rim would be Lhasa, about 2000km away. It would be questionable if the broken rim would last, especially as the road ahead would be one of the worst to be found on this planet.

So I spent the night in Yarkand and took a bus to Kashgar and paid another visit to the Giant bike shop the next day. Unfortunately, they didn’t have any rims strong enough as I would have liked them to be, so I had to improvise: I rebuild both of my wheels, using the former front rim now in the back wheel and the new rim in the front wheel. There is less stress on the front wheel, so it doesn’t need to be as strong as the back wheel. Fortunately the Spoke length was compatible to the new rim and, as it was Saturday afternoon, and the staff had not been too busy, I could use the shop’s truing stand. After 4 hours I was finished and went to the hotel. The next day I caught a bus back to Yarkand and hit the road towards Yecheng (Karghilik), the town from where Highway 219, the notorious Xinjiang-Tibet Highway started…

2 days cycling equals 200km’s at best, but rather less. That was the distance I had to compensate to catch up with the other guys. The Tarmac ended after 100kms, from now on it was mostly gravel road. I met a Chinese mountain biker which I had already seen and tried to talk to in Yarkand, but he didn’t speak any English. It happened that we cycled together with for a few days, but it was difficult. Communication was an issue. Another issue was his equipment and his attitude: he was carrying camping gear only for emergency cases, and was not really keen on camping. There are dormitories available in towns along the way and road worker stations in between, but I didn’t like to stay in those places. Partly because they were filthy, partly because I had to pay for something which I otherwise could have had for free. Why? First, camping doesn’t cost anything, second, The locals were Uigurs and naturally they didn’t like their occupiers. They have to cooperate, but certainly they don’t have to like them and host them for free. Additionally I wanted to avoid staying in places because of the PSB. Foreign visitors, need a special travel permit to travel in certain regions of China, but these are usually only available to groups because of the Chinese tourism polices. I also did not want to plan my days in terms of having to reach a certain place at a certain time or stay in a place if I feel like moving further on a bit.

In Dahongliutan, last town before the Aksai Chin Plateau, I met the others again. They were staying at the local road workers settlement, in their own room, given to them by the friendly Uigur roadworkers. I joined them, my Chinese friend decided to stay at a Han-Chinese place. When travelling in China, one has to remember, that only a small part of the country is ethnically Han Chinese (the “real” Chinese), whereas large parts have been and still are populated with Muslims, Tibetans and minority peoples. The government encourages Han Chinese people to settle in other parts of the country, but that doesn’t mean the locals have much sympathy for them, as I mentioned before. The next day we headed for the Aksai Chin Plateau, a high plateau, which doesn’t drop below 4800m (approx. 15800ft) for a distance of 120kms. Imma and Pep speeded off, me and Joe took it easier and the Chinese guy decided to chase all of us.

He caught up and passed us when we were having lunch break, pushing up the pass as he always did since I met him. The next day Imma & Pep left early and we didn’t see them until we reached Darchen, the gateway town to Mt Kailash. The Chinese guy also headed off before us, we didn’t see him until we reached the town of Domar. When Joe and I reached Ali, it felt great to be back to civilization and to enjoy such things as taking hot showers, eating tasty food and sleeping in a comfortable bed. The next day we went to the PSB to obtain an “Alien Travel Permit”, allowing us to travel Tibet legally, otherwise we would be exposed to all kinds of risks like getting fined or even sent back, which would mean we would have to bypass checkpoints if possible or dodge them at night if bypassing would not be possible.

After a rest day we took off heading further in the direction of Darchen/Mt Kailash. Mt. Kailash is considered the holiest place for four major religions, including Buddhism, Hinduism, Jainism and the pre-Buddhist Bön religion. The mountain is circumnavigated in a so called Kora, with the most faithful prostrating themselves the entire distance of 54kms and over a 5660m (18600ft) pass. We did the Kora in 2 days. Ordinary trekking tourists usually take 3 days, Tibetans, except for the ones prostrating themselves, 1 day, because they can’t afford accommodation. Extensive cycling doesn’t necessarily mean one is doing equally well in walking, so we left Darchen after a desperately needed rest day.

