Sary-Tash (Kyrgyzstan) to Baoji (China)"

The marshrutka (minibus) ride back from Osh to Sary Tash to rejoin my bike was utterly miserable. The road was non-existent, and it wound through the mountains, through enormous herds of fat-bottomed sheep. I was lucky to have a group of Belgian backpackers to share the miserable experience with. It made me very glad to be traveling by bicycle!

As is typical for Kyrgyzstan, the place I left my bike wanted to charge me for half a night’s stay for each night my bike had “slept” on his property. I couldn’t be bothered with an argument, so I reluctantly parted with the cash.

This was to be my last experience of Central Asian (or Soviet) tourist standards. The heater in the room I shared with an interesting French photographer was heated by an electric cooking ring; supper was rice cooked in milk; breakfast was yoghurt and bread (I left the warm milk, which I really can’t stand); the stove was fired by cow pats and there was of course a pit loo at the end of the garden. I had to use ear plugs to block out the sound of the grandmother shouting at the wailing children to get to sleep. In the morning, they all burst into the room without knocking, as it pleased them. This really gets my goat when I am paying for a room.

After 2 months in Central Asia, I was more than ready to get to China. My cycling was lethargic on the ride towards the border. I felt a little like a dog who is bored of all the old smells and wants to go on a new walk. The road from Sary Tash to the border, in true Soviet style (one last flurry!) was absolutely awful, and had been dug up in preparation for the laying of tarmac. The guidebook I believe says they have been trying to do this since 2003. The road resembled a river delta as most traffic didn’t stick to the official “way” (I shall not flatter it by calling it a road any longer) and they ploughed new paths over the green pasture. Feeling low on energy (rice for supper and yoghurt with bread for breakfast) I stopped to make some noodles with sardines. This was revolting, but gave me a little oomph. Later on, a phone call from my mother and from Pat Lardner at Cothill (my old school) lifted my spirits. It was incredible to be able to speak to them from one of the most remote places in the world! This was the last phone call I would be able to receive for a month as I was about to enter Xinjiang province China, which, despite being officially described as being “Autonomous” has had its internet and international phone lines cut by the central government in response to the summer riots.

I camped that night surrounded by 5000m snowy peaks, and it was too cold outside to cook. The following morning, having dusted the ice off the tent, with pretty low energy I headed out on the final push to the Irksteim Pass, the Chinese border. I was prepared for an enormous climb. The route that morning was however downhill nearly all the way. When I reached the bottom, I was certain that this was the start of the Big Climb, however I met a friendly cyclist couple, Erin and Sam from Wyoming who gave me the Good News that in fact I had done the pass, and that I was nearly in China! Hurrah! All that Pamir Highway training has clearly not been wasted. The road miraculously became beautiful tarmac, and there was even a line down the middle of it. At the border I ran into the Belgian gang with whom I had shared the ride from Osh. The border was closed until 2pm and they were playing a card game, bataille. There was a shop where I bought some much needed sugary drink and grub. In typical fashion, the woman took a long time with a calculator to add up 40+40+30.

When the border finally opened, I have never seen a border guard take so long to stamp a passport. With serious furrowed brow, he looked the whole thing over about five times before finally giving me the green light to leave the country. What the issue is, I really don’t know. Check the photo (admittedly I don’t much resemble the photo which was taken during a miserable lunch break in my fat audit days), check the visa; stamp.

For some reason it amused me to see “OUP” on the back of most of the lorries. I doubt this stood for Oxford University Press.

At the chinese border point there was an old sign saying “Welcome to China” which rather disappointed me because I was hoping for a more gleaming 21st century reception. A military man took all our passports into a porter-kabin and we were given tiny stools to perch on. There was a man directing traffic with a red flag, except there was no traffic. There was also a lot of marching and standing to attention from the assembled troops. It was shambolic and there was much fidgeting; it reminded me of CCF at school.

When they had finished playing with (I later found out they were photographing) our passports, we were sent down to the real customs and immigration, a few kilometers down the road. This was more like it. The reception here was more like Miami Airport, and we had to fill out Immigration cards and Arrival cards. The immigration desk had a selection of buttons you could press at the end of the process, ranging from “Satisfied” to “Checking Time Too Long” and “Poor Customer Service.” Although the process took a really long time, the Belgian guy in front of me pushed “Satisfied”; I abstained. Thankfully customs didn’t make me unload all my stuff to put it through an X-ray. I understand now that this was a minor miracle.

Immediately having passed through the border formalities and cycled onto the open road, I could feel the excitement and energy entering my muscles. After 11,100 km I was finally in China! The uphills were no longer difficult with the perfect tarmac, and I sailed up and coasted down. The slowly up and slowly down of Tajikistan was but a memory! The villages I passed through were still however mud-brick, and I noticed that the local language is written in Arabic script. Road signs have large Chinese characters, and small Arabic inscriptions. There were colourful signs showing Chinese and Central Asians (some of whom in yurts) living side by side in harmony.

I saw the first camels since Uzbekistan- these are all majestic two-humped bactrians, growing their wooly winter coat. I also whizzed past many yurts- something I had thought I left behind. Getting towards dark (Chinese time is 2 hours later, so this was about 9pm!) I stopped in a village to ask if I could find a bed. I was told I could not, so I moved on a little nervous.



As darkness fell, then, on the first night in China, I arrived at a tiny village and made the sleeping sign with my hands and head to the first person I found. Without hesitation, I was invited in and given a bed. To this day, I am not sure what kind of institution this was- it seemed like a cross between a police station and a community centre.

In the dark green kitchen tent outside the building, I was given a delicious supper of chinese chicken cooked in a wonderful spicy sauce- the taste of ginger on my tongue was an absolute delight after so long in the culinary wilderness. It was served in a big plastic bowl and everyone dug in with their chopsticks (first time these were used!) Beers were drunk with gusto and each sip was heartuly toasted. They made sure I was eating enough and a large bowl of rice was served near the end of the meal.

They made sure I realised that this was a Kyrgyz village- and that there were a few Han Chinese about too. The two parties seem to live together perfectly happily. They would point to eachother and say "Kyrgyz" or "Han Zou" rather like we might talk about whether someone is English or Welsh. When I asked later on if the music was Chinese, they said "Yes, Kyrgyz Chinese."

After supper, we all went into what seemed like a classroom, and everyone (about 20) sat down at the desks. Sweets were then spread out on the tables in front of everyone and everybody dug in. It seemed very ritualistic reminded me of prep school! After this, the older people retired and the younger people played some music (not that loud) from the computer, and started waltzing round the room! They insisted I joined in. When we were doing a bit of freestyle dancing I showed then how to twist and turn Scottish style which amused them greatly!

They were very considerate in that they realised that I would be tired, and before too long asked if I wanted to retire for the evening, which I thankfully accepted. They would accept no money at all.

The next day was glorious weather (it is rarely not in this region of China) and I raced past a man riding a camel. I found breakfast, which was steamed buns stuffed with mutton. Not bad, although I would have liked anything but mutton. There was a little shop in the small town, and after the barren shops in Central Asia, the contents seemed like a bank vault. I bought a preserved duck leg which I had for lunch on-the-go which was delicious.

The scenery was mountainous, and very beautiful although I wasn't well prepared for the lack of towns and I was very hungry by the end of the day. At the first town I got to, a couple of hours before dark, the nasty man in the noodle shop refused to serve me, and the guesthouse refused to let me stay. The shop sold me some flakey bread and some candied peanuts which saw me through to the next town.

This town, I think was called Huaheu (I am not entirely certain because all the signs are in Chinese!) and was much bigger. I arrived at sunset. I thought at the time it was huge, but in hindsight it wasn't that big in Chinese terms. I had RMB 88 in Chinese money which is about GBP 8. The hotel was RMB 80, leaving me only RMB 8 for supper which I assumed wasn't going to be enough. They insisted on payment in advance so, in a huff, off I trotted to the cash machine. On the way there I was stopped by the police who spent what seemed like an age passing my passport among themselves. This made me even crosser. Then I found out that my card has been suspended by Barclays, in their wisdom. I could not find anyone to exchange my USD notes. I went back to the hotel and the woman still insisted on payment in advance, despite the fact that I indicated that I would not have enough money to eat. A sharp shake of the head and a click of the tongue. Furious, I threw the money at her and was shown to my room. This is the first time I had lost my temper with someone on the entire trip, and only my second day in China. With a devil-may-care attitude, I went to a cafe and eat a lovely stir fry vegetables and rice, which mercifully came to RMB 8.

The hotel room itself was an absolute delight- the first crisp clean linen for a few months, TV, and all sorts of little nic-nacs like toothbrush, shoe shine mitt, and little disposable shoes that are standard in all Chinese hotel rooms.

The following morning I obtined cash through the "charge-up" emergency card I bought in Dover. This, along with the USD I was carrying was enough to see me right through Xinjiang.

On arrival in Kashgar, I realised I had lost the card detailing the location of the hostel. I meandered through the Sunday Markets (some one had told me the hostel is near there) but no luck. The crowds were pretty heavy, and I was a little shocked to see an official punch a member of the public in the face. Most people on the streets of Kashgar are Uygar, not ethnically chinese at all, hence the recent troubles. These people are the natives of the area, and their physical features are much the same as Anatolians (Asian Turkey), Azeri and Uzbek. The local language is Turkic, and they wear similar clothes to other central Asians. The men wear enbroidered skull caps and many of the women cover their heads, often their faces too.

After a good couple of hours searching for another tourist who could help me out, I realised that there are not many tourists in Kashgar and it was getting dark. As I passed the Glorious Statue of Mao (complete with garrisons of military riot police, armed to the teeth trenched in behind camo barriers) I was stopped by a very serious policeman. He was very interested in why I was in Kashgar, where I came from and how long I was planning to stay. He gave me a lecture about how if I tried to do any cycling at all in China I may well be punished. After this, he insisted I follow him in his car to a Hotel- he said he would find me a cheap one. I started off walking the bike down the pavement as he had told me not to cycle, then he screamed out the window, "YOU CAN CYCLE!"

He led me to the Qinnibach Hotel, which was such excellent value that I ended up staying there for an entire week. I had an enormous en suite room and over the week it only cost about GBP 20 more than sleeping in a dorm. I had hoped to meet Tom (with whom I cycled in Central Asia) in Kashgar, or at least get a message from him in the hostel as we had arranged, but he must have forgotten.

In any case, there were plenty of fellow lunatics (cycle tourers) to keep me company, including a Swiss couple, Bruce and Patricia, on a tandem who had met Isabel when she was in Samarkand. I then ran into Pierre and Janie whom I had met in Turkey! They were staying in the same hotel, and it was brilliant to see them again. There was also a fellow Brit, Chris with his girlfriend Astrid who had cycled from the Netherlands. All very jolly, but sadly no one I could carry on cycling with. I had hoped to meet an American chap, Noel, who I had met in Osh, but he was well behind me and with the visa days ticking I needed to push on before he got to Kashgar.

It was in Kashgar when I first attempted to cut out the dreadlocks that currently afflict the back of my head, but it was a little painful with a Swiss Army knife, so I gave up after a while. I confess, the back of my head is more Rastafarian than Radleian. The mop has not been cut since February, and with the daily beating of the helmet and the fact that showers are often hard to come by, it is difficult to keep that L'Oreal perfection. The idea of going to a terrified Chinese hairdresser is too awful to consider. It shall have to wait till Hong Kong.

In the first few days in Kashgar, it was still Ramadan and there was a particular street near the mosque where a veritable feast of street food was served on different stalls after sunset. This was a wonderful treat to someone who has, as I have said, been deprived of food variety for a number of months. There was fried fish (fresh water fish with a slight hint of mud, but very tasty when hot), hot and cold noodles, boiled eggs in soup, chicken, melons, sweet pancakes with meat inside (not bad, although I didn't eat any more after I learned about the meat!) No dish cost more than 40p- most of them about 20p. I steered clear of the intestines, heads, hooves, and tongues.

The streets of Old Kashgar by day bustle with shops selling the objects that have been made by their skilled artisans in the workshops in the back. This includes metalwork and woodwork, including cooking utensils (lovely wooden steamers) and toys. There is also an abundance for some reason of dentists. As you wonder the streets you are treated to the sight of people having their teeth drilled much as you might glimpse someone having their hair cut in Stow-on-the-Wold.

I went to the Sunday animal market where they sell tons of sheep and goats, no small number of cattle, and a few camels. The sheep and goats are arranged side by side with their heads through a rope which creates a very artistic chevron pattern. It was interesting to observe deals being made and the traders joking with eachother whilst making business. I was hit by a moist flying cowpat when one of the cows jumped out of its trailer.

The Sunday Markets themselves were no different on a Sunday than on the day I had arrived- they are like the Souks of Morocco or the Grand Bazaar of Turkey, but without so much character. There are long covered alleys of stalls, many of which attempt to sell tourists fur hats- dog skin and fox skin are favourites. There are however many alleys that only sell consumer goods such as cooking equipment, so it is nice to see that these ancient markets are being used by locals and not solely devoted to the tourist trade. The true old town of Kashgar is being knocked down bit by bit, day by day. It is mud brick and a little grimey, but it is rather a shame. The Party wants to make everything nice and new. You can see the demolition teams working just outside the Sunday Markets, and there are places all over the Old town where old is going down and new going up. The new buildings are not unattractive- after central Asia I was delighted to see clean new structures, but it is a shame to lose the old.

