THE PAMIR HIGHWAY (Khorog to Sary Tash)

I have taken a short side trip to Osh, Kyrgyzstan because the Chinese border is closed at the weekend and as I am not Moses, I don't really fancy spending two or three days up a mountain. This is good becauase it allows me to check my emails for one last time before heading into Xinjiang Province, which hashad its internet and international phone connections unplugged by the Chinese Government.

As usual, I left Khorog rather late on the 2nd of September- after a large breakfast of Manti (Central Asian Dumplings), sweet blinis and cake at the daily breakfast "bar" in the bazaar. I then fixed a few things on my bike, and by the time I left, it was 1 pm. On the way out of Khorog, I stopped in a shop and bought an expensive Cadbury Caramel ice cream. The wrapper read "Have you visited Cadbury's World?" and gave an 0800 number for customer services. The ice cream inside was however exactly the same as every other plain vanilla ice cream wafer sandwich in Central Asia. I should have known better.

On the entrance of the Pamir Highway there was some great CCCP artwork with many hammers and sickles commemorating anniversaries of the founding of the superpower, in what is now a very poor and very insignificant part of a very poor and very insignificant country.

The road gently and steadily climbed and climbed so I made slow progress- made even slower by the little dangling temptations on the mulberry trees that lined the road like a Napoleonic awning. Another flat tyre was also very frustrating. I camped behind some rocks some way back from the road, and the view of the mountains from the tent was stunning. They seemed to be crowding round my tent like women round a baby's pram, and most of them were white with snow. I heard some strange explosions that night, not really sure what they were. Most likely they were power lines frazzling- I had seen this in Khorog.

The following morning I made the most revoltin breakfast of pasta with what I thought was Borsch mix, but actually turned out to only be borsch herbs and salts. I supplemented this by honey, bread and tea in a teahouse. As usual, the teahouse staff couldn't add up the bill.

I managed 73km uphill on the second day, and it became noticably colder. My thermals were brought out of hibernation- they have not been used since the Italian Alps. The mountain scenery never diminished in impressiveness. At the end of the day, I asked at a farmer's house whether I could camp. They immediately invited me inside, but due to the abundance of children, I decided to camp in their garden. They gave me a lovely supper of macaroni mixed with potatoes, creamy milk to dip bread into, and some rather disgusting yoghurt. There was a television, and the only channel in English was a Christian channel with a shiverring American preacher.

The following morning, I was again invited in and treated to the same menu, and they were particularly keen that I inspected thair house, a classic Pamiri design. Having fixed another puncture, I was again on my way. I noted that the crops up there were still green while down lower the harvest was well underway.

I was disappointed that in a little town called Jelandy, the shop that I had been hoplding out for sold little more than wafer biscuits and condensed milk. I am not sure whether the chap was joking or not when he said "Good shop, isn't it?"

My four skin hat became useful toward the end of the day, as it became bitterly cold, and I fastened the ribbons under my chin. As I was approaching the Koi-Tezek pass (about 4,200 metres), I was invited in by a farmer and his wife who were on their way to tend to their herd. I was given smitan (like smoked clotted cream- delicious, but awful for the stomach) and bread for both supper and breakfast. Breakfast also included milky, salty tea. Old oil cans were used for flower pots, and there was a large bucket next to the stove which functioned as a spitoon. This family were extremely poor, and they had very little indeed. Not even a loo (although when I had asked at the previous place, I had been told to go wherever I like!). They felt the cold, which I wouldn't expect for a family who live on the roof of the world. One could sense that there was a lot of love in the house, but their faces portrayed the monotonous and tough life they lead day in day out. I was very grateful for a warm bed in a warm house, because it was snowing outside.

4km remained the following morning until the pass, and I was really not used to cycling at such high altitude. I managed 300m or so at a time, before hunching over the handlebars, gasping for breath. The snow on the road had largely melted, but the pamiri thistles were still bristling white.

Usually after a mountain pass, you have a long and glorious downhill, but not so this time. This was the start of the Pamir Plateau, a moon-like high altitude desert that would largely last until Kyrgyzstan. The scenery was no less impressive, but was more akin to moorland than white alpine mountains, although these were also visible in the distance. It was always bitterly cold.

I failed to find a turn-off for some hot springs, but I wasn't too concerned due to the cold. I didn't fancy drying off in the freezing cold and tramping back to a tent. I found a B&B in Alichur with a Kyrgyz family, where I was given a bed, and mutton soup for supper and breakfast. Having explained to me that he neither eats not drinks during daylight in Ramadan, the family sat down to their morning soup with the sun blaring through the windows into their eyes. They did however seem to be praying at any spare moment of the day- surely more often than the 5 times required by Sunni faith. The man was a stalking guide for enormous Marco Polo sheep and Ibex, and he proudly showed me photos of the kills of wealthy American clients. He earns $50 a day for doing the work, an enormous amount of money.

The following day, the desert gave way to a huge plain of high pasture punctuated by yurts and grazed by yaks. Under deep blue sunshine, the day's cycling was an absolute pleasure, with following winds and a largely slightly downhill descent to Murgab. The pasture continued right up until Murgab, whose plain had a snakey blue river weaving through it.

As I was cooking some lentils and tuna for supper, content as could be, a car stopped and two guys got out. The first guy relieved himself right in front of where I was cooking. They were friendly and tried to be helpful, but were excrutiatingly annoying. They couldn't believe I didn't want a lift. No, I can open my tuna tin, thank you! No you can't ride my bike! No I don't want vodka shots, thank you (at 4000m+, cycling) No, I don't want to swap sunglasses. He was very confused when he dipped some bread in my lentil cooking water and ate it. He looked at me as if I were a culinary caveman. Thankfully they eventually left me alone after a short while. It is difficult to be friendly to everyone.