A little later we met Imma & Pep again, together with a couple from Tasmania. Perhaps I was pushing it a bit as I was dreaming of crossing the entire width of Tibet on my three-month visa, but 3 days later Joe told me he wanted to continue solo. We had got along really well on a personal level, but he was slower than me (in my eyes) carrying a lot of unnecessary items, which slowed him down a bit. Well, we were both sad to say good-bye, but did it in a respectful way. At least it wasn’t a personal issue apart from the desire to be on one’s own. So I caught up with the Tassies and cycled with them for a few days, but travelling with couples is always a bit difficult and they were pushing it even more than me.

So I let go. 4 days after the town of Saga I reached the Friendship Highway at Chawu and finally tarmac again, all the way to Lhasa! Now that Lhasa was so close and aspirations to reach this place and with it the amenities of civilisation had grown stronger, I pushed it even more and cycled the remaining 450kms in 3,5 days, when I finally got to see the famous landmark of the Potala Palace!

As a summary, cycling the western Tibet Highway was an awesome experience! Some of the highest road-passes in the world, remoteness, unique people, blue skies and mostly bad roads – a challenge for mind and body, but a place I am dreaming to go to back to ever since!

The rest of the ride through Uzbekistan passed without any particular events. Most of it was through shadeless desert, except for the occasional caikhana. But once in a caikhana, I couldn’t really enjoy it. As soon as I arrived at place, I was besieged by curious locals. The problem with them wasn’t their curiosity in the first place, but rather that everybody approached me individually with the same set of questions, making me feel like an answering machine. So. Most of the time I got fed up with it and preferred the heat of the desert of the shade…

Samarqand: after I had killed almost a week’s time, I headed for the Tajik border. Before I came to Samarqand I had already been to the ancient Silk Road towns of Chiva and Bukhara, which I altogether found a bit disappointing. Regarding tourism, Uzbekistan is fully developed, with the respective price differential and the corresponding attitude local people tend to develop towards big buck spending package tourists: the foreigner is looked upon as something like a travelling purse.

To give an example what I’m talking about: in Bukhara I happened to have the luck of a grocery store conveniently located next to my guesthouse, which itself was located fairly central. The particular feature of this grocery store was that price tags were used, something rather unusual in this part of the world. So when I went in there for the first time, I was asked about 1/3 more than what I had calculated. “Hey hold on pal, I had calculated a different price…” – so we went through the prices of every single item with a calculator, and: “Oh sorry, sorry, mister…” did he excuse himself and charged me the correct amount. OK, no big deal so far. The next day I went to the shop again, same game, different cashier, same story. OK, probably they all lack a bit of education, no worries. But when the same game started the third time as well, so I began to wonder if they were doing this on purpose… Another example. Me, a girl from the US and a guy from Argentina went to restaurant in Samarqand. They ordered a good deal of meat, I wasn’t very hungry and ordered something cheap. Then when we asked for the bill, the bill was significantly higher than what we had calculated according to the menu.

When we asked the waiter where the difference came from, he told us, it would be the loaf of bread that we had ordered a little later (without asking for the price). Well, that was probably the most expensive loaf of bread each of us ever had! Well although it was a bit of an ego-thing, I had learnt another lesson. But, it would also be a bit unfair to blame people for acting without giving it any thought. Apart from tourism, there is almost no work available since the collapse of the USSR, on the other hand most tourists are also responsible for provoking this behaviour. Most of them come here with their western attitude and concept of morality, throwing around big bucks, which often goes without the slightest relation to the average local income. No wonder that the impression builds up that all tourists are rich and don’t care getting ripped off.

Departing Uzbekistan then was quite exciting. Let’s think back for a second: on entry I didn’t declare most of my cash and now I had to convince the customs officials that I lived from ten Dollars the last month. That didn’t sound very realistic to me, so I had made up the idea to give a reasonable amount and explain it with the story that I had some money withdrawn from a teller in Tashkent, but the machine would not have given me a receipt.

I had written off the money for the worst case, but was hoping that they would not search me and my stuff and find the rest. After I had filled in the form I queued for the counter, thinking of something nice to calm myself down a bit. Finally it was my turn. The customs official checked the forms and of course did he find the irregularities. I tried to explain, but he just mentioned something in Russian along with some gestures which I interpreted as: “fill in the same amount as stated on the other form.” Quite nervous, I went back to the desk, filled in another form and after he had checked it again, he filed the two sheets and allowed me to advance to obtain the exit-stamp. Fair enough, but I only made it half way yet, because my Tajik visa did not entitle me to enter the country before the next day. I still wanted to give it a try – I had to anyway, and I counted on the fact that border guards in such countries do not like it much to have foreign witnesses lingering around. The Tajik border post looked something like a mixture of a scrap yard and a bazaar.