After the troubles in Urumqi back in the summer, there is a massive military presence on the streets of Kashgar. As I mentioned before, armed soldiers are trenched in in places where people go about their daily business such as near smart new shopping complexes! It seems very surreal. There are also convoys three trucks of riot police who patrol the streets day and night. They gaze out at the crowds from behind their transparent shields thoroughly bored. One night the driver of one of the trucks waved at me. We had been told on the last night of Ramadan that there was a 11.30 Beijing time (9pm Xinjiang time) curfew, so we made sure we were not on the streets that evening.

I eventually left Kashgar on the 24th September, and ended up camping in the Taklimakan desert. The camping spot was however well secluded and I slept well. I wasn't well prepared for the lack of towns or shops and didn't have enough supplies! I cycled further into the desert the following day, and had my first Laghman for lunch. This is a dish of hand pulled noodles, fresh vegetables, and mutton and is actually quite nice. The only problem, as I was to discover, is that is really the only dish served in Uygar restaurants. I camped again, this time on very uneven ground which made me sleep really badly. On top of this, I stupidly didn't have enough food, so my energy levels were very, very low the next morning. Repairing a tyre and packing up camp required a supreme effort, and the 47km to the next town the next day felt like four times that. Lorry drivers were very kind and stopped to give me drinks. Another car stopped to give me water. If you have been a fool and not taken enough water, you never need to worry in China because someone will stop to give you some.

At the town, I found a little hotel that took me in, but insisted I register with the police. They took an age writing all sorts of details down, and then took me off in a car to a copyshop where they copied EVERY PAGE of my passport. They then came to inspect the room, I assume to make sure it was fit for a foreigner. The room was pretty foul, and the guy tapped the windows (why, I don't know) before giving it the all clear. I was furious because he had brought his lighted cigarette into the room. It must be said that he was very polite, but he swaggered like only a provincial Mr Plodd could have.

The next day I felt much better having had a hearty laghman supper. Laghman then followed for breakfast, lunch and supper. It's funny how there is usually a huge selection of restaurants, but not of dishes!

My skills at tying the chinese characters on the signposts the map were vastly improving. I was stopped by the police only because they wanted to goggle at my bike, offer me fags (that seems like the usual Chinese friendly gesture, so it's a shame I don't smoke) and feed me delicious melon. A VW passat slowed down to have a look at me, and I gave them an ironic wave, pretty cross at being stared at even as I cycle. Ten minutes later, I saw them parked in the verge, and they beckoned me over. They insisted I accept a bag stuffed with fruit and moon cakes, and a couple of bottles of water. They took lots of pictures, and were really friendly. I felt severely guilty for having been peeved at their initial slowing down; you have to have patience in bucketloads and just be friendly to everyone. This is not always possible! Many times cars have stopped to give me snacks and water; the Chinese have proven to be a supremely generous bunch.

That night I stayed in an Uygar guesthouse in Achu- back in the land of the pit loo, although this one had a chair with a convenient hole for those too weak to squat.

The roads are some of the safest I have riden on due to the paucity of cars and the large hard shoulders. Despite this, coach drivers are a total menace. They have horns of which the QE2 would have been proud, and use these as a substitute for prudence. They do not slow down for these little towns, and I saw one in Achu terrifyingly overtake a lorry at speed in the middle of the town. I am glad to be only a spectator to the action on the road!

The following day, as I was approaching Aksu, a car stopped to give me some water (unbidden) and it was Mr Li and his sister- a wealthy cotton merchant who had given me a drink a few days earlier when I really needed it. He told me to look him up when I got to Aksu later that evening. He was very friendly, but had a slight resemblance to Michael Jackson! He wanted me to stay in the 4* hotel he was in, but it was a little more than I wanted to spend (albeit only 20 quid, I should have gone for it!) He found me another, marginally cheaper 3* with English films to watch for free! He took me out for supper of dumplings, and I watched a Ralph Fiennes and Julianne Moore film when I retired. I can't remember the last time I had watched a film.

The landscape for this stretch had been very beautiful, with the desert sands to my right and high deserty mountains, shrouded in a sands haze to my left. The heat during the day was still pretty hot.

It was such a nice hotel that I took an easy morning, and when I ventured out, a police woman checked my documents as I sat and took breakfast in an outside stall. A white face equals a police check in Xinjiang. She was not friendly, but she was extremely polite, passing me the napkins just before I needed them. She had to call English speaking reinforcements to interrogate, and he was quite friendly when I told him about my trip, and wished me well. Later on, a poor policeman had to chase me down on foot when I inadvertently jumped a checkpoint, and even he was very polite and friendly. The haze lifted that afternoon to reveal snow capped mountains to the north.

And so, on the 29th September, due to the late start, I decided to stop at Karayulgun after only 54km. I found a nice little hotel with en suite bathroom, and argued the price down from the equivalent of 12 pounds to less than 7. The lady then insisted I go with her to the police with my passport, and she bought me a drink on the way. When we were there, she grabbed the passport back off the policeman when she realised he had done the official check and was now just being nosey! In these provincial towns the police are the local lads, as they are in the UK and are not at all a force to be feared. On the way back she bought apples and watermelon which she showered upon me, and then took me out for some chinese beef noodles at a restaurant that was delighted to have a foreign visitor. Many photographs, and posing whilst shaking hands. They like that. She would not accept any money for all this kindness.

The following morning, I went back to the restaurant and had beef noodles for breakfast as I had promised. He totally refused payment. More shaking hands, more photos. The son of the Uygar neighbour restaurant owner then insisted I go with him to a photographer over the road to have a picture taken with him. The background could have been taken from the smurfs! During this time his brother turned up, whom I had not met, combing his hair, and he also wanted a photo taken with me!

Being a foreigner in China is sometimes like being a celebrity, and other times it is like being an exotic bird in a zoo for everyone to gawk at. They will shout "Hello" at you in a ridiculous manner, toned as you would talk to a dog, or if you were asking polly if she wanted a cracker. If you respond, it is more likely than not followed not by friendliness, but by hoots of laughter. They have made the bird talk, or the dog roll onto his belly! I am still undecided as to whether this treatment is excusable by the fact that there really are not many different looking people in these parts, but it is truly enraging. You cannot cycle through a town or even walk down the street without people shouting this at you and it is pretty uncomfortable. Sometimes I have taken to wearing my buff as a mask.

The following night, the teahouse in the middle of nowhere let me pitch my tent after my evening injection of Laghman. There was a large refinery with a yellow flame illuminating the desert nearby.

The next day the 1st of October, I had my temperature taken twice by the police at checkpoints, with a terrifying little infrared gun. We would find this kind of intrusion onto one's personal life utterly awful at home. I arrived in Kucha which is a big town, and I had high hopes for an easy night watching chinese adverts on TV. The 60th anniversary of the state holiday however meant that all the hotels I could find were full, and I wandered the streets for probably an hour and a half looking for lodgings. I was picked up by the police, who, after making sure I had bought supper, led me to a perfectly nice and cheap hotel. They took my temperature with a thermometer in the armpit before letting me in the room.

The next day, my temperature was taken again before I was allowed into the supermarket! I love Chinese supermarkets- there is always something new to try, and a huge basket of snacks seldom exceeds a fiver. On every sales shelf there is a loudspeaker barking away, and on this occasion, with the holiday, it was utter bedlam. I spent that night in Luntai, a small town where I found PORK noodles for supper.

The next morning, I had what has become my morning staple for the first time, meat stuffed steamed buns. You usually get about 10 in their own little steamer. You dip them in soy sauce and chilly sauce and they are not bad. Also recommended is deep fried dumplings or deep fried dough. All this usually comes with a tofu soup or a sort of dark congee which is delicious if piping hot and mixed with sugar.

I am ashamed to say I used my middle finger in true anger for the first time in my life on that day. A JCB driver with the loudest horn I have ever heard thought it would be hilaroius to draw up next to me and give a good blast. I used the American version because it is more international: I didn't want him to get confused and think I was giving him a victory salute. I felt pretty bad afterwards as I only want to be charming and friendly to people in these countries I visit, especially when so many people have showed me such kindness.

That evening, I arrived at a little village at dusk that had no guesthouse. I asked the police where I could camp, and they told me to wait for a bit. After a wait, and a lot of banter, I was invited in to stay with an Uygar Family. My host was a 20 year old student. He has sisters and a brothers, and his parents were very happy to have me to stay in their home. He was very excited to have a foreigner to stay and was fascinated by my passport. He told me that it is very difficult for locals to get travel documents. He insisted that he is Uygar and not Chinese- this was the first time I had encountered such sentiments, and that is why me description here is deliberately vague. I was a little surprised when he showed me a picture of Osama Bin Laden on his phone, and he showed me a video on it of human bodies being taken apart, I assume by a medical professor. I put all this morbid fascination down to naive innocence rather than being a serious pervert: he was very childlike. He pointed out his music heroes on the TV, and I noticed that they were Han Chinese.

The following day his mother made a laghman that was very nice, and eaten with steamed buns and he insisted on taking me to see his "pear tree," which I thought was rather odd. This actually turned out to be an enormous orchard and he filled a shoe box with the most delicious pears. At the time I thought this would be too big to carry, but when I tasted the pears I was very glad to have it. Chinese pears, and in particular those from the vicinity of Korla are both crispy and juicy- unlike our pears which tend to be either crispy and dry or juicy and soft. They were extremely concerned that I do not forget them, and he gave me a necklace to ensure I do not.

The wind was so awful that day that I decided to stop early in Korla. I found a 3* hotel for half the price of a German youth hostel, and was utterly delighted with the huge, immaculate room with computer (being Xinjiang, no internet alas), bathtub, the "news" in English, 2 double beds and all sorts of toys. Below there was a spa where I steamed away for a while.

The fire notice on the door read as follows: "Please do not worry if a fire is occuring, our hotel has owned superior scattering facilities to ansure you are transmitted safely" (!) What about Extreme Unction? Surely that would be included in the full hotel service?!

The next day the wind wasn't so bad, and at dark I found a small town with a cheap hotel. The woman showed me where I could eat supper, and I had a very nice fish dish although the bones were everywhere and I impaled my tongue. I thought I had ordered pork ribs. When I finished I returned, showered and got into bed. Fifteen minutes later there was a rat-a-tat-tat on the door. Who the hell could this be?! It was the hotel owner who spoke no English. I dismissed him politely and got back into bed. Ten minutes later, at half ten there was another knock. This time it was the police. "The hotel has no right to have foreigners; this is a private hotel. This man will take you to the next town, 15 km away where there is a hotel for foreigners. I am so sorry." Complaints, appeals to decency and human rights would do nothing to help my cause. Feeling like a refugee, I got dressed and packed up. It took a long tome to explain to them that I wanted to leave my bike at the hotel because I have cycled all the way from London and I am not going to let this sort of thing break my line, damn it!

It transpired that as I had had a shower they would not refund my previous hotel, so I had to pay for 2 nights that night. I was not a happy man, although the amounts were not material. silver lining was that the new hotel included breakfast, although a Chinese hotel breakfast is nothing to get excited about: cold salty vegetables and lukewarm soup.

I returned to my bike and continued my cycling. That evening I got caught out by the dark in the middle of the desert on the quiet motorway (motorways are safer and faster if you get the chance). There was a barbed wire fence preventing escape, so I camped in a tunnel underneath which was surprisingly not too noisy, but the ground did shudder when a lorry went over.

The next day quite unexpectedly led me up quite a high deserty mountain pass which was really beautiful under the blue sky. I reached the top just before dusk, and I found a chap in a portakabin selling instant noodles to truckers, which did very nicely for supper with some bread to dip in. He led me to an unused bedroom in a sort of unused police station which was great because it meant I didn't have to pitch my tent. I killed an ENORMOUS spider just before going to sleep.

The next day, the 8th of October, I sailed downhill into the Turpan depression, one of the lowest places on earth, and the place where the highest weather temperature ever was recorded. In the depression it became very hot and I whizzed past many nodding donkey oil pumps. I had seen quite a few of these in Xinjiang in the previous few days. Turpan is famous for grapes and raisins and the town was surrounded with vineyards. There were also loads of mud-brick lattice buildings for drying the grapes. I was too late for grapes, but fine for raisins. They were enormous, plump and very sweet- and bright purple or bright green.

The town itself was much like any other large Chinese town. It took me a long time to gain entry because the police check was baffled that my visa had been issued in Baku. I went to see the police here, who extended my visa without any problems aside from linguistic ones. As this took an entire day, I went to see the ancient silk road city of Jiaohe which, although being more than a thousand years old, and made of mud, is in remarkable condition. It was like visiting ancient Mycaenae in Greece.

Cycling through desert-like terrain the next day I decided to stop at a melon seller for a snack. I chose a small one, and the guy refused to sell it to me. He insisted on a large one. Big confusion and frustration. He opened it up and fed me piece by piece until I had had enough, and then refused any payment. In Shanshan I found a really nice, and cheap hotel.

The next day, I cycled into the desert again (I have never made the mistake of being under-supplied again!) and found a large crater by the side of the road which hid my tent perfectly. I was startled by human voices in the night, but Chinese trucks break down the whole time, and this one had done so on the bit of the road nearest the crater. Not the best sleep I have ever had, but crystal clear stars.

The next day took me through a place I have since discovered is famous for being outrageously windy. And it was just that; not much fun at all. As the road turned south however towards late afternoon, the wind started to assist more than hinder, and I made good ground. Despite this, at fall of night I arrived at a village, Yiwanquan, with no guesthouse. The police directed me to a building where I was immediately invited in.

I had been thinking that day, as the mind wanders when you cycle, what it would be like to be back in an institution like a prep school. I was just about to find out. This was a workers' lodgings and I was given a bed in the dormitory. Workers in China nearly always wear combat camo clothes. They then asked if I had a bowl; I provided my army mess tin. They filled this with lovely bean sprout stir fry from the enormous couldrons of the kitchen, accompanied with steamed buns. They were all extremely concerned to make me feel at home, and ensured I had second helpings. They were fascinated by my sleeping bag and how it can compress into such a small bag.