Murgab looked like an anchorage when I was approaching- all the little white houses are detached, and there are telegraph poles here and there. It certainly has a wild west feel to it. The only electricity in my room came from a solar panel on the roof. To turn off the light it was necessary to unplug the bulb. The family were however very friendly, and the daughter was very pretty, despite her gold teeth. It was possible to see the smooth 7546m Chinese peak of Muztagh Ata from the guesthouse. The food was great, although I wan't feeling too well on the first night, and couldn't manage much. For this reason I took a day of rest in Murgab, with the company of Phil, a French Londoner who has a particular passion for photography. He invited me round for lunch at his guesthouse- how civilised! The bazaar stalls in Murgab are made from refurbished shipping containers- with holes cut into them in convenient places. The streets are dirt, and the town is dusty. It is not a hugely charming place, and it was good to eventually leave.

The road from Murgab follows the Chinese border, and the barbed wire fence into no mans land at times comes within feet of the road. I was heading towards the Ak Baital pass, at 4,655m the highest of the journey. Poor roads uphill and adverse wind meant I didn't reach the pass that evening, and camped at about 4,200m. It was bitterly cold and I slept with all my clothes on, including my down jacket. When I woke up in the morning, my water bottle had frozen inside the tent.

I was enjoying tea in a Kyrgyz home nearing the pass when in walked Joris, another Dutch cyclist, and a fellow accountant. He works with the Tajik finance department, and was shocked to find that the staff there do not know how to use excel, and that the use of pirate software (with viruses) is rife. We cycled together for the rest of the day, but as he is much lighter, he was much faster. The pass was very satisfying, and very windy and cold!

Still following the chinese border fence, we reached lake Karakol, Central Asia's highest lake where we stayed in a B&B. It was interesting to note numerous holes in the border fence, and it was sorely tempting to hop over and not take the long and legal route round to the official entry point in Kyrgyzstan.

The lake itself was deep blue in the centre, with turquoise round the edges, a crust of salt round the edge (it is salty) and bright green grass supporting tethered donkeys on the banks. White mountains surround the lake in all directions.

The town of Karakul itself was like Murgab without the charm (!), not that Murgab has any charm. The streets are littered with debris, and the rocky area near the lake, with the already decomposed bodies of animals that no one ever bothered to clear away. All that remained was skeleton, horns, and wool in surprisingly good condition. It seemed like a scene after the apocalypse.

The following day, Joris headed off fast, and I was alone again. There were two 4200m passes between me and Sary Tash, the first town of Kyrgyzstan. The first pass was straightforward, however the route up to the second pass was marred by nosewinds. Many of the mountains were now terracotta and white, very spectacular. Some friendly retired Germans, on a 5 year campervan trip round Asia stopped and gave me an apple and some choclate. This was much appreciated! Some Ipod support got me up to the international pass (I tried to imagine I was dancing the Dashing White Sargeant, and tried to kick hard on the pedals when you are supposed to stamp, but the energy levels just weren't there).

The customs office was a dirty portakabin full of cigarette smoke, and they were not interested in my customs declaration form (on the other side of the form, it was clear that the form had previously been literature for a mobile phone company). Onto immigration, who were much more interested in riding my bike than checking my passport. One of the young ones proudly wore a hammer and sickle belt buckle as part of his uniform- probably inherited.

Over the pass, and into Kyrgyzstan, country 21 on my bike ride. No man's land was about 15 km long, and I was offered to stay with families' B&Bs before the border checkpoint. I wanted to reach Sary Tash, so I pushed on. The tripartite border clearance of Immigration, Drug Control, and Customs seemed pretty pointless as none did anything other than glance at my passport.

With failing light, I eventually reached Sary Tash. I asked someone where there was a guesthouse, and he said not to worry, I could stay with him. Used to hospitality like this in every country I have visited yet on this trip, I thankfully accepted. I chatted away to the teenage sisters, and slept very well. The next morning, they seemed less friendly, and demanded money. When I gave them a fair amount of money, they complained and so I gave them a little more, and they kept pestering me. I then saw a friendly German guy who assured me that what I had given them was WAY more than the fair price and I ignored them.

This is the way Kyrgyzstan works: money, money, money. There is none of the generous hospitality of the other countries I have been to- you are expected to pay for everything. I am glad I am only spending a few days here, even though the scenery is stunning, with green pastures and soaring snowy mountains. As I said, the border is closed Saturday and Sunday, so having left my bike at the B&B where I will spend tonight in Sary Tash (again, this costs money), I argued a fair price and got a lift to Osh. People in Osh are pretty rude, and this is the first city I have been to on the trip where you genuinely have to be careful, but it is great to have some modern comforts such as an indoor loo and some shops and restaurants.

I have met some other cyclists who are going the same way, including an American chap, Noel from Wisconsin. Hopefully we will meet up in Kashgar to cycle further. I am hoping to see Tom in Kashgar, but I will be far behind him now with this weekend border closure so I don't know if he will still be there.

In Xinjiang I think it will be impossible to post blogs, but in the rest of China I will do so by means of a nominated administrator who will upload my mumblings. Jam Pot has volunteered.

Right, I now have to find a lift back to Sary Tash to be reunited with my bike. Farewell, internet!