Whereas in Uzbekistan there was a proper, official looking customs building, on the Tajik side, there were only some simple rusty military containers and shanties made from corrugated tin sheets. Although there were quite a few people around, I couldn’t make out any apparent hierarchy. I was standing there having a look around to find out where to address first, when a well-nurtured Tajik bloke with precisely trimmed moustache approached me and asked me to follow him. I liked his outfit immediately: he wore a camouflage suit with corresponding cap and a pair of shiny black slippers. Immediately the proverb “Always be careful with fat men in thin countries” came to my mind. I followed him into his box. In the corridor had been some Tajik women dressed in traditional outfit. When he passed them, each one of them gave him some cash. Once in his office, he had a seat and asked me if I had filled in a customs declaration form on the other side. I said yes, and made clear that I also wanted to fill in one here. He opened the drawer, took one out and, suddenly, asked for 5 Dollars – for the “Velociped”. I replied in German that I would not speak any Russian, and why I would need to pay for the bike. He started filling in, asking me for other valuables such as a camera, and mentioned the five Dollars again.

In the meantime a friend of his had entered the room. At least one could have assumed it by the way they greeted each other. How their relationship was really like became clear to me by their firm handshake and the customs official’s right hand vanishing in his pocket for getting out the stamp. After his “friend” had left, he asked me once more for five Dollars, presenting the entry stamp in his right hand. I told him that I would not have 5 Dollars, but only 2000Som (equivalent of 1,20Dollar) left. He accepted, probably assuming that they would be Kyrgyz Som which are of higher value. Then he stamped my passport and I was in. The same day I made it to Penzikent, where I stayed for the night at the Intourist Hotel. I had chosen this one for two reasons: first, because I liked Soviet baroque, and second, because this Hotel was the only one entitled to perform registrations, which would eventually come in handy. In contrast to its neighbours where compulsory registration is nowadays handled sloppier, it’s still handled rigidly in Tajikistan. Violating the registration could mean a nice extra income for the respective official, but at least some serious trouble which could be easily avoided, or at least the chance of having to pay a fine of up to 500 Dollars could be decreased significantly by being able to present just any kind of registration form. In any way, the official rules are that one has to register initially 3 days after entry latest, and if staying in a place with an OVIR office (the respective registration authority) for more than 3 days reregistering again every time.

The initial registration normally costs 25 Dollars with each additional registration usually being free, but no rule without exceptions. Apart from the OVIR all major hotels are entitled to perform registrations, but in some places this won’t be acknowledged due to reasons given above. Anyway, the cardinal problem was that additionally to the fair distance which I could easily make within two days on average terrain, I had to cross the Anzob Pass, which had an elevation of roughly 3800m and therefore would not make it to Dushanbe within three days and there wouldn’t be any other place in between where I could get the registration done. After arrival in Dushanbe, I checked into the Hotel Dushanbe, a left-over from the prime-age of Soviet Socialism for ten Dollars a night. All other options had either been more expensive or not available. My next task was to find Iqbals office to collect the GBAO permit, which I needed to travel the Pamir Highway. I had already checked arranged it several weeks ago, so once I had found his office, it surprisingly didn’t take long.

Dushanbe itself is a rather quiet place. Which doesn’t mean it would be boring – at least not to me. Cyclists, in contrast to people travelling by public transport, usually travel in between places, so a major place like Dushanbe is always an oasis of relaxation and culinary joys. A few days later and after I had let the hotel doing the registration for me because it was a good deal cheaper and less hassle, I hit the road. One of the greatest highlights on this trip was waiting for me and I had dreamed of cycling this part of the world since I first heard of and saw pictures of it several years ago.

I took the road via Obigarm and Komsomolabad to Kalaikhum, from where the road leads through a deep gorge with spectacular views to Chorog, mostly hugging the banks of the Pyanj River, the border stream with Afghanistan. Form Chorog the road climbs up to a plateau with an elevation of 3800-4000m, with the Ak-Baital Pass at 4655m as the highest point, passing the towns of Alichur and Murghab before, Karakul and the Karakul Lake after the pass.