As I dozed off, they were getting stuck into a serious game of cards. If in Central Asia they play backgammon, in China they play cards. At half 6 the next morning, just as used to happen at prep school, the lights were automatically turned on, and just as at prep school, no one paid any attention. This was followed 15 minutes later by bursts of Peking Opera music, and half an hour later again more music. This was when everyone started to stir. They provided me with warm water to wash my face, and soup and steamed buns for breakfast. They also insisted I take some steamed buns in my bag, which was lucky because I was nearly out of food. Before I left I gave them all some small euro coins and some of the many Azeri coins that have been cluttering my bag. They were delighted.

They had tried to get me to slurp my soup. Chinese table manners are something that take a long, long time to get used to. It would appear to me that in general no one really cares how you eat your food. If you are in a restaurant and you want to spit, by all means make a huge noise to clear your throat and project a gobule onto the floor. This noise is what usually wakes me up when I am in cheap Chinese hotels. Also, there is no need to use the chopsticks to pick up your noodles- you can shovel them. Just move your head down to the bowl, and slurp them from the side.

I stopped in a little convenience store to buy some sweets in the afternoon. The woman behind the counter filled a carrier bag to the brim with sweets, cakes, preserved eggs, coke and sprite, and insisted I take it. I tried hard to give her some money for it, but she would not accept.

In Hami that evening, I found a cheap hotel, where the staff led me to a rerstaurant for supper. I made a noise like a chicken and then a noise like a cow with a gesture, thinking I had asked for chicken or beef. Just as I had finished the chicken, and was about to ask for the bill, a huge plate of beef arrived, which the woman insisted I had asked for. Why they thought I wanted 2 huge, and expensive dishes is beyond me. Communication can be so frustrating sometimes, in that they are programmed it seems, totally differently. In another country, they may not understand your speech, but when you ask a question or make a gesture, there is no other question you could possibly be asking them, so they understand what you mean. It is so frustrating sometimes that it is hard to restrain one's temper, and sometimes you can feel like crying or biffing someone. Patience is everything!

At the bank the following day, hanged my remaining USD 300 for Chinese money. There was a Bank of China, which is the only institution that will do this. My passport was scrutinised by 3 different people, I had to go to one clerk to prepare the forms before proceeding to the cashier. She worked quickly, but there was so much paperwork that it took an age. She was very pleased when I pushed the "good Service" button. Then, at the cashier, I counted 9 forms going off to different places, each one stamped with three different stamps by the same clerk. So much for segregation of duties. I counted 9 forms going off in different directions, one of which with my phone number on. In any other country, this transaction would have taken about 3 minutes.

That evening I was invited to stay with the Traffic Police, who collect road tolls. It was good to have somewhere to stay, and some supper although one of them was I fear a little disappointed that I don't swing the other way, if you understand what I'm getting at. I don't know what gave the impression that I might, but I fear it may have been the rather strange photo with the Uygar boy I mentioned above that he picked out of my bag, and the pictures on my camera of the guy I had stayed with in the orchard, who looks rather camp I am afraid to say. I pretended I didn't understand what he was getting at and made very clear that all I was interested in was going to bed!

The 15th of October was a mammoth day of 140km to XinXinXa, the border town with Gansu. I followed a new, and as yet unopened motorway all day and it was like having the worlds best cycle path. The only problem came just before dusk, as I was arriving at the town, when it turned out that they had not finished blasting through the rock at one end. This was a very nervous moment, but I found a road worker who showed me the dust track into XinXinXa.

I had met a friendly Taiwanese cycle pair (Ida and Leon, brother and sister) in Hami who had warned me that one hotel in XinXinXa was awful, and best avoided but they said I had no way of telling which one this was. I was very disappointed when the staff at the hotel I had just checked into told me about a Taiwanese cycle pair who had stayed there a few days before. They made a nice supper, but the hotel was AWFUL. The loo was an unconcealed hole in the ground at the end of the corridor, right next to my room. No water, no flush. And it wasn't cheap either. After I had turned off the lights to go to sleep, there was a knock on the door. Oh No! Not the police again! It was a young staff member who it appeared was interested in chatting. I was fuming with rage, and told him that I was going to sleep and closed the door. Five minutes later, another knock, and the woman who runs the place was going mad. She then led a stranger into my room and gave him my spare bed. I had not paid a dormitory price. It was not worth complaining, and I went to sleep.

The next day, I cycled into Gansu, although I wasn't aware when I actually crosed the border. Finally, in touch with the internet and the outide world again! I had a long day cycling through hilly desert-like scenery, and I was concerned I wasn't going to find a town with a hote, as my water was running very low. I crossed the railway tracks however, which are great landmarks because they tell you exactly where you are on a Chinese map, and saw that I would soon arrive in a town.

I played Russian roulette with the menu, which yielded a pleasant pork sate, asked if there was anywhere to stay. When the bill came, there was another 2 quid on the bottom of the bill. When I asked what this was, the waitress replied, "Sleeping," whereupon I was led to a more than acceptable room I had to myself. The loo was un-usable as far as I was concerned- a pit with four standing holes side by side, and mounds of poo (sorry everybody) rising up above each hole. The Chinese are largely not bothered about privacy when it comes to defecating. I remember being shocked when I was taught at school that the Romans didn't have any dividers in their latrines. Well, often, nor do the Chinese. I often see them doing it just standing by the side of the road.

The following day, the wind was extremely kind to me, blasting me at 40 km/h for the last few hours to such an extent that I cycled 154km by the end of the day. The landscape was lunar, but terracotta mud, and I whizzed past an enormous sea-loke reservoir that wasn't marked on the map. I exited the motorway in the middle of nowhere, and asked the toll people where I could pitch my tent. I was told to speak to a girl who spoke English on the tannoy, and I was invited in.

They made a huge fuss over me, plying me with milk, cakes, tea, and a huge supper. I noticed that they were very civilised, and used their chopsticks with great delicacy. They were very impressed that I know how to use them. Many places assume that no foreigner can use them. They let me use the internet to check my emails, which I had really been looking forward to, but I found out that some spammer had sent a wierd email from my account about mobile phones to all my contacts, and deleted not only all my contacts but also all my emails for the month before. So if you got an email from me like that it was spam, and if you sent me an email, send it again!

The next morning, they very kindly made me some noodles and warm milk and asked if I wanted to stay another day. I cycled further into Gansu, and having now left the desert, I was catapaulted into Autumn. The sweet smells reminded me of home, and I didn't realise it, but I subconsciously associate autumn with happy thoughts, like Rugby. This gave me a boost. The landscape reminded me of home, with the autumn hues, the hills, and the sheep. I found a room on that evening, the 18th October in Yumendong.

The next day, I arrived early in Jiayuguan, and went to see the castle that marks the start of the Great Wall. It was a surreal thought to have reached such a landmark, having left London on my bike and just kept pedalling. It was a very impressive castle, but the wall itself has not been restored, and is purely mud brick. Inside the castle, there were waxworks from hundreds of years ago doing daily chores. It occurred to me how little life has changed for many people over the last few hundred years. The wood burning stove with large circular pot holes in the kitchen could have been taken out of any of the local restaurants. That day, I had also seen fields being ploughed with oxen and small farmers work the land and harvest by hand.

I was very tired the next day, and decided to pop into a passing town, Jiuquan, only 20 km on to buy a map of Gansu. This was an utter disaster as no one could work out what I wanted. I would show my map of Xinjiang, and then said "Gansu," pointing again at the map, and indicating I wanted to buy one. I found a shopping mall, and when I thought I had found a bookshop, the woman provided a child's jigsaw map of China. This nearly brought tears of frustration. I walked past a bike shop, and they changed my brake pads and cables for me, and a passing woman who spoke English in the meantime quietly went off and bought me the map I wanted. Just as you are about to strangle someone in China, someone does something unbelievabley kind to make everything OK again. I was tired and decided to call it a day, and the bike mechanic led me to a nice, very cheap hotel (2 pounds).

That evening I walked out of a restaurant when as I walked in pretty much everyone stopped talking to stare at me, and the waitress looked at me in the manner of a dog pleading not to be shot. I was tired.

The landscape the next day reminded me of the south west of France, complete with snowy mountains in the background. The mornings are very cold, but the lunchtime heat is still shirtsleeves weather. There are carts everywhere with maize stalks and chaff, and every possible space is given to drying the maize: gardens, streets, rooves. I stayed in a little town called Yuanshanzi for RMB 10 which is about 90p - the least I have ever paid for a room anywhere in the world! Perfectly acceptable and they even give you a thermos of hot water.

The night of the 22nd was spent in Zhongye, a large town where I found a decentish hotel. I bought some dragon fruit to snack on, very nice. The following day was perfect weather, and I should have made good grouynd, but I only made 66km and stopped in Shandan due to tyre problems. I started to follow the Great Wall which snakes in and out of the railway tracks. No one really pays attention to it- in some places it is gone totally, in others it is quite significant. After while I found a grotty little guesthouse, which was cheap so I accepted a room. These two revolting men who seemed to run the place then came in, and one of them brushed the dirty bed sheets with his hand in front of me to try to make them clean. The other guy had chronically nicotine stained teeth and a large boget hanging from one nostril, which he wiped off and flicked somewhere in the room. They then sat on the bed and tried to explain something in Chinese. Another frustrating thing is that if you don't understand what they are saying, they are convinced you will understand it if they write it down for you...in Chinese characters. I was getting pretty cross and indicated that I didn't understand and that I wanted to be left alone. The bogey guy then made an obscene gesture with his hands to indicate sex, and I realised they were pimps who wanted to know if I required any "services". I said no, and told them to leave, but they wouldn't go, and 3 minutes later he made a different gesture. At this point I was livid with rage, picked up all my things, and demanded my money back, which he reluctantly gave me. The last place I want to stay is a brothel with dirty sheets! Luckily I found quite a nice place nearby that I can't believe I had missed before. There was a power cut for much of the evening, and they provided candles.

The following day, having been woken up by the Peking Opera music blasted into the streets before 7am, I cycled up and down a huge hill to Yongdong. The Great Wall followed me all day, firstly on my right, and then the road cut through a narrow gap in it (I do hope they didn't make the gap.) It is mud-brick, and the little gaps in it make it look a bit like cartoon teeth. Being mud, it is the same colour as the landscape so I would be very surprised indeed if you can see it from space, even with a really really good telescope. There are the remains of watchtowers every few hundred yards, and huge forts lie unceremoniously derelict. The landscape was a little deserty, but I suppose it couldn't have been true desert as there were many sheep and shepherds going about their daily lives around it, paying no attention to this world famous relic!

Next day, the 25th October, I continued to plod on, enjoying the beautiful autumn weather, and watching the locals at their back-breaking agricultural work. The pit loo in the little guesthouse that evening was guarded by one of the biggest and meanest spiders I have ever seen. I just can't get used to the public nature of these loos. When I went in the following morning there was a chap in there chatting away on a very high tech phone whilst squatting. You often see people squatting by the side of the road- it is necessary to watch where you cycle!

I cycled up a 3000 metre mountain pass that afternoon, and there was lovely snow-kissed scenery at the top. Buddhist buildings have started marking the landscape which is both beautiful and adds more satisfaction at having made it into the buddhist world. I had noticed people transporting as many as three live sheep on the back of a motorbike, and also bikes with panniers made especially to carry chickens! I had to cycle a little into the dark that evening, which I usually will do anything to avoid, but before long I found a little guesthouse in a town and a very nice won ton soup.

The Chinese National Anthem blasted into the streets rose me the following morning, and I enjoyed a long downhill stretch. I had been cycling down the motorway (EASILY the safest option) and someone helped me lift it over the fence for lunch and back onto the motorway again after lunch. I enjoyed boiled vegetables (the ones where you choose which veg you want to eat on little sticks and they cook it for you) and steamed buns while seemingly the entire population of the local school took it in turns to peer at me through the doorway, and come and have little chats. I didn't mind at all- sometimes I imagine foreigners NEVER come to these parts, and they were very friendly. The towns however are incredibly modern with high rise buildings, modern-seeming shops and wide, if quiet, streets.

That night, I got caught out by the dark, so I climbed out of the motorway and asked in a little village where I could camp. Although the chinese are incredibly kind and helpful in general, they do not seem willing to help much when it comes to this sort of thing. In central asia, I would have been invited into a home to camp in the garden, or, much more likely, to be an honoured guest in the home. In this little village the people wanted nothing to do with me. I really don't mind this: they owe me nothing and I owe them nothing. I am self sufficient, and I was only asking where I could camp our of courtesy. I wandered off and found a quiet spot in an orchard. I took a couple of nice juicy pears from one of the leafless trees as the harvest had already happened it seemed, and the remaining few fruit it seemed were left there to rot.

I had camped only 40km from Lanzhou, the capital of Gansu and my plan was to spend one night there before bashing on towards Xian the next morning. I was not expecting the Hong Kong style metropolis that Lanzhou is with green buddhist temple-crowned mountains close-in, a large river and hundreds of gleaming high rise buildings. I settled into the first hotel I found at an acceptable price that took foreigners and planned to do nothing other than write this blog for the rest of the day.

