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.

Trabzon (Turkey) to Tbilisi (Georgia)

David

Eating Xinkale

Political protests- more peaceful than Iran!

Georgian script with traditional drooping Georgian cross of St Neno

David

View of where the 2 rivers meet from Jvari monastery

Jvari monastery, the spiritual home of Georgia

The Shrine of St. Joseph - the house where he grew up in the foreground

Stalin's train

This is where he sat on his train in his living quarters!

Stalin's Loo!

Stalin's death mask

Best pals

The main street

Stalin's Statue

Chacha?

Monastery church (wedding guests in view- it is used for weddings at weekends!)

No Obedience on Sunday afternoons. Ioana is second from the right, and the lady who gave us the pendants is fourth from the right.

My room at the monastery

Passed into Georgia, thank heavens!

On the 10th of June, I did indeed go for an egg mcmuffin in Trabzon, and it was absolutely delicious. The ham seemed like real ham, and the eggs were beautifully runny. There was the usual problem with getting change however- in this part of the world not even McDonalds carries a cash float!

That evening we were going to stay at Rize, however not particularly liking the place, we pushed on and made it to Chayeli, where I got a puncture and had a group of 6 incredibly irritating and very curious and friendly children to throw random questions at me as I tried to concentrate on my inner tube changing skills.

Isabel in the meantime had found a smart hotel that miraculously didn't mind us camping in their garden. As we arrived to go round the back, feeling mightily out of place among the smartly dressed businessmen, we were invited inside and given a lovely room for the night! As we were settling down, there was a knock on the door and we were invited to dinner! It turned out to be an all-you-can-eat feast of turkish cuisine, complete with soups, salads, vegetables, and meat dishes. Pudding was a mountain of baclava and turkish rice pudding, with profiteroles to match. As I am sure you can imagine, I found it hard to hold back.

During dinner we met another cyclist, John. He is a retured scientist, and was on the way back from Armenia and Georgia. He lent us his Russian phrasebook and we talked about the places we were about to visit accross the border. We had arranged to meet again the following morning, but we were not in the end invited to break our fasts so sadly we missed him.

The following day we had planned to spend the night in Turkey, but we had reached so close to the border by 4.30 pm that we decided to go the whole hog and cross into Georgia. As we approached the border we noticed that many of the shop windows already had signs in Georgian script, a very strange alphabet that borrows nothing from the Romans, and has curved letters rather similar to Thai.

The border was a veritable bunfight with people everywhere, cars and lorries everywhere, and no signs whatsoever indicating where one is supposed to go. A fight broke out between a lorry driver and a car driver in the crowds. Shepherded by a kind onlooker, we wheeled our bikes past the lorries, and eventually found the Turkish farewell exit post. When we were through this, we found the Georgian immigration (no indications either) and waited in a line. There was a pungent smell of BO- people in these parts do not seem to regard a bath or a shower to be a daily rite.

Having had our passports stamped, we didn't simply walk forward, but had to go around the back, and through the red customs lane (I think because the gates to the green lane were rusted shut.) It was a wonderful feeling to be finally into Georgia, and to see Christian Crosses as opposed to minarets everywhere. No more pre recrded call to prayer at 3.30 AM!

With fading light, we decided to push hard and make it to Batumi that evening, Georgia's seaside resort. We found a cheap hotel out of the guide book, and when we had moved our bags in the guy asked us if we were planning to take a shower. We had clearly just done a day of cycling and we were staying in a hotel. This gives an indication as to the Georgian attitudes! On hearing our affirmative response, he proceeded to get his screwdriver out and spent half an hour tinkering with the water heater in our bathroom. At the end he said "Nyet dush" unapoligetically, and showed me a very shabby bathroom in another room we could use. When you turned on the hot, the lights dimmed.

Batumi itself has some impressive European style buildings and the entire town is receiving a facelife, all at the same time. All the central streets are being dug up, and there is no fencing off- pedestrians simply have to make their way through the troughs, piles of gravel and pneumatic drills.

The town does have a waterfront area that has been completed, and it is rather smart. There is an enormous musical fountain that actually dances to the beat of various well known tunes in the evenings. It is rather clever and really spectacular.

We spent the following day relaxing in Batumi, and I went for a swim in the Black Sea from the pebbly beach. Not too cold, but not warm either. I ate an Ajaran Khatchapuri (sic?) which is a boat shaped doughy base, filled with an inch of cheese, and with an egg and lashings of butter on top. In the west these would probably be banned! The Iranian election was on TV and was being carried out peacefully, thankfully for us.