2 more passes had to be mastered between Karakul and the Tajik border post with some gale force winds in the valley, when me and three other cyclists whom I had met before Karakul decided to pitch tents and call it a day already in the early afternoon.
After the Tajik border post the road dropped down into a wide valley towards the Kyrgyz border post and on to Sary-Tash with great views on Pik Lenin. The strain of high altitude cycling and the shortage of decent food made me ache to reach Kashgar. Perhaps to every cyclist who is cycling this part of the world Kashgar is something like the land of plenty. An oasis it indeed is and a bustling place with a variety of fresh and tasty food available as a break from the ole instant noodle diet. 3 days later I had made it and together with some fellow cyclists we enjoyed it for a couple of days doing nothing but eating 5 meals and several snacks of ice cream sundaes a day …

Aqtau, the next morning. I had to find a cheap room. If looked at closely, Aqtau is quite a bizarre place. The town doesn’t have a well or any other water supply except for a desalination plant, powered by a nuclear power plant which also supplies the town with electricity. Apart from that, Aqtau holds next to nothing of interest for the average tourist. There are few hotels relicts of the old soviet days, which is perhaps an explanation for the astronomical prices. Finally, with some local assistance I found a place. It was located in a communist-style, prefabricated concrete block, where one had left the flat-structure intact, simply the locks to the rooms inside the flats had been individualized. Good for me, so I had the benefit of a fridge and a nice balcony overlooking the promenade. Next task was to find the Irish Pub. Not to have an overpriced Guinness, but to get a map of the Mangystau Peninsula from the book store next door. There was a dense grid of roads and tracks around Aqtau mostly to reach the industrial sites, so it would come in handy when leaving Aqtau.

Once I would be on the right track to Beyneu there won’t be much need for it, except for comforting oneself. After I had found a suitable one, I headed for the supermarket to get some supplies. After I had allowed myself another day for mental adjustment as a preparation for the leg lying ahead of me, I hit the road. 9 o’clock in the morning and it was already quite warm. At noon I felt like I was cycling in a baking oven, with the sun burning mercilessly and the hot headwind drying me out. A long break in the shade would have been nice, unfortunately there was none. There was nothing but treeless steppe around me, with occasional caikhanas, Truckstops which I shall learn to appreciate soon. 3 days later, I reached Say-Utes in the morning, a place which marks the beginning of a 100km stretch of bad road and without water supply. In spring, with bearable temperatures and therefore the amount of water needed far less, now in summer it is quite a logistic challenge to carry 15L of it. But apart from being the last place before this stretch, Say-Utes also has a haunting side.

Back in the old days of the cold war, there was a nuclear test site not far from here, which is up to the present day considered to be problematic especially because of the careless handling of nuclear waste. After taking a few pictures with some guests of the caikhana, I took off. My strategy was to go slow and steadily, trying to sweat as less as possible besides that, there was not much I could do. 2 hours later, when struggling to cycle on the very right edge of the road, I saw a car passing me on the right off the road. It seemed that there were rideable secondary roads! I had to check them out – and was surprised that I made far better progress than on the main road! Despite this I still didn’t make it to the next roadhouse until the next morning, literally on the last drop of water. From here, distances between roadhouses wouldn’t be that big any more, and in 50kms there would even be tarmac again.

From Beyneu, I had planned to head for Uzbekistan. I had heard of a minor border crossing which I reached in the late afternoon after a desperately needed rest day in Beyneu. There were young blokes wearing camouflage seemingly bored all over the place, and somehow it was not straight forward who the emigration process was taking place. I stood there a bit disoriented, when I guy in uniform called me to come to his place, whereupon another guy mentioned to him something like to mind his own business, and to me, to follow him. I received my stamp, then he wanted to take my bike for a test ride. I approved it, and after he was done the toll-gate opened. In front of the Uzbekan checkpoint was a long queue of trucks waiting. It seemed like I had arrived outside the service hours or this was a method of extorting baksheesh. I pushed my bike up to the toll-gate, and called for attention. I don’t know the reason why, but they processed me.