After lunch there was a knock on the door. This was not the police, nor an angry chambermaid about to bust me for washing my clothes in the sink. There, somewhere under a hevy mop of hair and a shaggy beard, much like mine, stood Charles Lamb, an old Oundlian fives player with a passion for eating well. He was dressed in clothes very similar to mine (blue tracksuit bottoms and a red fleece) and the staff had thought he was me, and tried to let him in my room. He also has the same bike as me, minus the Rohloff Speedhub. It was a boon to meet another British man having not held a proper conversation with anyone other than my family on the phone for a while. Rather co-incidentally, he had been cycling for a long time with a girl I met on a boat to Bilbao in Spain last November! After a bottle of 1994 Chinese red, we decided to cycle together for a bit, although in retrospect, he has been cycling for a long time with these guys at the speed of light (150 to 200km a day compared to my 90 to 120) so we only ended up cycling together for a few days. I have no intention of ruining my enjoyment of the cycling (and cycling here really is enjoyable) by busting a gut to stay up in the fast lane.

The following day I decided to stay in Lanzhou all day while Charles went to see some buddhist caves and I spent all day writing the bulk of this masterpiece. That evening, by another co-incidence we met a friendly anglophone chinese man that Charles had met at the caves when we headed into the centre for food. He very kindly treated us to some local muslim grub- a very nice cooked pear, some delicious sweet cold wheat soup, and a foul sweet bean soup that we both just managed to finish out of politeness. He then insisted on taking us out for some beers, which was very kind of him too. In China, beer is drunk out of little shot glasses which are constantly refilled. It was very late by the time we went to bed! He talked a lot about politics, and was a little like a prophet for the Communist party. "It is great here- progress is so fast. In UK it takes decades to build a road, but here we have communism, we just move people...There are some crazy people in Tibet and Xinjiang who do not want to be part of China..."

The next day we left very late having had breakfast in a 4* hotel -a great wheeze- and done a few chores. While Charles was in a shop I observed a man having his shoes shined. The woman took a lot of care over the job- dilligently rolled up his trousers and carefully placed pieces of paper to protect his socks from the polish. At the end, after she had carefully rolled down the trousers and taken out the bits of paper, he never looked her in the face, or said anything to her- he just gave her the money (RMB 3 - 27p) whilst chatting on his phone, and walked off. This appears to be the norm- they don't say thankyou in a commercial transaction, and explains why they are always a little flabbergasted when we do. I have actually stopped using the Chinese word "Xie Xie" in such circumstances, and have started saying "thankyou" instead which causes less surprise.

That evening we found a nice little hotel in a little town, and it was good to have someone to split the already cheap bill with. These little towns are being rebuilt by the central planners. It is plain to see that people are being turfed out of their little traditional chinese houses (which have chinese-style rooves and little ornaments on them) by way of "progress" in the form of blocks of flats. Charles made the comparison with Britain in the 1960s, and that they don't seem to be learning from our mistakes! You can see the diggers at work, and the next street earmarked for the wrecking-ball. The building work goes into the night. As we wandered early in the following morning in the Hunt for Breakfast, they were busy laying the marble in the new town square. This would have been a clutch of little houses very recently.

Poor Charles was startled when I speepwalked in the middle of the night - I thought some chinese guy had come and moved into the room! I shouted "WHAT'S GOING ON?!" at which point he woke me up and all was well! Early the next morning, at about 8am there were people classically dancing in the main square, as well as performing aerobics, and funny dance exercises involving badminton raquets and shuttlecocks. Most of these people are elderly, and I have since seen government advice for the elderly that to do this too early in the morning on cold days may be bad for their health!

For three days, the mountain scenery was made even more dramatic by the presence of terraces going from the valleys right up to the summits. The terraces themselves were either ploughed terra-cotta in colour or as bright as Augusta golf greens- surprising considering the scarcity of rain in the area. The views were truly breathtaking, especially when the panorama opened up down the valley.

The next day, as I was fixing a puncture on the side of the road, Susie Wheeldon and her pal Jamie -the people Charles had been cycling with- flashed past and I hailed them down for a chat. I hadn't seen Susie since that boat to Bilbao from Portsmouth (last year I made this trip and cycled back to test out my bike, stopping with friends at Sauveterre on the way back and demolish as much foie gras as politely possible.) It was great to see her again, and to meet Jamie, who (I hope he doesn't mind my saying this) has a touch of Johnny Vaughan about him.

They all warped on, leaving me to take things at my preferred pace, whilst enjoying the scenery. They found a 4* hotel in Tianshui which if shared with another person only costs a tenner. We sat there for a good hour the next day munching away at the all-you-can-eat buffet which had a man pulling fresh beef noodles, the traditional chinese breakfast favourite. I decided to part company from the peloton and make my way towards Xian while they took a day off to inspect the Majishan Grottoes.

I plumped for the small road rather than the motorway as I thought I may want to stop earlier and there are always more towns on the little roads. I thought I was terribly clever following the chinese characters for Xian and Baoji, and enjoing the villages I was passing. Grain was being dried on the verges on the road; they even put it on the tarmac itself so it was necessary to take care to avoid running over it. There was a lot of climbing involved, up into the green hills/mountains. These were very steep as they crowded round the road, much like sandcastles made with a bucket and spade.

I was irritated when I arrived at a police roadblock and told that this was a dead end at about 3pm. After a bit of non-linguistic communication, it turned out that I had taken completely the wrong road and I had in fact cycled up to the Majishan Grottoes. 5 minutes later, Charles, Susie and Jamie turned up in a 3 wheeled taxi. I decided to call the cycling a day, and joined them in the grottoes. It was a good mistake to have made because the grottoes -caves with buddha statues on a sheer cliff face, made accessible by artificial platforms and metal staircases- were very special indeed. The sight of the largest 15 metre buddha statues carved into the side of the cliff against the blue sky and the green mountains was quintessentially chinese.

I found a little, extremely cold guesthouse near the grottoes that also gave me some supper. I have started usinfg my water bladder as a hot water bottle from the thermos of hot water you always get in these establishments, and it worked very well indeed. After finding breakfast in the street of plain doughnuts and glutinous spicy noodles from some delighted ladies the next day, I tried to find the through road, heading in the right direction. The terrain reminded me of the north coast of Turkey, the hilliest place I have cycled so far. I passed quaint little villages, all decked out in red chinese lanterns (no doubt left over from the holiday a month ago) as we would use bunting. Then the road passed under the motorway and I realised I was totally lost, and needed help. I asked some workmen for the right way to Baoji, and they pointed me down a disused dirt road, steep downhill and through a tunnel. I took their advice, and 5km later when I saw the motorway again I realised I was going perfectly the wrong way.

The only way of getting back on track would be somehow to get onto the motorway, which was going to be difficult as in this section it is usually either high bridges or tunnels. I spotted a banked section, and climbed the bike up the steep bank, removed the panniers, and carefully passed them through a hole in the barbed wire. After a lot of struggling, and a lot of swearing, I was moving in the right direction (having crossed the central reservation -the motorway was largely EMPTY) After I emerged from the first long tunnel, The air had taken a sharp, damp coolness that instantly reminded me of Belguim back in March. Much of the rest of the day was spent in large, well-lit tunnels. I would rather cycle in the open air, but being in a tunnel means that I have not had to cycle over the top of the hill!

As I approached what would be the last tunnel of the day, I was hailed down by the police. Oh No! They explained that the road was very dangerous; I explained (without lying) that in my entire trip across Eurasia this was the safest road I had been on. China is funny. They think that the highway is dangerous because in the west we think it is dangerous, and they are keen to have western values but do not make any allowances for the fact in the west we actually have something called "traffic"- a noun alien to the Chinese highway.

They wanted to shove me and my bike into a police van and drive me through, but when I explained (again, without lying) that I had cycled every inch of land between here and china, they went off and held a discussion. This was positive. They announced that they would let me cycle through the tunnel, in front of a police car with flashing lights. So off I went, pedalling as hard as I could into the tunnel, with had a "continuous downgrade" as the chinese signs say, allowing me to be very speedy at about 35 kph. The police escort was made even more ridiculous by the fact that half of the tunnel was cordened off for pithy roadworks, and this was where I cycled, and would have cycled- reducing the danger factor to 0.0001. The tunnel went on and on and on. At an approptriate place, a layby, I pulled over assuming the police car would want to pull over to let the angry motorists who were bottled in behind carry on with their lives. They were having none of it, and told me to carry on, for heaven's sake! The tunnel kept going- on and on. When I thought we were nearing the end, it turned out to be simply a white coloured paint that was slapped on every few kilometers to wake everybody up. When the motorists started angrily hooting their horns, the policemen would silence them with an angry message through the loudspeaker. It was like the announcements silencing the growing murmours in the Sistine Chapel.

When we eventually got through the tunnel, which turned out to be 12km long, big handshakes all round, and they insisted on carrying on the escort until I was on the right road, despite a fifteen foot hard shoulder and no traffic. They were very concerned that I should take a few sips of water before carrying on. The scenery was lovely and I should have liked to have stopped to take a few photos, but alas this would have given rise to a lot of moaning. At the first exit, I asked them if I should leave the motorway, but they said no! Very kindly, they let me continue until the town called Fujiatan on my English map, but in actual fact is something else entirely and I have forgotten. They took me to a hotel, and helped me navigate the sea accommodation woes (en suite, not ensuite, inspect the rooms....) before finally a cheery farewell. The hotel menu had photographs, which meant I didn't have to play gastronomic roulette, and I managed a nice belly pork dish with egg fried rice.

The next morning, after fixing an inner tube and devouring a curious breakfast of fried eggs, sweet egg soup, salty vegetables and a mountain of fried bread, I left Gansu province and entered Shaanxi province where it seems, the police are more keen to keep cyclists off the motorway. They man the entry roads. This is irritating because while the motorway tunnels are lit perfectly, the common variety ones are not. This doesn't mean I am going to get hit by a car because I am lit up like a Christmas Tree, and you can hear all the cars coming well in advance, allowing a leisurely migration to the pavement. It is however much, much slower. Big irritation.

I arrived in Baoji last night hoping to renew my visa here, which must be done before the weekend. The last visa extension in Turpan took overnight, and I know that small towns are easier than large ones like Xian, which take 5 days to process. The rules are not uniform however, and when I eventually found the PSB (Public Security Bureau- similar to Bergerac Jersey's fabled Bureau des Etrangers) they told me, by way of a phone call to a university lecturer who spoke English (no doubt a friend of one of the pretty girls who worked there) that in Baoji this would take 7 days.

I found lodgings for a tenner- for another tenner I could have wallowed in 4* luxury in the hotel opposite. In Chinese hotels you often get unusual phone calls from someone who doesn't speak English. I was unusually friendly to the one last night, and chatted in English for a few seconds to whoever it was before putting the phone down. A few minutes later there was a ginger knock on the door, and in the corridor stood 2 girls who seemed far too beautiful and well dressed to be prostitutes. It can seem a shame to have morals sometimes.

I made it over to the 4* joint there for quite simply the best breakfast I have ever had in my life (excepting, of course my mother's one.) For less than GBP 2.50 there was an all you can eat buffet with all sorts of fruit, sweets, chinese funny things, hot milky coffee, eggs, bacon (!!!), toast and jam (!!) all sorts of things from portion sized steamers, a selection of soups and porridges...my description is hugely wanting in delivering the true splendour of the occasion. You sit down on enormous round tables with whoever is there and in the full hour that I dedicated to stuffing my face, the company changed twice.

I have opted to train to Xian, 200km away to start the 5 day renewal process, and come back here tomorrow to continue cycling. I appear to have charmed the hotel staff who are letting me leave my bike here. There was a train ticket booth conveniently next door to the hotel, and I purchased a ticket to Xian for this afternoon by way, again, of a telephone to an English speaking colleague. It is good of them to do that. Unfortunately the morning trains were all booked out so I am off at 4pm. The terracotta army will have to wait.

I have had an email from Noel, the American chap I met in Osh. Apparently he is a few days behind me, and we may combine efforts from Xian. He cycles at normal speed, it seems.

I am about 2 thirds of the way through China, and I have cycled more than 15,200km since that cold morning at Buckingham Palace. The plan is to get to Hong Kong before Christmas. If anyone fancies a chat, my Chinese number is 15293752474. The adventure continues!

Many thanks to Jam Pot for uploading this for me.

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!

Dushanbe to Khorog

The rumour mill seemed to suggest that the route from Dushanbe to Khorog, the town att the start of the Pamir Highway, would be a simple and straightforward journey. This is proof the rumour is not always the best source of information, although in this part of the world, it is usually the only thing to go by.

As usual, I left Dushanbe late on the 22nd August, after the last minute errands I wanted to do before leaving town. I met a rather friendly 23 year old girl who helped me buy rehydration salts (of all things) in a pharmacy. I tried to explain to her that they were for my supplies "just in case" but she didn't understand. She was very keen to take my phone number to practice her English, which I thought was rather odd since she is married with a child. She never rang!

The first day was well paved, and I found a teahouse that allowed me to sleep as well as have supper and breakfast for less than $3. This had been the first day of Ramadan, and people tutted "ramadan, ramadan" as I sipped an ice tea in the street. Ramadan unfortunately means that a lot, but not all, of the teahouses I rely on for sustinence are closed.

The following evening I saw a cowboy riding with no saddle, herding his large flock of horses down the road. A few moments later, I ran into some friendly Irish Mongol Ralliers, and we decided to camp together by the river. They had had an interesting trip, having already been to Syria, Iraq and Iran in their car. One of them was a bicycle mechanic and he kindly gave my bike a once over and tightened a few screws. He also gave me some useful bike tools and a pair of long finger gloves.

They cooked me a great supper of pasta and sardines- just what I needed as I really couldn't be bothered to cook. After I left them the following day, there was the amusing sight of both of them pushing the car down the hill that led to the rickety bridge, and jumping in just in time to turn the ignition.