I was a little startled to see big macho men walking arm in arm- this is not because they are gay, but because they are friends. It is not unusual to see men rolling up their T shirts to expose their tummies and walking round town. Very odd. Most shops here in Georgia still use an abacus to add up groceries! I have not seen an abacus since I was learning about numbers at the age of 5, so this is really extraordinary to see.

The following day we rather aimlessly headed up the coast, and cut east away from the Black Sea for the last time after a month. In the evening, it became clear that we would have to find somewhere to camp, but the surroundings were full of houses, making it rather difficult to find a suitable place. Just as we were getting a little worried, we saw a sign to Sameba-Jikheti Monastery. Like all monasteries in Georgia, this was on top of a very large hill, (mountain?) and I was a little concerned at the numerous buses of schoolchildren who were returning from excursions.

At the top I asked a couple of serious looking nuns if it would be possible to camp in the monastery grounds, and they asked me to wait. 10 minutes later Ioanna appeared, a tall young looking nun who spoke excellent English (self taught). We were invited in, and invited to sleep in the monastery itself rather than in the tent! We were invited to evensong, however Ioanna told us that Father insists that we eat beforehand because the prayers last 2 hours and we must be hungry.

At this stage, having put our bikes away and donned some trousers (isabel a borrowed mandaroty skirt and headscarf), it was nearly dark and there was a thunderstorm outside. On top of the mountain, amongst the fireflies this was extremely atmospheric as we were led to the gently lit refectory which had 2 places set out, and an extremely generous spread of food. I had imagined that this would only be bread and cheese, but we were treated to chicken, comato and cucumber salad, fried potatoes, honey, bread, tea and the most lovely cake.

The nuns' singing in the service that we joined was utterly beautiful, extremely fast plainsong in Georgian. The church was lit by dozens of beeswax candles arranged around the many icons. After the service I was shown to my room in the boys' area (the boys being one chap who helps Father with the service), a basic little room with a candle and a bed, which I shared with a sparrow who was nesting in the corner.

At 4.30 AM the bells started tolling a slow, muffled funeral-type toll that waits for the sound from each ring to nearly totally finish before ringing again. I made it down to the church, but unsure about where to go, I waited outside for five minutes listening to the gentle yet quick female plainsong. A couple of gentlemen beckoned me into the church, and I was ushered to the back right hand side where there is a bench. Orthodox churches do not have pews; people stand during the services, however given that this service was 2 hours long, I was pleased to be put there! The men are from the church community, and come from time to time to help the nuns with building work. There is much kissing of icons and making the sign of the cross during the service, and people are free to come and go, sit down and stand up, as they please. It seems that members of the congregation make the sign of the cross whenever they like during the service, rather than at any particular moments. The Georgian method of making the sign of the cross is rather how you would imagine a rapper doing it, the hand rather rhythmically goes down from the head, and up to the very top of the shoulders, down again and right up to the other shoulder.

Outside the church, the day changed from darkness to light, and the gentlemen beckoned me to stand up and move into the centre of the church at key moments when Father walked round the church, blessing it with incense. At one stage in the service each of the nuns went up and knelt before Father one by one, and I think he was taking confessions. Later in the service everyone circulated round the church, touched the floor before the most important icon (the miracle working icon of the Virgin, given from the monastery at Mt Athos), kissed it and received a brush of holy water over their baptismal cross. I was very happy to sit and watch until one of the men beckoned to me to go up too. I don't know how to kiss an icon! Perhaps I would do it wrong, or forget to touch the ground before... I faced the icon and made a sheepish sign of the cross, and luckily Ioana caught me and said "Humphrey, you must not!"- cue for me to go back and sit down in my place, rather cross that I had initially been beckoned up!

After the service Ioana showed us round the nunnery, through the gardens and vegetable patches to some newly built churches, one of which to St George ("Father is very industrious!") Ioana was surprised that St George is also the patron saint of England. A new living quarters block is being built with a highly dramatic view over the mountains, however this is not going to be completed any time soon due to the difficulty in getting building materials and labour up to the site. I took a slip and fell on my back on the dewy wooden ramp up to the foetal building.