I had to fill in a customs declaration form and had been asked a set of questions. I decided to declare only the Kazakh money I had left, as I didn’t want to get out all my funds because I feared a “counting attempt”, which I was trying to avoid. But that had a downside. The downside was that every policeman in Uzbekistan was officially entitled to body-search and to confiscate all funds and valuables which had not been stated on the customs declaration form. Apart from the danger of getting body searched again and taken away money this would give me a headache when leaving the country as I had to fill in another declaration form. But for the moment I was in, and would take care of this later. In the meantime the sun had set quite a bit. 20-25km was supposed to be a town with a railway station. I had made it a personal rule to not take advantage of public transport but to cycle whenever possible. But now, there was a stretch of 400kms or at least 3-4 days of bad road with unknown means of water supply lying ahead. It was a tough decision. As it was getting dark soon and I needed a place to sleep, I decided to delay this decision and head for the town of Karakalpakiya which after a while could see in the distance. After I had come closer I couldn’t make out a road leading in town or a sign pointing in its direction.

All there was was a bunch of tracks leading nowhere. It took me about 2 hours and several attempt till I managed to make the remaining 2-3 kms in town. Apart from a bunch of teenagers, which immediately started to hassle me, the town looked extinct. I asked for the train and have been told that I just missed it by a few minutes. That was very unfortunate, as the town was only frequented by 1 train a day in each direction. That meant I had to wait for almost another 24 hours. The solution to this problem appeared right away in the form of a couple of traditionally dressed older Uzbeks with caps and white goatees, who suggested to hitch a ride with them on the freight train in front of them. This train would only go as far as the town of Kungirot, but from there it would be tarmac and more important, no shortage of water. Before I had time to think it over I found myself sitting on the floor of the wooden train carriage with 4 Uzbeks, rumbling through the night. Some time later, perhaps 2 hours had passed, the train started to slow down and the others started to became hectic. They pointed out to me that, because I couldn’t jump off with the bike, I should stay in the corner of the carriage and remain silent. Well I don’t have to mention that I didn’t like the idea to be left behind in the middle of nowhere, but what else could I’ve done? After a while I saw a spot coming towards me. Obviously the train was being checked.

I was detected and taken to the stationmaster’s office. I tried to explain myself to him when suddenly a young Uzbek guy who was with me on the train appeared and explained the situation to the stationmaster. Half-heartedly the stationmaster wrote down my passport number and mentioned that we were ok to leave. My young Uzbek friend told me to go back to the carriage and to remain there. After another few minutes I saw another spot coming towards me. This time it was the local head of the police and he didn’t seem like somebody to f@!k with. He demanded my passport, yelling a set of questions at me. In situations like this one it is best to not speak any of the languages my opponent was likely to speak, so I gave him my friendliest smile, telling him with a relaxed voice in German, that I wouldn’t speak any Russian. This made him even more angry. Then suddenly, my Uzbek friend appeared again. It seemed to me that they knew each other, but still the Policeman demanded his passport. Then it was him being yelled at. The whole situation went on for a couple of minutes until suddenly the train started to move. Still talking German, I made signs to get my bike off the train. The Policemen ordered me to stop, when I then said, ok, then I hop on the train.

Again he ordered me to stop. Obviously he didn’t know what to do. Continue interrogating me and hopefully extort some baksheesh, or, eventually finding out that I wouldn’t have anything of value on me, and having to do paperwork. He decided to let go. He handed me my passport and with a “Daweij, daweij” allowed me to leave. But he still had my new Uzbek friend’s passport and had him beg to give it back and not causing trouble to him. Then he also let him go. We ran for our carriage, jumped in and rumbled through the desert for the rest of the night until we reached Kungirot the next morning. After the train had stopped, my friend helped me to get the bike off the carriage. It was a drop of about 1,20m, not easy to lift a fully loaded bike of about 50Kgs weight off this height. We managed to leave the railway compound unseen where we parted, after he had asked me for a sip of water from my bottles. Anything else he refused. The rest of the ride through Uzbekistan led me to via Nukus and Chiva to the ancient Silk Road towns of Bukhara and Samarqand. Originally I had intended to visit the Aral Lake, but I didn’t have any Uzbek money and first had to go to Nukus to find a bank and to have a rest. To see the beached ships I was hoping to meet a tour group in Nukus which I could join. I met one indeed, but they had already been there and told me that it would have been ok, but a lot of the ships would be dismantled these days and the metal taken to China. Had I guessed that I would be sitting in Samarqand for a week waiting out the start date of my Tajik visa, I would have gone there anyway.