The road by this stage had been awful for a long time, with no tarmac, but stones, boulders, and potholes in spades. The most irritating thing about such an awful road, in combination with hilly terrain is that you go up the hills slowly, and then instead of whooshing down the other side, you go down at the same speed you went up. This reduced my daily kilometer total to less than 50km, when I usually like to count on 100 to 120.

The following day at about lunchtime I stopped in a teahouse that was obviously closed, but desperate for something to eat, I went round the back and hunted for someone who could perhaps help me. They told me they were closed, but gave me an enormous loaf of flat "non" bread and four big tomatoes for which they would accept no payment.

I followed the rotten road down into a valley where there was the wildest ford I have ever seen. The cars, minibuses, tankers, lorries and -well- bibycles were forced to cross a proper flowing river and go straight up a very steep hill of mud and stones on the other side. After letting out a sigh and a groan, and having given a little banter to the assembled children, I took off my shoes and socks, tied them together in a bow so they would sit on my bike frame, and walked my bike through the fast flowing freezing water. A lorry had broken down in the shallowest part of the river which was very irritating. Passengers in minibuses were forced to get out and push on the other side, and I was treated to the amusing sight of a dozen people trying to push an oil tanker uphill.

That evening I was a little caught out by the fact that it now gets dark at about 7.30pm, and I arrived in a village just as darkness was falling. Children shreaked with excitement from seemingly every house gate- highly irritating as I was trying to keep a low profile. Two children started to follow me, and out of irritation I slammed on my brakes and asked them where they were going. I then felt a little guilty as one of them then said he knew where I could stay. After a long and confusing circle of the residential area, where women ignored me when I tried to strike up conversation ("Izvinitye pajalsta...")I was led to the police station. I asked in my best Russian if they knew where I could sleep in my tent, and the old officer made a call on his mobile. With the gesture of a host in a private house, I was then invited into the police station where I was given tea, soup, bread, plov (the national dish) and watermelon. One of the policemen then took me back to his home where I was given a bed for the night. So much for the reports of corrupt and nasty soviet police!

I found an open teahouse the following morning where I received a delicious goulash and the old guy played the usual game of putting things in front of me that I had not ordered. This time, I was delighted to receive a large bowl of honey, and a "non" bread. I met a Pamiri man in the teahouse who is a driver in Dushanbe, and who lamented the demise of the USSR. "USSR was good country- people had to worry about nothing. If you needed clothes, you had clothes. Now, we have to buy things from China, and they brake immediately." There are an extraordinary amount of people here who wear tops with USSR or CCCP emblazoned on the back, and the statue of Lenin still holds pride of place in many towns.

I felt very tired later that day, and a call from Jam Pot raised my spirits. It was great to hear about what my friends have been up to over the last few months. Very sorry to hear that Patrick has had a bad fall from his horse, but hope he is on tip top form despite.

That evening, I made my way up towards the khaburahot pass, and camped by a mountain stream in a place that could have been created just for me, out of sight from the road. The stars that evening were extremely special. I broke my fast the following morning with honey, bread, and lapsang souchong, and headed further up the mountain. En route to the pass, I met many workers who were harvesting, all armed with scythes. The weather was hot, but the water from the mountain springs was cold. I would have to put in a further 22km of pure uphill to reach the pass (having done about 5km the previous evening) The first 18 km of this seemed easy; I was strong and the road seemed to disappear behind me with surprising ease. I spotted what I thought was the pass in the distance, however when I reached this, and there was another valley to cycle round (and then another, and then another) my strength was not what it had been.

At the top, the snow lay on the dark mountainside in smooth spots, like the markings of a killer whale. The guards at the top were not a barrel of laughs and "joked" that a photo next to the 3252m sign would cost $100.

Just as I was thinking how lucky I had been not to get a puncture, I felt the now familiar sensation of my back wheel becoming more bouncy, and realised I had a flat. With low energy, I found the most idyllic place to rest, with green grass next to a mountain stream, and I drank my emergency can of red bull. I was pretty tired. As the rubber glue was drying, I made myself some rice pudding. Another puncture was then found, and in turn was mended.

Ten minutes after I had set off again, the rear tyre was again flat, and the patch had leaked. It was on the inside, and did not have the tyre wall to lean against- making it particularly prone to leak. I peeled off the patch and applied another one.

Five minutes after having set off again, I felt what I thought was another flat and, spitting blood, I removed my panniers and inspected the inner tube. Nothing. I put it back on and reloaded the bike. By this stage, light was a precious commodity.

The decent from the mountain to the river at the bottom was spectacular, with soaring cliff faces rather than distant views. A police registration checkpoint infuriated me by wasting my time for five minutes, writing down the details of my passport. "TAJIKISTAN VERY GOOD"

I made it that evening to Kalaikhum, the first Pamiri town, although I didn't realise it at the time. There was a pleasant homestay, with a nice supper, although the children didn't bother even aiming for the loo hole, and went in the corner of the room. I was later informed that, out of the 5 Pamiri languages, (people in the Pamirs are Pamiri rather than Tajik), Kalaikhum has its own language. Lenin still stands proud in the centre of town.

The following morning, I reached the panj river, the frontier between Tajikistan and Afghanistan. The road would follow this river for the next three days en route to Khorog. In places the river was so narrow that you could hear Afghan ladies as they washed their clothes, and Afghan donkeys echoed out along the valley. On a couple of occasions, I heard some cheers, and when I looked up I realised it was a load of friendly Afghans who were waving.

Afghan villages had flat rooved mud brick houses, and astonishingly most had satellite dishes. I never saw a vehicle of any descripton on the Afghan side of the river, save a load of donkeys and one bicycle. It was entrancing to watch Afghans go about their daily lives on the other side of the river- carrying their shopping, driving their cattle, smacking their donkeys with sticks. In many places, Afghan children would swim in the river, in sheltered parts where the flow of the river was diverted.

All of this took place to a backdrop of snowcapped peaks on either side. The quality of the road in the valley was comparitively very good, which meant I could enjoy the views without having to worry too much about the road.

On my first night in the Panj valley, I was thwarted by a closed teahouse, but I was invited by Alexi, who runs a business selling fuel from a tanker on the side of the road to spend the night on his rickety spring bed next to his tanker. He prefers to sleep inside the cabin. He only has one leg due to a car crash a year ago, and hobbles about on old fashioned crutches. In Europe he would have been given a prosthetic leg. He studied Business at University, and makes a good living selling petrol. He is 27, but looks 37- most people in this part of the world look well older than their years. Interestingly, his brother serves for the Russian, rather than the Tajik, military.

I was woken by early morning customers, and the smell of diesel being poured into a bucket- the method used for each customer.

Another puncture that afternoon, and another audience who very kindly provided some dried mulberries as I fixed my innertube. I asked in a village where I could pitch my tent, and was immediately invited in, and given tea and supper. The whole extended family came round, including a niece who studies English at the University og Khorog. She was amazed that I don't have blue eyes- "Doesn't everyone in England have blue eyes?" They told me not to use my tent, and gave me a bed inside the house. They all get up at 6am to eat (Ramadan) and pray- and I felt rather lazy lying in until 6.30. I was given a milky noodle pudding for breakfast and ordered to stir in some butter. It wasn't bad, although I usually avoid such things like the plague. They took some fruit down off the apricot tree for me to snack on. I was sent on my way with a large bag of dried mulberries.

I was beckoned over by an old guy less than an hour after setting off, and plied with more apricots, the sweetest I have ever tasted. At midday, as I was getting something out of a pannier, I was approached by a Pamiri girl, and invited into the home for tea. There was a spread of biscuits, watermelon and butter mixed with sugar. Just as I was about to leave, a massive plate of plov made with noodles, and a salad arrived which I was ordered to eat. She spoke good English, but none of the rest of the family did. She is about to start an accountancy course at the University of Dushanbe. The garden was dripping with fruit, and all hands were on deck peeling them, presumably to make preserves.

It was breathtaking to have received so much kindness in one day from so many different people.

I arrived at Khorog just as darkness fell, and had an awful time trying to find Pamir Lodge, the place I am staying at. It was full of cyclists, including Tom and Blaise- so it was good to speak some English with English speakers for once!

I have felt a little tired and under the weather in Khorog, so have decided to stay here for a few days to recharge my batteries before heading to the Pamir Highway. Khorog is framed by spectacular mountain views, but the most exciting thing is a restaurant which serves western dishes in western style! Central Asia has a choice of about 6 different dishes in total, so it is good to have a crispy chicken burger for once!

I will hopefully be heading for the Pamir Highway tomorrow, and then it will be about a week until I get to the Kyrgyz border...and another 2 or 3 days to the Chinese border! All reports state that the Chinese have pulled the plug on the internet and international calls in Xinjiang province where I will be for the first few weeks, but watch this space!

Bukhara, Samarkand, Dushanbe

As I write this, I am sitting in Dushanbe, sipping a Coke made at Bagrami Industrial Estate, Kabul, Afghanistan. I am surprised the Coke has made it here with no bullet holes! It is the first time since my early childhood that I have had a Coke from a can where the top actually comes off, leaving a little triangle to drink through. Afghan Coke is much less fizzy than other Cokes. I digress.

The journed from Buchara to Samarkand should have been a straightforward two and a half or three day cycle through populated areas(hence easy, due to the abundance of shops and teahouses.)I didn't get going from Bukhara until about 4pm due to the need to sort out a few things before I left. I had found the bicycle bazaar that morning, which had the usual unfortunate choice between Russian or Chinese goods. Some of the inner tubes on sale read "Made in the USSR." I eventually found a decent enough looking Russian tyre, and bought it (having haggled the price down a little, I was then bought a Coke by the stall holder). I gave an old lady begger a minuscule amount of money at the stall (the stallholder had done the same thing) and she gave me the traditional Central Asian greeting of washing her face with imaginary water.

After some beautifully sweet melon, and having taken my B&B hosts' recipe for Plov, I set off into a glowing evening. I managed about 50km that day, further slowed down by a punctured tyre. I stopped at a large commercial teahouse and asked some assembled gentlemen if I could sleep there. Before long, I was sitting in front of a mountain of meat stew, a huge salad, some roasted apricot stones, a steaming pot of green tea, and the world's biggest sugar lumps that they insisted I put into my tea. I had the four kind Uzbek gents for company that night (one of whom owned the tea house, and would accept no payment). They gave me blankets, and showed me where I could sleep.

The following day I became a severe victim of, we shall say, "Travellers' Tummy Trouble" which is no fun at all when you are trying to cover some ground and there are absolutely no loos anywhere. Where there is a "loo" in central Asia, it is a pit with a hole in the floorboards. Flies and mosquitoes -the occasional wasp- enjoy life in these pits. I had to stop early, and I was very quickly invited into an Uzbek home by the kind father when I asked for directions to the "gostinitsa" (guest house.) There I was treated to a bath, which consisted of a sauna (not lit, thankfully!) with some buckets of water to pan over oneself- one of the buckets had been heated on the stove. They also gave me some soap to clean my clothes but I felt too awful to do it. There was a son of about 15, who liked volleyball and a little daughter of about 7, both of whom were very friendly. The language spoken at home was Russian rather than Uzbek, and the children go to a Russian school. The father was half Russian half Uzbek. With some shivers and a slight headache, I couldn't eat much of the lovely supper, but the fresh Apricot juice was delicious. I slept outside, under my mosquito net. When I went to get dressed in the morning I found that the mother had very kindly washed my filthy clothes for me.

The next day I felt much better, and managed a giant 130km, to within a spitting distance of Samarkand. I stayed in another teahouse where I shared a room with the cook, at no cost. Teahouses are rather annoying because they often bring you all sorts of things you didn't order, and then charge you for them. When you get a free bed out of it, it doesn't matter so much!

A mere 40km the following morning, and I was in Samarkand.

"We travel not for trafficking alone,
By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned.
For lust of knowing what should not be known
We take the Golden Road to Samarkand"

--James Elroy Flecker (as in my Lonely Planet Central Asia)

The town itself is an ordinary large bustly city, however the historical sites that peer above the haze there are simply awe-inspiring due to their enormous size, and the fact that they actually satisfy the romantic, exotic ideas implanted in our heads by lines as quoted above. The soaring height, the medressa arches, the domes and the intricate blue tiles are mesmerising, especially when you position yourself so that they are all you can see. If you get the chance to go there, take it up! It was particularly good to have seen Khiva and Bukhara beforehand, building up to the majesty of Samarkand.

On one morning, I woke up at 5am and tipped the policemen to let me climb the minaret on the Registan to watch the rising sun over the city, and the panoramic view. It was very worthwile- and this is the only time they will let you do it!

Samarkand afforded a superb hostel ($6), with free breakfast, tea and watermelon and $2 hearty dinners. It was like an oasis of relaxation, and many travellers recharge their batteries there for a few days.

I met some more British Mongol Ralliers who were taking a more leisurely route through Asia, and explored the town with them. They were a really great bunch of guys, and one of them, Felix, is a current student at St Cuthberts', Durham!

After I had recharged and drunk lots of green tea, and ice cream, (the little chap in the ice cream shop greeted me with great affection when he realised I had been back loads of times, each time with people from the hostel)I headed east towards the Tajik border.

When I got to the border, I cleverly hid the USD that I was carrying under the innersoles of my shoes in case a greedy customs officer were tempted to try to extract it from me. It was when I was filling out my Uzbek customs exit form that I realised I must have also hidden my customs enrty form and registration dockets in my innersoles with the cash! Oh NO!

I had been chatting jovially with one of the customs officers, who said initially, "Da, Bolshoi Problem!" (Yes, Big problem!) when I asked. Then he said it would only envolve a small "fine," then with a little bit more banter, they let me out of the country with no issues and no searches.