At 10am the bells rang for Sunday prayer, which was attended by many more members of the public, and the toll was much more jolly, less funeral like! The service itself was not that dissimilar to the ear that does not understand Georgian. Holy Communion was served (sadly as members of the C of E we were denied) which consisted of huge hunks of bread that everyone was gnawing on, and large gulps of communion wine. Rather more civilised than a wafer!

After the service, we were invited to Sunday lunch. The male congregation sat separate to the female congregation, but no nuns were sitting down to eat. The chicken casserole was delicious, as was the Russian salad and cucumber salad, but as I was sitting opposite Father, I was polite and didn't dig in too much. He never looked me in the eye and spoke to me through a friendly nearby medical doctor who had assisted with the service. One of the questions "Is Isabel your wife or your sister?" was a little difficult to answer. The response that she is the girlfriend of a friend wouldn't cut the mustard, so I said "She is my friend" - to which all assembled company sniggered. I was offered wine, which I accepted. Mindful of the fact that it is considered rude in Georgia to drink when there is not a toast I waited for a while, and when I noticed that I was the only one on the table to be drinking wine, I took a sip. To my horror, a couple of minutes later, the toasting started, and others had charged their glasses and were making toasts in order to drink. I hoped no one had noticed my previous indiscretion! We were toasted several times, and I then asked permission to make a toast in reply from the toastmaster-doctor (necessary) which went down with lukewarm appreciation. Lunch ended very suddenly with grace, exactly as it does at Cothill House, when, I imagine, Father had finished eating. As a prelude I was ordered to down my wine in one.

After lunch, the nuns were free to relax because ironically, like prep school, "there is no obedience on Sunday afternoons." We sat chatting away with them for a while and taking photos. They also took some pictures on their smart looking mobile phones. It was striking how young some of them were- in their late twenties and early thirties. One of them gave us each a little pendant made up of beads which depicted a sign of the cross, and encased a rolled up extract of scripture, probably from Psalms. It was her birthday, and we managed to botch together a birthday card of a postcard of the Queen's State Coach which she liked as she is a horse lover. Ioana gave Isabel her icon of St George. It was very das to have had to leave the monastery- they had taken us in and looked after us with such generosity and trust. Ioana gave us the contact details of her family in Kutaisi, and said we should contact them on arrival- and that we could go and stay!

The distance to Kutaisi was not long, but we lost a lot of time on the 14th June due to torrential rain and we didn't get there until the evening. Having spoken to Ioana's brother on arrival, we were given some really complicated directions, and a police car flashed their lights at us. We thought this was because we were going the wrong way down a one way street, but they just told us to carry on. We went down another street and they followed us there. We stopped and asked them (in my bad Russian) what the problem was, and I showed them the text message which contained the address we were trying to find. To our horror, the policeman dialled the number, and spoke to Ioana's brother. It turned out that the police in Georgia are exceptionally friendly, and we were given a 3 car police escort complete with flashing lights, and loudspeakers barking threats at motorists at junctions! Cycists' revenge! When we arrived at our friends' house, the police didn't simply leave us alone, but insisted on ringing the door bell and speaking with the family to make sure it is "safe" for us, apparently!

The welcome we received from Ioana's parents and her brothers Nugzar and Timur was as warm as that we had received at the monastery, and the showers we that we revitalised us. The monastery ascetically does not have loos or showers. We were treated to a wonderful supper of chicken and all sorts of accompaniments. It is Georgian custom to lay the table with a big plate on top of a small plate, and to discard the small plate whenever you feel like it in favour of clean new larger one. As all dishes are served at the same time, it is a matter of personal preference. Georgians eat with only a fork and use their fingers to help. We were given knives at the sighet of our cack handed approach to this method! This was all washed down with lashings and lashings of home made red wine (!) and home made cha cha. The cheese was also home made, as was the cherry soft drink, and Isabel thinks that the chicken was killed to order from the squadron of garden roosters!

Mr Cheishvili is a retired airline pilot, and latterly ran Kutaisi Airport. Mrs Cheishvili is an accountant who spends five days each week in Tbilisi, returning at the weekend. He has travelled all around central asia, so it is great to speak to some one who doesn't look at us with amazement when we tell him where we are going. The family are heavily aviation orientated- David, a son who lives in Tbilisi is an air traffic controller, Mrs C works for an airline, and the eldest son was a pilot who died in the Abkhazia civil war.