Taking a ferry across the Caspian Sea turned out to be one oft the greatest headaches so far – ’cause this is not an ordinary one. Actually it is not even a ferry – it’s a cargo vessel for big trucks and train carriages with some more or less unofficial passenger facilities where basically the staff is sharing their cabins for a little mite, usually 10 USD. To successfully catch the boat several tasks have to be mastered. First, one has to find the ticket office. Second, one has to find out when it is open. Third, and now it’s becomes more interesting, one has to find out about the schedules of the boat. Fourth, one has to manage to buy a ticket and fifth, one has to actually manage to board the vessel. Task 1 and 2 are a bit annoying but comparatively easy. As for task 3, one will be told that no schedules exist and that the boat will arrive when there’s cargo to be shipped, and will leave as soon as it is loaded. To cut a long story short, in the end it took me about two weeks waiting and massive support of my local friends to buy a ticket and get board.

On arrival in Kazakhstan I caught a glimpse of why no one was motivated selling me a ticket: after the boat was docked, everybody had to take a seat and remain calm. Then, grim looking immigration police officers came on board, checked the passenger’s papers which had been collected by the 1st officer beforehand, and interviewed everybody about there motivation to come here. Later on I heard that the oil business is booming in Kazakhstan along with the caviar industry attracting illegal immigrants. In contrast, Azerbaijan seemed to have had it’s best time already. After the checks had been done, everybody had to leave the vessel and was forced to proceed to the immigration office. I was protesting as my bike was tied to a metal pipe inside the ships belly and I wanted to collect it first. Furthermore most of my luggage had still been locked inside Sergej’s and Parchat’s Volvo truck. On boarding the ship I had asked my Kazakh friends if they would lock my stuff inside their truck as I didn’t trust the vessel’s personnel that much as that I wanted to leave the panniers attached to my bike nor was there a staircase leading to the passenger area from inside the hull. Protesting didn’t help much, I first had to go through immigration, afterwards I was free to collect my belongings.

The whole bunch of us was led into a room, made to put the luggage in the middle and step back. Then another uniformed guy with a big German shepherd came in and had the dog snoop around. It was dead silent. Then, single persons where called to a room for interrogation. Others where asked to go to another room, where the immigration formalities were processed. Everybody was photographed, asked a set of questions and the accompanying luggage was x-rayed. Finally I was done, stepped outside and: no sign of any of my friends! I went back to the gate and explained to the personnel that my bike was still on board inside the restricted customs area. Surprisinglynobody seemed to be concerned about that or felt a need to accompany me – what a contrat to the just experienced immigration procedure! Back outside I was waiting for either Sergej or Parchat, when after half an hour Sergej finally showed up. “I was looking for you, where have you been?” did he ask. I explained to him what happened, then we went inside the restricted customs area once again to get my luggage form their truck. After we were back outside he asked me where I was planning to stay. I told him that I wouldn’t have a clue, but would consider to cycle to Aktau and find a cheap hotel. He told me that they would stay at a Kyrgyz friend’s place a little bit down the road, that they would expect some female friends to come over, and that I would be very welcome to stay. I accepted and delayed Aktau for the next morning…

There is no direct ferry service from Greece to Turkey. Greek ferries go to some greek island located in front of the Turkish coast, there one has to go through customs and take a connecting vessel. Well, I missed it mine, so I had an unintended stay on the, at this time of the year rather boring island of Kos. The reason for this is sort of really embarrassing, so I don’t want to go into detail. When I arrived in Bodrum, it was obvious; this place is occupied by Brits! Fortunately there was a backpacker hostel in town, and, as the guys who ran it where funny people, I didn’t have to care about entertainment. My next goal was Ankara, about 900km away for which I calculated approx. two weeks because of the Turkish topography. I had two reasons to go visit Ankara: I needed to arrange some visas and I wanted to find out how it was like, compared to Istanbul. Thanks to the Iranian visa, I had the pleasure to spend almost two weeks there. Had I guessed how things would develop, I would have skipped it. Anyway.

From Ankara I took the road down south along the Great Salt Lake: I wanted to visit Cappadocia and see the statues with the chopped off heads on the summit of Nemrut Dagi. Subsequent to this, I had planned to visit Diyarbakir and do a detour to Erzurum via Lake Van and to continue onwards from there to Georgia. Of course, it didn’t work out like that. While I found the locals in Eastern Anatolia a bit demanding at times, I additionally caught a cold. In the meantime I had travelled once to Erzurum by bus, hoping to collect the Iranian visa. Unfortunately it had not arrived yet, and the Iranian official refused to investigate about the status. What a disappointment! Especially because the Iranian Visa was a key visa for the further progress of my trip.