On the Tajik side, the kindly customs and immigration officer helped me fill out the Russian forms and welcomed me into his country. The hills of Tajikistan were immediately visible- very exciting. If in Uzbekistan, children seem to do everything that adults do- run shops, drive cattle, hassle customers, the children of Tajikistan are all riding donkeys or donkey carts.

The men nearly all wear tall skull caps, worn more like crowns, sitting up on the top of the head. The women wear long flowing dresses, with bright patterns or bright stripes. They also wear matching trousers under the dresses. With respect, they remind me a little of Wilma Flintstone! Headscarves are now very common, but they are simply tied around the back of the head, and do not cover the neck, or all of the hair. All women, with very few exceptions wear this uniform. I have observed families where the women and girls are in traditional garb but the men and boys are in western clothes.

My first night in Tajikistan was in Pendjikent, where I asked the first person I found where the guest house was. He refused to speak Russian to me, and insisted on speaking German which was highly irritating. All he said in English was "I am a student of Leningrad University" which was highly irritating! He led me, even more annoyingly to the decrepit Hotel Intourist (I later found out that the guide book has rather a nice place in it). This place had no water in the en suite bathroom, meaning that guests have to use the pit outside. Despite this the filthy loo still dripped, producing a sea of water flooding the carpet.

The following day I managed to change money with a friendly well-to-do Tajik lady who needed dollars "for Dushanbe" and I had some breakfast of fresh bread and strawberry juice at the thriving market, the foothills in the background.

I was invited into people's homes three times that day, but unfortunately had to decline each invitation because I really wanted to make some progress. One chap was very old in a remote village, dressed highly traditionally, and spoke very good English. He was a retired English teacher. At one store I bought some cold water, and I was treated to a selection of Russian and Iranian biscuits. He also refused to allow me to pay for a couple of AA batteries.

The road was hilly and bad, making progress slow. The following day, I met some more British Mongol Ralliers who gave me some fresh water and purifying tablets. It was a real lift to see them as the weather was hot, and my motivation levels were sagging.

That day I ran into some seriously odd people. In one teahouse (I simply couldn't use the loo as the room and the vicinity were scattered with turds), I bought a big bottle of Coke, to find it poured out to the first punter who walked in without asking me! Enraged by the annoying child who wouldn't stop touching me and asking annoying questions, mainly about the value of my bike, and my casio watch, I picked up my Coke and moved to leave. Another guy said "Hey, I haven't had any Coke!" No one said thank you. They then pestered me to let them ride my bike, which I refused and sped away. That was in the town of Ayni, which still has a majestic statue of Lenin in the centre.

I stopped at another teahouse later that day. No coke. No Fanta. No food. No Juice. Only tea and nescafe and bread. And two children from hell who would not stop shouting at me with menaging grins. They were both filthy and had horribly eroded teeth. The staff (parents?) did nothing to make them go away, and later picked up my mobile phone and tried to use it even though I had expressly told them not to (I don't have much credit at all). They seemed to think the whole thing was hilarious.

After a severely tyring day, I found a teahouse that let me camp in the grounds. When I told them I didn't need help putting up my tent (it is truly a one man job, and is very fast when done as such), they sent a teenager o help anyway, and were rather surly when I sent him away. I then had to coach him through putting the thing up. When I pointed out to him he was about to step on a turd, he reached down, pcked it up and threw it away! I was in rather a grump at the end of the day- especially after the added "extras" I was charged for at the teahouse, such as sugar!

Next day, I headed up the Ansov pass. The road itself up the pass is new- thanks to the Chinese road workers who are toiling away on it. It is closed to
traffic, making it rather a pleasant,if tough 2000+ metre ascent. At the top was a tunnel, under construction, which was open to bicycles. The first 50 yards were terrifying because there was no light, and a lot of water flowing through it, but soon there were dim lights lighting the 5km way. I felt like Indiana Jones! On the other side, I was greeted with a breathtaking view of snowcapped summits and glaciers (It is AUGUST!), and deep green valleys. I really felt privileged to be there, especially since that particular place is out of bounds to most people at the moment.

There followed 90 km of glorious pure downhill to Dushanbe. At the bottom of the valley, there flowed a fast white river and the road followed this. Nearing Dushanbe there were very smart teahouses on the river with swimming pools. I also went past a presidential palace that straddled the river and could have been modelled on Chateau de Chennonceax in the Loire Valley.

I didn't quite reach Dushanbe that night, and stayed in one of the teahouses-cum-hotels, which was quite expensive but had a warm shower. The chap I dealt with was an 18 year old Tajik who goes to a Turkish school, and is taught wholly in English. I found him friendly at first, but then highly irritating as his attitudes could have been taken directly out of Borat. He found it hilarious that we have a Queen in the UK "She is a woman! That is terrible for your country!" and he was obsessed with an idea of western women learned from, it seems, MTV. This, he backed up with movie extracts saved onto his mobile phone. When I was asleep in bed, he burst into my room, turned on the lights, and asked me to help his friend fill out a visa application form that had to be done in English. I refused.

In Dushanbe, the following day, I met up with Tom and Blaise again who have had a totally different experience of the people of this country, talking only of kindness, respect,and generosity. These have been the hallmarks of my interraction with the vast majority of the people I have encountered on this trip. You can meet bad eggs in every country you visit and I have unfortunately met a few here- that said, no one has ever been really really unpleasant. I have no doubt however that the rest of the trip here will be of a different nature.

Dushanbe itself is a pleasant, leafy town with surprisingly western amenities, a thriving market, and colourful women as always. It is beautifully tame, and I have been enjoyng the normal food in the restaurants (a break from mutton!). I had pizza last night in a Turkish restaurant, chicken for lunch at a Georgian restaurant, and supper is going to be an Indian curry. Well, I am not far from India and Pakistan!

I am extremely excited about heading to the Pamir Region -my GBAO Pamir travel permit arrived hand delivered to my hotel by a very kind man this morning. It is going to be a challenge making it over the multiple mountain passes over 3000 metres, but by all reports it will be worth it.

My tajik number is

927916740

The international code for Tajikistan is +992

So to call me, it will be either +992 927 9166 740

or, +992 791 6740

I can't work it out, but if you try all alternatives you should get through!

Cultural Learnings from Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan for Make Benefit Glorious Kingdom United

The ferry had one air conditioned common room, however the portholes were large, and could be opened wide, allowing a good breeze for sleeping. We cooked on our stoves on the top deck, in front of the setting sun and clusters of oil rigs- some of which had yellow flares piercing the purple hue.

To kill the time, we invented a game on the deck rather akin to boule, but with far more rules and played with Azeri coins. It was rather good!

As Kazakhstan came into view at 10 am the following morning, we all got rather excited at the idea of hopping onto our bikes and heading into the desert that afternoon. We headed very close in, and just as I had gone below to pack up my stuff, I heard the loud and familiar noise (having lived on a boat) of the anchor chain being lowered. There was absolutely no public announcement other than the rumour mill, but the ship was to anchor off the shore for another 22 hours.

When we finally docked, the Kazakh customs officer came aboard and started telling tourists that no meat products, including tins of tuna, could be brought into the Glorious Nation. It was extraordinart how East Asian he, and all the other Kazakh officials looked. If one had been told they were from Vietnam, it would have been believed.

Customs was an irritation as all our bags (I have 6) had to be humped from one room to another, while our bikes stayed onboard, to be collected later. Once through the first truly Soviet border formalities I have yet encountered, we were cycling into town when Azret, a local cyclist pulled up beside us (me, Greg, Tom and Blaise), and started chatting to the others. I heard his voice and thought it was Tom doing a Borat impression!

He was a very kind chap who was very generous with his time. He showed us where we could get food, sim cards, sunscreen, and lunch. He cycled with us for a little period after lunch. I had to stifle a snigger when he mentioned the Borat film "Who is this idiot talking bullshit about Kazakhstan?!" Of course the film does not bear any real reality - it is far better suited to Georgia and Azerbaijan (sorry to my Georgian and Azeri friends- you guys don't count!) The English accent Borat uses is however pretty accurate and the dislike for "A**holes Uzbekistan" is right on the money. It is very rare to find anyone from Kazakhstan who will not warn you about problems in Uzbekistan.

Actau had a lovely looking quiet beach- unfortunately with the absence of a fresh water shower I abstained from a dip in the Caspian.

We headed out of town on lovely tarmac, and found a great place to camp on the Steppe just before sunset. The steppe is technically not desert, but as far as I can make out, it is pretty much the same thing, but with hard, dried mud instead of sand. You can stop wherever you like and set up camp which makes life easy. It was very exciting to have seen our first camels in the Steppe- both single hump dromedaries and double hump bactrians. A pack (what is the collective noun?!) of horses seemed a little interested in our camping, but went away with some shouting. I put my inner tent up, but the others just slept in the open air and were bitten to hell. It never got very cold that night- we were below sea level- and we were all sleeping in pools of sweat.

The following morning, we got up at 5am but we were very disorganised and were not cycling until about 7. The steppe is so aggressively hot (about 45 degrees c) that it is totally necessary to shelter from the sun from about 11am to 4 or 5pm. We sheltered that day in a passage under the road that was full of dry camel poo. Most days however we built shelters by tying tarpaulins onto our bikes and crawling underneath for a few hours to melt away into a pool of sweat. There were plenty of tornadoes around the steppe- they looked just like water spouts going right up into the clouds. On a couple of occasions these were quite close to where we were sheltering. I don't know how strong these were, but being the steppe they could not have been very dangerous due to the total lack of debris.

That afternoon, the tarmac ran out and the road became a "way" covered in moon-style dust. This was not great for cycling through and feet would disappear down into it. The next time we would see Tarmac would be Beyneu, 5 days later, and then it would disappear again until we were well into Uzbekistan. Here would begin 10 utterly gruelling days!

On the Steppe, the dry heat parches the mouth, throat and sinuses and the wind is almost worse as it speeds up this process- it is so hot that it is not actually cooling. If you have ever been in a sauna and blown onto your skin (can be painful) you will know what I mean. Sometimes the wind blows in your favour (usually evening), sometimes the wind blows against you (usually morning). It seems to change quite a lot.

The roads are usually straight, however the wise cyclist will regularly change positioning on the road to pick the smoothest places. I found that the best place to cycle was on the right verge. There were very few shops or teahouses- perhaps one a day. It is extraordinary how much you can look forward to a cold drink, and also how hot your water bottles can get! Tom came up with the ingenious idea of brewing tea in his sun-warmed water bottles, and before long we were all doing it. There was a train line that followed the way (purposefully not calling it a road) and you could see the telegraph poles heading in a straight line before disappearing into the distance. This is rather disheartening!

In Kazakhstan, the tea house owners were the most miserable bunch of people I have met on this trip. When you ordered something from them, they usually appeared genuinely sad that they had to actually do some work, rather than happy that they had some business. They also have utterly awful mathematical skills (which is a lot coming from me)- very basic sums (100 tengi plus 100 tengi, for example) are a true struggle. Most of the locals that we did meet in the little towns we went through were however very friendly and interested in us. One chap had met Isabel a week earlier, and pestered me for hours for her phone number!

During the time in the Kazakh Steppe, we didn't see any of the famed deadly Black Widow spiders, but we did come accross 3 scorpions. One was at a teahouse, the other was under something I picked up in the morning when I was packing up camp (and properly flattened), and Blaise found one too. I have been tapping my shoes in the morning ever since (good idea, Major Boulter!)

In Europe I never had to cook more than once in any given day, however on the Steppe, it was necessary to cook three times a day- the lack of teahouses made this obligatory. Rice pudding made with powdered milk is a favourite brekkie treat. Powdered borsch or schie and rice or pasta does well for lunch or supper. On the occasions where a chaihana (teahouse) is found, the offering is usually fried eggs and bread, although some places will offer lagman (noodle soup) or borsch.

The steppe is flat, but there are a few gruelling hills onto new plains to deal with. These are a challenge, especially in the heat. At the top of one of them a teahouse came into view at the very last minute, which was a real boon!

Reaching Beyneu on the 6th day was a fantastic feeling, not least for the tarmac that surrounds the town. It is little more than a large rail transport hub, and most useful things such as shops crowd round the station. It is dusty, and the buildings are mostly bungalow style with no upstairs. We found a cheap little hotel near the station (surprise surprise) which was sandwiched between the main line and a branch line. I didn't mind this as it felt like we were sleeping pretty much on the tracks. The action taking place around us was a pleasant change from the Steppe! We all crammed into one room (4 of us), and they kindly let us bring our bikes in too.

A shower had to be paid for extra, but was well worth it after 5 days sweating in 45 degree heat, slapping sunscreen on each day, and going to bed each night utterly filthy before more sunscreen on salt crystally skin the following day. Cleaning my clothes was also a succulent treat- they were not as you can imagine not clover fresh. You can see the veiny streaks of salt crystals in the fabric. I have been known to take a rehydration solution to replace body salts lost through sweat.

The following day we only cycled in the afternoon, and spent the morning trying to find an internet cafe which was alas closed. It took a long time to find it- Greg and I nearly walked into a school by mistake on our quest. It was amusing to note a multi coloured nodding-donket oil pump in the playground (a climbing frame?) and - best of all - a 20' section of railway. I suppose this is how the clildren learn to play on the railway tracks. Beyneu did have a lively bazaar with a lot of very jolly and friendly ladies selling fruit and nuts.

On the way out of Beyneu, we saw an enormous hulk of USSR Steam Engine rusting on a siding. Like children, we ditched our bikes and clambered all over them. It was fascinating to see that there was still some coal left in the storage hold, and to note a plaque that seemed to indicate that the train was built in the 1950s.