The following day, Timur and Nugzar took us out on an wonderful and enormous sightseeing tour, taking in the spectacular Gelati monastery which has extraordinary paintings and frescoes, and Motsameta monastery. Both of these are highly important to the Georgian people: President Saakishvili even chose Gelati for the location of his inauguration. The Georgian identity is necessarily bound up with the devotion to the church; to western eyes, the devotion may appear a little obsessive-compulsive. Buildings are reveered as icons in themselves, and a Georgian will usually make the sign of the cross three times when walking past, sometimes even kissing the railings. Nugzar bent down and kissed the tomb of David the Builder, the most important Georgian King, buried at Gelati. He explained to us that it is very bad form to walk behind an icon, or to even place your foot on the upper step heading up to the iconostasis. I had thought that it was only going behind the iconostasis that was forbidden. It is not unusual to see people kissing the ground in front of icons.

At Gelati, we met a friend of Nugzar, Father Iacob, who at 21 has been a "black priest" (monk) for the last five years. He was busy painting a holy icon, and was a very gentle man of few words. It was extraordinary to see a photo of him later that evening, earlier in his life, wearing a leather jacket!

Ioana had explained to be that the icon is not an idol as the catholics argued in times past, but it is an instrument of devotion- when you see the saint you are praying to in the icon, it helps your prayer to come alive. I suppose, this is in the way that seeing a person in the flesh is a better relationship than simply speaking to them on the phone.

They also took us to see some fossilised raptor footprints, and to some impressive caves before a sumptuous feast of Georgian food, that, despite our protests, they would not allow us to pay for. We feasted on shashleek (spit griled chunks of pork) and xinkale. Xinkale is a georgian dumpling, rather like an overgrown won ton. The correct method of consumption is to bite a small hole, and suck out the meat juices before eating the rest. They are particularly tasty.

In the evening, we were treated to another feast of chicken in a garlic creamy sauce. I played backgammon with Mr C, which is quite different to how we play in the UK. He holds a real presence in a room, and has a very masculine Georgian mustache, and without being unkind to him (he is a lovely man,) it was what it must have been like to play backgammon with Stalin! There is only one set of dice, and as soon as you have thrown the dice, they are picked up by your opponent and thrown- as it is then his turn! You have to move really quickly and I found myself forgetting what the roll was, and making tons of stupid errors. It was frustrating because I am actually quite good at backgammon! He must have thought I was a ninny!

Both mornings we were given lovely breakfasts, which consist of fruit, cherry juice, tea, cake, the previous night's chicken, and (which cannot be avoided) a large shot of the fire water chacha!

On the following day, the 16th June, we reluctantly left and the boys escorted us all the way out of town and kindly put us in the right direction. We were bought an ice cream by a kind local at a petrol station, and were fored to drink a little more chacha before finally escaping to carry on! That evening, contrary to reports, there was no hotel in Khashuri, and the gormless town police and petrol station staff didn't help us much, insisting we must cycle 20km to the next town where we would find a hotel. With very little light, this was not tempting, so cy cycled a bit out of town and asked at a farm if we could camp. My schoolboy Russian came in handy, but it still falls tragically short of the mark.

George invited us inside, and within 5 minutes we had been given beds. I used my Russian and the dictionary to make certain that everyone would have a bed, and that we were not taking anyone's bed. This was a totally different side of Georgia- rural life truly is basic even if the people appear to be happy, keep horses and animals, and enjoy fishing. The house was large, but in pretty bad disrepair, and there was no running water- it had to be carried upstairs. The loo was a shed at the end of the garden with a hole in the floorboards. The lady of the house was frying whitebait on the fir-cone-fuelled stove (we tasted one each), and we were given fresh mint tea. We had a long chat in broken russian (phrasebook fuelled), and found out that the home owner was Ossetian and that Stalin always spoke Russian with a Georgian accent! We were invited to go riding the next day, which we refused.

The following day, we left after another glass of mint chai, and made it to Gori. The entire town is a shrine to the "Great" man of Stalin. The main street is called Stalin Avenue, and has an enormous statue of the dictator in front of the municipal building. At the other end of Stalin Avenue is the "Shrine to Saint Joseph"--the Stalin Museum. The museum itself seems more like a cathedral, and outside the west front (if it were a cathedral) lies the humble home of Stalin where he spent the first 4 years of his life. The other houses that once stood in the area have been demolished as the town was re-designed in memory of St. Joseph. The house lies inside a Parthenon-like portico type structure to protect and further glorify it. Outside the museum is also Stalin's train, which went inside. It is a bit disturbing to tour Stalin's personal loo.