I was thinking about visiting Afghanistan, but I didn’t want to do it without being prepared. Dari, which is spoken widely in Afghanistan and similar to Farsi, is the language widely spoken in Iran. Speaking the local language and understanding what people were talking about was something I considered to be very important to avoid misunderstandings or detect dodgy situation early. I thought I needed to be in Iran at least for a couple of weeks to pick some of the language to a level I could feel fairly safe. As I was already behind my schedule, I decided to skip Lake Van and take the bus to Erzurum. The guy sitting next to me was even more sick then I was, so when we finally arrived in Erzurum I was feeling really bad and had to stay in bed for a week. After I had recovered, I checked again for the Iranian visa, but still the same. Time was running out, but I didn’t feel fit enough to cycle, so I decided to catch a bus to Hopa, the town next to the Turkish-Georgian border. Crossing the border was easy and straight forward and I was relieved a great deal when I found out that the situation in Georgia had eased out. I had heard of anarchistic conditions with corrupt cops and even bandits dressed as cops trying to extort money from people. Later on in Tbilisi it had been confirmed to me that this was the case until two years ago, but now the situation would be ok.

As soon as I arrived in Tbilisi I immediately applied for another Iranian visa, but this time only for a 30 day one. In Ankara I had applied for 90 days, which perhaps was the reason for a refusal. I also tried to apply for a 90 day visa for China, for which I even talked to the consular general, but he didn’t approve of this. According to him there was no need for a 90 day visa, as it was possible to have the 30 day one extended multiple times. This is true, but this doesn’t apply to all areas of China, e.g. it is not possible to get a decent extension on Tibetan soil. But things always have two sides. The other side was that I had got to know Nino, the secretary of the Chinese consulate. When I told her about my cycling trip, she mentioned that one of her tutors in University would also be a cyclist who had cycled around the world and if I wish she could make contact with him. Certainly I agreed, that was how I got to know Jumber Lezhava.

Now in his mid-60ies, did he start his 10year trip on which he had visited 194 countries and independent territories at the age of 50, after he had suffered from a severe disease and the death of his wife. I somewhat felt pretty small compared to him, especially because he had had no financial coverage, or, in other words, sometimes no money. On the other hand he had carryied a diplomatic passport, a benefit for being a Georgian celebrity, Guinness book record holder of several disciplines in doing push-ups, which compensated a bit for the lack of funds. Georgia didn’t bring me more luck with the Iranian visa, and I ended up getting two weeks instead of four, which is not even sufficient to just cross Iran, not to speak about learning something about the culture and organising visas for Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan as a backup to the intinerary through Afghanistan. I considered it as a twist of fate, I was not meant to go to Afghanistan yet.

I changed my itinerary in that way that I wanted to try to find a ship in Baku leaving across the Caspian Sea to East Iran. In case this would not be possible I decided to skip Iran completely and take a ferry to Kazakhstan. So I got myself a visa for Azerbaijan and headed for Baku. At the border I was greeted with overwhelming friendliness, an impression which remained for the next few hours. I didn’t have an idea of Azerbaijan’s culture so far, I imagined it to be a bit like in Turkey. I should have been slightly wrong. I had forgotten to take the influence of the time under soviet occupation into account, so the next morning I found myself in a back room of a police checkpoint, together with a policeman body searching me for money claiming to check for illegal weapons. I should have been warned when the hotel maid, contrary to yesterdays statement that the breakfast would be included asked for exactly the amount of local currency which I carried in my pocket since I paid for the room with a 10 dollar bill the day before.

Fortunately my funds were hidden well, and so after a while when I had recovered from the initial shock and the guy started to make the third attempt to search me, I suddenly realized that he had put my passport, which he had held in his hand until now on the bed next to my handlebar bag. Suddenly my patience was gone, I told him that it would be enough now, grabbed my belongings and headed for the door. Outside, I grabbed my bike, pushed it back to the road, muttered some words of farewell and cycled away. Wow, this was tough! After the stress had faded, I began to think about how likely it was to run into situation like this again, and how they were best avoided, because one thing was certain: when push comes to shove, somebody in uniform would always have more pull. Then the next day I met Arturo. I had just pulled of the road to on my raingear, when a Toyota 4×4 stopped next to me. He asked where I would be heading to and if I fancied a slice of pizza. He told me that he would be working for an NGO in Baku, but had some tasks about a project they run in this area.