The following day (another camp on the steppe, like every night), we reached the Uzbek border. It was quite extraordinary because the road was an untreated dirt track without much traffic, and the border appeared, on the Kazakh side, to be equally deserted. There was, unsurprisingly, no indication as to where to go, but we eventually arrived in no-man's-land.

We were pretty worried about corrupt Uzbek officials after some horror stories on the grapevine. Immigration was no problem, and they were very friendly. We then had to fill in customs declaration forms in Russian, so it took rather a long time! They wanted you to delare pretty much everything you carry, including all cash. Conventional wisdom is to use discretion. We were not searched at all, which saved some time. Most or all cars were searched with a fine comb.

We safely moved through the border 3 hours later, past the policeman who cannot control the local children who run past the barriers into no-man's-land to sell parched border crossers a drink. We were immediately greeted by a host of friendly money changers, and purchased Sum for dollars on the black market. The black market is the only sensible way to change money in Uzbekistan- the government enforces an official rate of about 1450 to the dollar in official banks but the street rate is between 1800 and 1900. The largest not is worth about 50 US cents, so a hundred dollar bill translates into 180 notes, which all need to be carefully counted. This takes time and is very frustrating when you have a ten year old tugging at your t-shirt trying to sell you a drink when you are on 12o-something. Reminds me of stock takes!

There was initially some tarmac in Uzbekistan, however this was not an awful lot of use as it was mainly molten. This is great for noise pollution (not that it's an issue on the steppe) as I saw road workers ploughing up the road rather than having to use pneumatic drills! We were soon greeted by our usual rocky track.

Teahouses in the Uzbek steppe became even more seldom (sometimes 160km between each one) meaning it was necessary to carry 16-18 litres of water on the bike. The bikes were hideously heavy. Far from being true to the Kazakh warnings, the Uzbek teahouses seemed immediately more cheerful and pleasant to be in. In the first one we found a friendly onlooker bought us a watermelon. It had been the first teahouse for about 150 km and the accompanying coke and fried mutton were most welcome.

The Uzbeks are very similar to the Turkish (well, they are technically turks) in their culture of hostpitality looking after travellers. Teahouses have raised tables with beds around the side so you can recline Roman-style when you eat, and then have a snooze when you have finished your meal. It was preferable to tarp shelters, when we could find one. The food in Uzbek teahouses is a little more varied, with shashlyk (skewered and BBQed mutton) or laghman (noodle soup) usually on offer.

The second stretch of Steppe, from Beyneu to Nukus in Uzbekistan was not much different to the first. Just as gruelling, but with nicer teahouses. Aside from scorpions, we also saw large hairy white spiders the size of your palms. Lovely.

Nearing Kungrad, a town near Nukus, there was a drop in the road by about 100 foot, and in this time the landscape turned from Steppe into lush green farmland with canals and heavy irrigation. The air became humid. On the downward hill, just still in the steppe, we cycled upto what looked like a bustling city with little houses everywhere and a large sapphire domed mosque on the highest point. I thought this must have been Kungrad, however when we got closer it eerily became apparent that this was not a town at all, but a cemetery in the wilderness!

In Kungrad we visited the market to get some tomatoes and melons for supper from the, and we were completely mobbed by a deluge of questions by the fascinated residents. As always, the market traders were very friendly, and I had a personal assistant who led me through the market, helped me pay for things, handed me back things I dropped, and held my bike steady while I loaded the produce into my panniers.

Now we were out of the desert/steppe, we couldn't just camp anywhere we liked because all the land was being used for something. We cycled down a side street and asked an old chap in a car if we could camp. The gobsmacked gent said that of course we could, and so we set up camp. 20 minutes later, he turned up and said that we couldn't camp there- and showed us a better place, further from the ubiquitous mozzies. 5 minutes later, he was back again, and invited the four of us to camp in his garden, which was ideal. His pretty daughters wanted pictures with all of us (steady, Greg!) and we slept very well aside from a hostile dog that he kindly scared off in the middle of the night. Uzbek homes have many of their facilities outside. The sitting room is a large raised bed on the porch area, and the basin was also outside. Not to mention the loo...

The following day, we finally made it to Nukus, having been treated to another free watermelon at a teahouse/yurt en route. It was great to be in civilisation once more, and the hotel had a friendly Georgian-family-run teahouse next door. I am not sure whether it was the soft scoop ice cream or the pretty daughter who operated the ice cream machine who kept me going back.

In Nukus there is an important art museum, full of art from artists who had been persecuted under communism. There were also ancient Uzbek artifacts. Many paintings depicted the misery of life in the cotton fields, and it was surprising to note quite a lot of Lowry-style paintings and Russian cubism.

It was in Nukus that I tasted my first cup of green tea- which has become the norm. For 100 sum you get a large pot, the equivalent of about 4p. Samsas have also become a cheap staple food- similar to the samosas of India to the south, these are usually triangular pastries and filled with chopped onions and mutton meat. They are very tasty, especially when you shake a bit of dill-enfused clear vinegar on top of them.

Still could not find internet that worked in Nukus, but I did find one place with computers, and no connection. As I waited in vain for the connection to start, chatted to the pretty Kazakh girl on the computer next to me, Bagilla. Rather like the former Yugoslav countries, there are many different nationalities living next to eachother in these Central Asian countries. Just because Bagilla has an Uzbek passport does not mean she is Uzbek- her family speak Kazakh and she is a Kazakh. The same is for the Karakalpaks (Nukus is the capital of Karakalpakstan) She is off to Almaty for university next year. She informed me that she works in her father’s “fragrance store” in the bazaar and she drew me a little map of how to get there.

I ventured into the bazaar to change money later with Tom and Blaise, and by chance went into her chemist shop to buy some sun cream. I was greeted by a cheerful “hello!” – I like to think Tom and Blaise were impressed at my speed in chatting up the local girls.

The rate in Nukus was much better, but when I produced a $100 note that was not the most recent series, the guy said the rate had to change from 1870 to 1800! I protested that dollars are dollars, and got the original rate although the chap wasn’t happy about it. “This is not bank! This is bazaar!” the chap complained. It certainly was bizarre. Dealing in 100 dollar bills felt like swapping football stickers at prep school- a 2006 series (Man-U striker) is clearly worth more than a 1999 series (Blackburn defender).

Into the steppe again for a couple of days, and then split from Greg who wanted to head straight for Buchara, I then cycled to Khiva. Khiva is an extremely well preserved walled city and former khanate on the Turkmen border. It feels rather like Carcassonne in France- arguably not a “real” town anymore, but very beautiful architecture. The people suddenly became – extraordinary as I am going East – Turkish or Azeri looking rather than East Asian or Mongolian features. Many of the girls are absolutely beautiful. I stayed in a lovely guesthouse with a superb breakfast – about $10 a night. The air con didn’t work brilliantly, but it was a miracle it still worked at all since it was built in the “CCCP!”

After Khiva, I headed into the Kyzulkum desert- this time a real sandy desert – for 4 tough days before reaching Buchara. This was easier going than the Steppe because there was tarmac all the way, and usually teahouses every 20km- so no need to cook. On the first night I bought a honeydew melon which was the sweetest I have ever tasted. A whole watermelon can be bought for as little as 20p.

The final day was truly grueling, and I was very tired. It was difficult to motivate myself, and I cycled pretty slowly, getting to Buchara at sunset. I decreed that as I was tired, a rest is in order, and I have spent three days in this wonderful city. I met Greg on arrival who led me to a charming little guesthouse he has found ($9 a night)- it is run by a lovely Uzbek family who also live there (Madina and Ilyos). It is also rather unusual- the shower is in the kitchen (!) and Ilyos rather infuriatingly has a little hole in the window large enough for him to poke a screwdriver to turn off the USSR air conditioner when he thinks you are asleep. They do serve a wonderful breakfast of egg, fried aubergine, potato, frankfurter, cake, melon, cream/yoghurt, and green tea, which varies a bit each day. There are a couple of resident kittens, to the delight of the guests.

The town’s Islamic architecture is truly breathtaking- soaring medressas dripping with blue tiles, domed bazaars, a fortified palace, a soaring minaret- and plenty of store traders to fill in every space. I nearly feel that a genie is about to appear and grant me three wishes. I bought a great “four skin” (!!!!) hat yesterday, made from sheep fur, with a flap that can either be tied up, down, or back. It will come in handy in the Pamir mountains. The lady who sold it to me had been befriended by Greg, and on mentioning his name, she became even friendlier than she was already. Her family make the hats at home, and she called her son on the phone so I could speak to him in English. I sat with her for a while sipping tea, and she made sure I ate some sweets – boiled on the outside, fondant on the inside. She insisted I accept some old Sovier banknotes and coins as a gift souvenir. They are from the 60s to 1991 – with Lenin’s head winking out of them. Later I sat and chatted to a 19 year old persian carpet seller who was bored “come and sit on my magic carpet for a while!” His boss regularly goes to Iran on carpet-buying missions. As usual in these parts, he has no desire at all to visit a foreigh country. He was shocked when I pointed out on a map how close Turkmenistan is to Buchara, and he said he doesn’t want to go to Tajikistan.

“Why?! Why don’t you want to go to Tajikistan? It is supposed to be very beautiful and you Uzbeks don’t need a visa!”

“Tajikistan – Prob-lem!”
“Really?”

“OK, maybe….maybe no prob-lem. I just…I just don’t want to go!”

The town has also been swamped by largely fresh-faced Mongol Ralliers. It has been great to seem some other English guys, and it is rather satisfying when they balk with disbelief that I have cycled here from England.

Heading up to Samarkand tomorrow, which is 3 days’ cycle away, and Samarkand is half a day from the Tajikistan border. I am very excited about Tajikistan and the Pamir Highway, having heard so much about it’s beauty. It is going to be a challenge, with many mountain passes higher than 5000m that are going to be as tough as they are glorious…

The Steppe and Desert were very tough, but they are beautiful wildernesses. It is thrilling to see the land on the steppe as flat as the sea, with the sun setting and rising at exactly the time it should. The dunes of the desert were equally fascinating- although pushing the bike through them to a camping spot required motivation. By cycling through them I have understood (dear God) truly what a desert is- rather than in the protective bubble of a car. It is amusing to hear Mongol ralliers complaining about their 3 days- they should try 2 weeks! This sort of travel is not supposed to be plain sailing all the way, and when you emerge at the other end, the satisfaction at having “earned” to be here in Bukhara is immense. When we were doing it, we didn’t think it was all that hard- we were far too busy - it is only from the comfort of an armchair and hindsight that you realise that it was actually really hard work! This doesn’t mean that I didn’t constantly yearn for the hospitality I would have been receiving from the legendarily generous people of Iran, had I taken that route. Another time.

Anyone who wants to talk to me can call me on +998 9137 03491.

Tbilisi to Baku

As we cycled out of Tbilisi on 25th June, we noticed a couple of large Stalin head reliefs glaring down from an old building on the outskirts of town. No attempt to conceal them had been made- surely many Georgians view them with a pinch of pride!

The seasonal heat had clearly severely increased during our week in Tbilisi. There was no wind, and ice cream-and-drink-stops were very regular indeed. Heading east, toward the Azeri border, and through Georgia's wine growing region, and found a beautifully scenic place to camp for the night, tucked up into the hills, on a grassy plain next to a depleted river.

Having tried to get up early the next day, we in fact only got going at about 7am and experienced another absolute scorcher; the apparently safe public springs that sprout up all over Georgia came in very handy indeed. We cycled through Signagi, an extraordinarily smart and bijoux town (more Italy than Georgia) with a lovely view of the high Caucasus mountains looming in the distance, seemingly floating on a cushion of sky.

At the Azeri Border, there was a sign in Georgian and English which read "Azerbaijan Border 100m. Good Luck!"

As we crossed the Georgian checkpoint into no-man's-land, the friendly Georgian policeman grinned "Good Luck!" to us a second time. From the orderly queueing at the shiny new Georgian border post, we were made to wait on the other side of an iron gate before being called forward. Embarrassingly, we were skipped past everybody who was waiting. Immigration were friendly and swift, although it was irritating that they insisted on playing with my horn. "Welcome to Azerbaijan. Now go to Customs."

Customs took our passports away to a different room for closer scrutiny, while one customs officer sat on a stool in front of us to begin his interrogation.

" Where from?"
" England" (they never understand UK)
"Tourist?"
"Tourist."
"AR-MEN-IA?"
"NO no no no no no no no"
"No, ....... Georgia - Ar-men-ia, ......... Ar-men-ia - Georgia?" (His eyes narrowing)

"Absolutely not!" I had placed a black tape over the name "Armenia" on the guide book and hidden it at the bottom of a pannier. Ex-pats refer to it as "Kansas" so as not to utter the taboo word.

Having satisfied themselves that we have not been, nor that would we ever want to go to Armenia, they said "Welcome to Azerbaijan." Another man came up to us, an said "AZERBAIJAN! VERY GOOD!" With this ringing in our ears, we set out down the road, which immediately turned to a rocky track, past a gypsy village, and we were chased by wild dogs.

In Azerbaijan, there is a reverence to the late ex-president Heydar Aliyev which is very similar to the way Ataturk is revered in Turkey. There are photos of him everywhere (NEVER defaced), sometimes with an inspiring quote, and most things (!) are named after him. People refer to him as "Our Father". On his death, he was replaced by his son.

Luckily, that evening we found a Motel in Balakan with air conditioning to relax in and acclimatise to our new country. The following day, we resolved to make it to Sheki, a famous mountain town with a beautiful khan's palace. We took a wrong road near the end of the day, and had to negotiate 15 km of extremely stony and pebbly dirt track upon which I suffered a tyre blowout, which only prolonged the miserable experience. At the end of the day, there was an enormous climb up to Sheki, which was dead straight, therefore looked deceptively shorter than we thought. The highlight of Sheki is a silk road caravansarai which has been converted into a hotel. Having found that the hotel was full for a function, we contacted Ilgar, who can arrange home stays (number in the lonely planet).