The museum itself has a hushed and dimmed light atmosphere, and it is very Soviet in style, with internal columns that are much wider at the top than at the bottom. A complimentary english speaking guide showed us around, and neither she nor the museum mentioned anything negative about St. Joseph at all. There were plenty of smiling photos of him, and inspiring Indiana Jones style paintings of how he must have looked when escaping a Tsarist Siberian camp when he was a young man. His death mask was on display in a darkened room with a bunch of dried flowers next to it.

Having paid our respects, we found a "homestay" that was extraordinarily recommended by the Lonely Planet. The floor was like a barn, and the [long drop] loo was revolting; the shower did not exist. The landlady was busy fixing her chacha still (a converted exhaust pipe) when we arrived.

We made good time the following day, and made it to Tbilisi and found a lovely little guest house recommended by the guide book. Dodo, the septuginarian landlady, is very kind and made us turkish coffee when we got in, and she speaks very good English. She has even forcefully pressed some boiled rice on me when I had an upset tummy.

We contacted David, Ioana's (our nun friend) air traffic controller brother. He took us out to see the spectacular and important ancient monasteries at Mtskheta, and Jvari which are incredibly important to all Georgians, and which also house stunning frescoes, icons and paintings. We also saw the new hulking Sameba cathedral in Tbilisi. It is built in entirely the old style, and within the huge courtyard, behind the high walls, it is an oasis of tranquility where you can only see the surrounding hills and nothing of the city. It was consecrated only 4 years ago, and work is still ongoing on some of the out buildings. So many of the churches we visit are being restored- this is clearly much more important to Georgians than making any attempt to repair the roads or look after the poor better!

David has been in constant contact since we arrived here, and has been really looking after us well- even asking to take an early finish to his working day to be able to show us around better. It has been great having some one to show us Tbilisi's finest places. With David, I have tasted Chinese food for the first time since England and we went to a wonderful French style restaurant, intricately decorated.

The central area in Tbilisi is very leafy and clean, and it is a real pleasure to be here for a few days. The street we are staying on is alive with market traders selling all sorts of fruit, and I cannot walk down without buying something. One lari (39p) buys a mountain of fruit. I had some mulberries and peaches with my breakfast yoghurt this morning! I have also bought some coffee- you buy 100g in the street for 1 lari and they grind it for you there and then. I have developed a taste for Turkish coffee, and made myself some this morning.

Outside the parliament building people congregate to enjoy the evening sunshine at the end of the day- some to protest against President Saakishvili's supposed poor democratic record, some simply to relax. There are some really quite good buskers who are a joy to listen to. It is lovely not to be subjected to the wailing Turkish cacophany, and to be able to enjoy music once more, rather to feel persecuted by it.

We have been waiting to receive the extortionate Letter of Invitation from a travel agency (come ON!) before we can buy our Azerbaijan visas. Recent events in Iran have meant that despite buying GBP 200 Iranian visas, plus malaria tabs, it doesn't look like we are going to be heading there. We are going to monitor http://www.fco.gov.uk/ for the latest travel advice, as well as speaking to the numerous contacts we have along the way, but for now it is not looking good. The alternative route, which is looking more likely is the less interesting, unscheduled and uncomfortable ferry accross the Caspian Sea (or lake?) to Kazakhstan. Either way, it will still be interesting.

It is really rather satisfying to have got so far already! I have cycled more than the distance as the crow flies since London than from Jacksonville Florida to San Diego. I am more than half way to the Chinese border from london (it is only 2630 km as the crow flies to Almaty, Kazakhstan from here) and my bike has notched up more than 6,600km since London (despite it only being a depressing 3,540 km as the crow flies.

Georgia has both a European and an Asian feel to it. Many people here look European, but have Asian habits, such as the way they can sit for ages in a squat position on the side of the street. The state of some of the cars on the roads is rather Asian too, each one with an icon on the dashboard to protect it. Wherever we go next, it will be an adventure, which is exactly what is written on the tin, so I can't really complain. Georgians also dress very modestly, and most wear at least one black item of clothing. Many of the ladies in the street are dressed as the nuns dress, and for men a black t shirt and jeans is normal.

I can be contacted on our local mobile number +995 55 285 685 by anyone who wants to say hello (please remember we are 3 hours ahead of UK time!)