He would be staying with his family in a place not far from here, and I would be highly welcome to stay at their place tonight, which I happily accepted. On parting he first handed me his card, mentioning that, if I shouldn’t make it today I should definitely see them when in Baku, but in the meantime it had started to rain, so he suggested to give me a lift, what I accepted. Arturo, his wife Silvia and kids were really great, and so it came that I ended up staying the entire time at there place in Baku.

]]> http://www.goneforawhile.net/?feed=rss2&p=907&lang=en 0 http://www.goneforawhile.net/?p=63&lang=en http://www.goneforawhile.net/?p=63&lang=en#comments Fri, 23 Feb 2007 16:25:32 +0000 admin http://goneforawhile.net/?p=63 (more...)]]>

On January 4th, after having had a final breakfast at my parents place, I left my hometown of Böblingen in Southwest-Germany. My goal for the first few days was to reach Lake Rhine Valley, cross the Swiss Alps over the Julier Pass to meet Edith in Milan on the 14th. Edith contacted me by surprise on a stale advert in a cycling-board on the internet a few weeks before christmas, asking where I was and that she would like to join in for a while. So we agreed spontanously to give it a try and fixed a date. But for the time being, it’s the middle of winter and I have been a lazy bum for the last couple of weeks – so I am not exactly fit. Fortunately, I knew the directions from former trips, so at least there won’t be much orientation necessary; I also knew that it would become a bit of a struggle climbing over the Swabian Alb and the hills of Upper Swabia.

But I was confident that in a few days time my body would have readjusted. 3 days later I had made it to the Austrian town of Feldkirch where I stayed in one the best youth hostels I ever stayed in so far – at least when it comes to the breakfast. But, I wasn’t to enjoy it. Ironically, on my 3rd day on the road I caught foodpoisoning for the first time in my life, in a country with some of the highest hygiene-standards of the planet! So came that I spend the whole night on the toilet, suffering from the fried noodles I had got myself from the chinese restaurant across the street. The next day I was feeling weak, being completely dehydrated, and couldn’t eat at all. Io I had no choice but to stay at least another night. The day after I still felt weak but my stomach was much better, so I continued, hoping that the excercise will speed up recovery. Within an hour I passed through the small country of Liechtenstein, famous for it’s bankaccounts and HILTI-tools, where, strange enough, I was the only person pulled over by the customs officials. Reaching the starting point of the ascend up Julier pass was not exactly an easy task. The valley narrowed down leaving me with 2 choices: staying on the busy mainroad, dangerous and no fun, or taking a in-wintertime-not-really-rideable-bikepath, pushing and dragging my bike uphill through shin-deep virgin snow.

I went for the last, at least it promised to be a bit adventurous. The rest of the ascend was a nice climb with some great views and another pull over, this time by the swiss police – cycling in winter seems to cause suspicion… Anyway, the Youthhostel in Maloja belonged to a 4-Star Hotel, so together with the budget accommodation I enjoyed another great breakfast buffet. Bummer that I was so stupid to save some pennies and cook up some left overs I found in the fridge… You problably guessed it by now, I spend another night running for the toilet – but this time it was not that bad like in Feldkirch, fortunately. But still it had an impact though.

From Maloja pass, which is actually not a real pass, as it drops from a plateau, I let it roll for a couple of hours all the way down to shores of Lake como. Reaching it, I felt to weak to cycle and there was no cheap accomodation around, so I decided to catch a train to Milan to be on time to meet Edith and give myself a rest. Edith was about my age, and brought a low quality mountainbike with her, which her uncle had brushed up for her cheaply. Despite the lack of quality parts, it mastered the trip to Athens without problems.

After taking a train out of Milan to Verona, our first goal was Venice. Next was to reach the Croatian coast, from where we cycled and island-hopped all the way down to Kotor Bay in Montenegro. From Kotor, we crossed the mountain range rising at the northern end of the bay continuing inland towards the Ohrid Lake in Albania, Meteora and Delphi to Athens, Greece. From there, Edith went back home and I took a ferry to Bodrum, Southern Turkey.