He was a very friendly chap (he also runs a tea house), however the homestay was not an awful lot of fun- the room wasn't great and you had to walk through someone else's room to get to ours! We had a chat with the family, who were friendly enough, although the level of inherent racism that many people from this part of the world have became rather obvious. When I said that London is a beautiful city, the woman said "London! Prob-lem! Many negro! Many Hindu!" , whilst pointing at her skin. Multiculturalism has passed Azerbaijan by. There is only really one type of person living here (Azeri, apart from expats) and they are pretty afraid of different people, it seems.

The following day, we were invited to Ilgar's family home for a lovely breakfast of rose petal jam, cheese, tea (with rose water) and bread. His family were happy and friendly, and he showed us all the plants he has in his garden.

We then went to see the beautifully oriental khan's palace, which is held together with no glue and no screws or nails. The intricate paintings on the inside were lovely. In the grounds of the palace a load of schoolchildren (and their teachers!) insisted on having their photos taken next to us, one by one!

Ilgar doesn't allow the locals to play backgammon in his tea house because they get over excited! During our tea break we hailed down another cyclist, Will, another Brit who has the same idea as me! We stuck together for the rest of the day, and went up to see an old church in an over-packed minibus. There must have been 30 people in the minibus, and there was absolutely nowhere to sit. Isabel managed to bag a place on an old lady's knee. She, as do many people here, had a full set of gold teeth. Our theory is that aside from being fashionable, gold teeth are the product of the method of putting the sugar lump in your mouth rather than in your tea, and the lack of dental hygeine. If your tea is too hot, pour it from your cup into your saucer and sip it from there!

We all stayed in the Caravanserai hotel that evening, and really enjoyed being there, under the mountains surrounded by such lovely buildings. We had supper there, and were irritated to find that the staff were using our table as a training table for the new young waiter who was yet to learn to pour a bottle of water. Isabel had not yet finished her plate when the keen young waiter tried to take it away, and on protesting, the haid waiter only relpied,"He wants to take your plate away." How rude of us to intrude on his desires!

The following day, Will cycled with us, and we ended up camping in the woods. It was a great place to camp, but chicadas were emerging from large pupae stuck onto the tree bark. We looked just like hornets, and we were pleased to notice on close inspection that they were in fact chicadas!

On the next morning, the 30th June, we elected to take a route into Baku that would go south of Baku, and up to it along the Caspian Shore due to the apparent non-existence of tarmac on the main road into the capital city. This led us down, away from the mountains and onto the desert plain. The heat was pretty intense, and when it came to the evening, we found a petrol station where the kind little chap showed us a padoga by a nearby lake we could camp on. We had no real food that evening but feasted on watermelon I had bought, and many other small melons that kind store owners had given us.

When we packed up at 6 the following morning, the "kind" teenager who had shown us where we could camp had clearly had ideas during his long night shift about cash-extraction the following morning, and had thought we would be a good source.

"Om Besh Manat!" he announced (15 Manat, about GBP 12). We offered him a slice of watermelon with big grins and pretended not to understand. When we tried to leave he blocked us in by standing in the narrow entrance to the pagoda, and kept repeating "Om Besh Manat!" We only escaped because he had to go to serve a customer. The Achilles heel to his little plan!

In the evening of the following day, we arrived at the Caspian Sea (or Lake?), a very satisfying landmark. We had intended to cycle the full 150km to Baku that day, however the headwinds were the worst I have encountered on this trip so far. On the flat, I usually cycle at about 25 kph but could only manage about 6 or 7. The wind was blowing sand accross the road in interesting patterns. We were not going to make it to Baku, and I was beckoned over by a smart looking chap with a white flat cap, and invited to stay with him and his family. This was the Soingacal family, and we were summoned inside for tea, and ordered to take showers.

It is interesting to note that although a house may be very smart, showers and loos are a shed accross the yard. It was great to have a scrub after so long unwashed! We were immediately given some food, and more tea. With no safe drinking tap water, it seems people here drink tea instead of water. The eldest daughter (of the three still at home) appeared to be rather a strict muslim, sporting a headscarf. She said she was sad that Michael Jackson had died because he was a muslim. Supper was a casserole of one of the chickens, prepared by her, and was delicious.

Another daughter is living in Germany with her German boyfriend, and I chatted to him on the phone. He sounded very friendly, and it was good to talk some English because my Russian (with which I communicated with the others) is not very good. Mr S used to be a police officer, before and after the fall of the USSR. He is a great supporter of the current president.

The following morning, we were treated to a feast of a breakfast, including fried eggs (hurrah!), outside, in view of the 130 chickens (or was that 129?) and 6 or so turkeys clucking away in the penned-off garden. We were given a grand tour of the garden, and it was great to see all the different fruits grew therein, including figs (ripe), apples (just about), quince, and grapes among many other things.

The ride into Baku that day was far less windy, and we bashed out the 45 or so km before lunchtime, despite the late start. The 1000 Camels hostel is located in the walled old town, which is in the south of Baku, so it was very easy to find. The sign outside the front door "The key is under the flowerpot" was a prelude to the utterly shambolic nature of the place.

Ramil, the manager, would have been more at home in Fawlty Towers. Until the moment he went on holiday, it was not possible to relax for 10 minutes in the hostel without having to hold a conversation in complete gibberish.

"YOU STAY? YOU STAY? OKAY, NO PROBLEM! YOU STAY TONIGHT, NOT TOMORROW NIGHT? NO PROBLEM, YOU PAY THREE NIGHTS OKAY? MUST GIVE MONEY TO BOSS! BOSS VERY ANGRY! OK RELAX NO PROBLEM. YOU PAY? HE PAY?..."It turns out that "Boss" was in fact his elder brother Samir, who is the owner and about to do an MBA at St Aidan's College, Durham next year.

The place was utterly shambolic, with a permanently broken sink and rock hard beds. At one point, I was told that as there was not change, I was owed money by one of the other guests! One evening, when I was doing some bike work in the courtyard, there was a problem with the plumbing and brown mess (yes, that's right) started falling from the sky, to be cleaned up with a broom by one of the neighbours.

Despite all this, it was a great place to stay due to the regular flow of other travellers, in particular cyclists! We all gathered in the tiny common room where it was possible to cook (wash the plates up in the loo basin.)

Will was there on the first night waiting for us, and Elmar was there too, a Dutch cyclist whom we had met in Tbilisi. It was great to see them. Elmar kindly gave me his expensive rear tyre in return for a meagre pizza. Mine had materially failed, and the choice in the only bike workshop (not shop) in the city was "Russian or Chinese"- no reliable German manufacturing!

Baku is described in the guide book as an "oil boom town," which is certainly the case. The streets are resplendent with Hermes, Gucci, and Mont Blanc shops- and the litter bins are intricate metal urns spraypainted silver. The people are well heeled. The town is pretty immaculate, at first glance. All this when most of the countryside does not have running water or even a lick of tarmac! Vast areas of the city are however either being demolished or rebuilt. You can buy as much designer tat as you like, but if you want to buy something useful like a bicycle part or a tent peg, you can think again.

There is an efficient Metro which only costs about 5p per ride, despite this being an expensive city. The trains give out a catchy jingle when they stop- I think each station has its own jingle. This is important because there is absolutely no indication of the station name on the platforms, which makes it rather precarious for foreigners.

One evening, Isabel and I met a contact of a friend of ours from Baku. It was great to meet a friendly local who was our contemporary, and she was keen for us to sample proper Azeri tea. As we sipped the amber ambrosia through sugar cubes implanted in our cheeks, with the oil rigs of the Caspian in the background, the profoundness of the dislike and distrust of Armenians became clearer than ever, as well as the inherent racism that appears to be implanted in the area. "Armenians complain about the genocide, but I tell you that genocide never happens unprovoked! Take for example Britain. Britain for a long time occupied parts of Africa and now there are Africans occupying parts of London!" It is difficult to reply to such things. "Lovely evening isn't it! I say- you can see the oil rigs!"

I ended up staying in Baku for more than 2 weeks, sorting out the visas required for the rest of the trip (Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan and China.) Isabel and Will both left before me. She had had enough of cycling with me and intended to try a little more non-cycle travelling. The visa problems are protracted by the requirement of certain embassies to hang onto the passport while processing, meaning it is not possible to get the ball rolling on another visa. As it turned out it was very lucky I got my Chinese visa in Baku because the grapevine is reporting that Central Asian embassies are not granting visas!

It was at the Chinese Embassy that I met Greg, a long blond haired (well, it was short when he left England 5 months ago) Hertfordshire chap who is cycling to Australia. It seemed like a shambolic attempt as there were some European tourists who had been sent away and ordered to get a letter of invitation, and Greg already had one. The frustration grew as only other man in the queue worked for an agency, had about 100 passports, 2 loud mobile phones that rang interminably, and failed to acknowledge us once. Greg approached the window, and handed his letter over, which had been prepared by a family friend in Beijing. The Azeri girl who worked for the chinese consul consulted with him. He read the letter, smacked it twice and sent it back. "A law firm cannot invite you for a cycling trip! It must be from a sports club! This invitation is invalid! Greg had failed to get a visa with a letter! What were my chances?

"Hello, I would like to know if I can apply for a Chinese Visa"
"WHO TOLD YOU COME HERE?!" Barked the consul.
"I have read in my guide book that I can obtain a chinese visa here"
"I WANT TO SEE YOUR REGISTRATION"
"I don't need to register as I am a tourist staying in Azerbaijan for less than 30 days"
"I WANT TO SEE YOUR TLAVRRERS CHEQUES"
"I am using cash"
"HOW I KNOW YOU SUPPORT YOURSELF IN CHINA? I WANT TO SEE YOUR TLAVRRERS CHEQUES"

In the end, he accepted a photocopy of my credit card (gulp!) for which I was ordered down the street to find a copied, but the Chinese Visa for some reason was secured. Greg eventually got one too, without a letter.

That evening Tom and Blaise turned up at the 1000 Camels. Tom is ex-Durham, and they are both cycling the same route. We all decide we will travel the dicey desert stretch through Kazakhstan together.

To kill some time, I visited the famous mud volcanoes at Qobustan, which are not spectacular, but well worth the hour long taxi ride for their faintly rude curiosity. They are grey mud mounds none more than 6' high that belch and bubble, and produce noises to make onlookers snigger. On the same trip I visited some important petroglyphs. I also biked to a place where natural gas seeps from the side of the rock, giving a perpetually burning flame.

For the second week in Baku, I went to stay with Kyle, a friendly American expat chap whom Greg had met through couchsurfing. He was very kind and generous with everything he had (he had a Nintendo Wii!), and it was brilliant to get out of the hostel!

Having secured all the necessary visas, I sat down in an internet cafe and found out that the FCO travel warning against going to Iran has been lifted, meaning my insurance was no longer invalid. I fired off an email to the agency who had obtained my Iranian visa, and they replied the following day that although my visa ran out on the 19th July, I would be given 15 days if I entered before the 18th. I hurried down to the Turkmen Embassy to apply for a Turkmen transit visa (to collect in Mashad) which appeared no problem, although I was a little disturbed by the question "I am sure there will be no problem, but what will you do if you don't get granted the visa?"

We (Greg, Tom, Blaise and Pedro, another cyclist) held a summit in Ale's teahouse- should Humphrey go to Iran or Kazakhstan? Iran is not extending British visas, so getting out of the country on time would be a real rush. Sorting out the Turkmen visa in Mashad is also far from certain. I had to enter Iran in 2 days time, also a logistical headache if I wanted to cycle. What if Turkmenistan only grant a 3 day visa? Not sure if my folks are particularly happy with me going to Iran in the current climate, despite constant reports of the friendliness of the Iranian people. And in any case, this route would involve 21 days of cycling without a rest day.

In the end, the decision was a snap decision, and I plumped for the safe option, the ferry to Kazakhstan (well, safe in visa terms- 11 days in the desert was an interesting experience!). I have had a great time over the last couple of weeks (this will be the subject of the next post), but it was a decision that has been eating away at me ever since.

The ferry from Baku to Actau is really a cargo boat that leaves without announcement. Tickets go on sale a few hours before the ferry leaves, so it is necessary to hang around the kassa on the odd chance that the ferry will go. You have to ask if it will leave today, and they will give you absolutely no indication whatsoever, apart from "Try again later." Will had caught it by camping down at the ferry port.

As it happened, the tickets went on sale the morning after the "Summit"- and right until I had handed over the cash to the ticket witch (as she is known to all travellers- she charged us an extra $15 each for our bikes because we hadn't hidden them from her sight).

Having bought the tickets, we had a long wait to be called through immigration, and security who made us remove all our panniers and put them through a scanner while all the cars just drove on. As we sweated outside, Blaise was asked inside and given a cold drink. Corrupt port officials tried to collect "port tax" but we somehow managed to sneak past. The exit stamp on my visa meant that I couldn't go to Iran anymore even if I wanted to.

Far from having people ushering us where to go, we had to find our own way onto the ferry, and we secured our bikes next to the freight rail carriages that had rolled on.

The ferry was clearly incredibly old, and grotty as hell. The cabin I shared with Greg had a loo with a broken cistern, and when I complained, the woman only laughed. It did actually work properly later on , but through direct pipes- the cistern did not fill with water! The matteresses had ominous looking holes.

The ferry left without ceremony, and set out onto the largest lake in the world on a journey pretty much 200 miles due north that should take 18 hours.