May 9, 2014
Mary, Mary, quite contrary: How does your desert go?
On the morning of Day Three of the Desert-Dash Challenge I cycled into the city of Mary, the halfway point of the crossing. I was surprised by what I found. In contrast to the bumpy desert highway the streets were in perfect condition, with clean footpaths and well maintained gardens. The buildings around the centre were modern and in pristine condition. It was a thoroughly modern and developed city. And in addition to all this I have to say that the girls were absolutely the most beautiful I had ever seen. They were all wearing long and brightly coloured dresses, with plaits in their hair or colourful headscarfs. They were so elegant, so beautiful. These long dresses were the standard thing for females to wear and it was so funny to see men dressed in rags and the girls cutting by looking for all the world like they were off to prom. I couldn't believe how beautiful they looked, I was so happy, but then, what was that I remembered reading on the old travel advice site:
'There remain sensitivities around relationships between foreign men and local women, and the Turkmen authorities are known to take action against both. For foreign nationals this could result in a fine and deportation from the country.'
SIGH!
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Oh well there was no time for any of that business anyway was there, lets not forget the challenge. But before I left Mary I was further distracted by the sight of a big parade in the streets. People were flocking towards it, there were giant flags and kids in sports uniforms and rows and rows of beautiful girls in those beautiful dresses. I wanted to investigate further so I went closer, leaving my bike and walking up to see just what was going on. But then a security guard came over to me and ushered me away, leading me back to my bike and telling me to leave. By way of explanation he pointed to my cap, which was covered in dust, my shirt, which used to be red but now was very faded, my shorts, with their glue stain and burn mark, and my shoes, which were falling apart. He didn't point at my socks, which were in surprisingly good condition. I looked around at the other spectators, all well dressed. It seemed I wasn't smart enough, even to watch a parade. Not even to watch a parade. In Turkmenistan. This was a new low for the wardrobe department.
Twenty kilometres after Mary there was another town, Baymaraly, but after that I knew there was 200 kilometres of desert before the border city of Turkmenabat. According to my map, which admittedly wasn't very detailed, there would be nowhere that I could get water in those 200 kilometres. To be on the safe side then, I decided to get enough water in Baymaraly for the whole journey. I wasn't stupid, there was no way I was going to run out of water in the desert again. Oh no, don't ever let it be said that I make the same mistake four times. But this meant loading up my bike with 15 litres of water, an absurd amount. The only way I could possibly make enough space was to jettison my second sleeping bag, the big thick one I had bought for winter. There was no real need for it now as I was only lying on top of it sweating buckets at night anyway. But I soon discovered that 15 litres of water was quite a bit heavier than a sleeping bag and the extra weight was somewhat excessive as I rolled very slowly out of the town and back into the desert.
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Before I got very far I was met by the sight of four touring cyclists coming the other way. I was surprised to find that they were actually from Turkmenistan, and had just cycled across the desert from Turkmenabat. They invited me to go back to a cafe that I had just passed for a drink and as I was still making good time I agreed.
I was very interested in their bikes which were mostly cheap and had innovative ways of carrying a rather small amount of belongings. One of the men even showed me how he kept a spare pair of pedals on a little rack under his pannier and suggested that I do the same, as if my bike wasn't loaded enough. I think I had more stuff than the four of them put together. As we were standing outside taking photos I was surprised again as Andreas rolled up. It seemed he had stopped earlier than me the night before and I had passed him in my dehydrated-and-dying-of-thirst-whilst-singing-boyband-songs delirium.
So the six of us ended up inside exchanging stories and a feast of food was brought out before us which the Turkmen guys insisted on paying for. I didn't feel too bad about this because it was mostly meat and I couldn't eat any of it anyway. Andreas ate for two. I told him I was carrying 15 litres of water and asked how much he had. "Three and a half," he said, "do you think I need more?"
The cafe was the last place before the open desert began and Andreas and I started together but he was faster than me so I told him to feel free to go on ahead if he wanted to. "No stress," he said, "we make it together."
Then the road turned back into the wind, which was still blowing strongly. I considered drafting behind Andreas. It would surely help me, but was it cheating? I mean, of course it is okay to draft behind cyclists normally, but until Andreas arrived this was a very personal challenge, me against the desert. Should I allow myself to draft behind him? Would I still be able to consider the Desert-Dash Challenge to have been a complete personal success. I looked up. He was gone, far ahead into the distance. It was the last I saw of him.
Just to clarify then, if you are taking on the Desert-Dash Challenge in the future, please bear in mind the following rules. Failure to obey these rules will make your 'I did the Desert-Dash didn't I?' certificate invalid:
1) No lifts in cars.
2) No shortcuts.
3) No drafting behind random Austrian men.
I'm only joking. Like I said before, you really should take the shortcut. These rules aren't official and to be perfectly honest with you there is no certificate.
I was getting a terrible sense of deja-vu as the road straightened up making the winds more of a crosswind for the afternoon, which again blew sand across the road and into my eyes and made me cry. But I had to keep going, there was simply no time in the schedule for stopping, however hard things got. But then I got a puncture, so I stopped.
Wait a minute, seriously, this all happened yesterday. What the...? Again? No. Well at least I wasn't going to run out of water this time, not with 15 litres of the stuff. I felt in my bag which was carrying most of the water. It was wet. The water had leaked! But it was okay because it only leaked a little bit and I still had 14 and three quarter litres left.
I fixed the puncture. It was an internal puncture this time, different from the day before in case any of you are thinking I don't know how to fix punctures. 'What could cause an internal puncture on the back wheel?' I wondered. Maybe too much weight. I resolved the issue by strapping a couple of water bottles to the outside of my front panniers. This had the unexpected but utterly brilliant side effect of looking like I had rocket launchers on my bike which I pretended to fire at any trucks that beeped too loud.
By evening I had managed to put in another fairly good distance, with a total of 350 kilometres for the first three days, although the hardships of the desert were taking their toll. The heat was really something, the wind incessant, the sand, the flies, the punctures, all of it I found exhausting. But what I was finding most hard about this whole thing was the mildly irritating middle-aged Austrian man who was racing ahead making it look like he wasn't even trying. I decided that even though he didn't know it, me and him were in a race to the border. Forget the Desert-Dash, this was the Desert-Duel. It was the classic case of the tortoise and the hare. He would race ahead of course, but I had my chance if I could cycle a little later each evening and get up a little earlier. As if to confirm my character in the metaphor I saw several tortoises in the evening and even lifted a few up and carried them across the road to safety. The desert was surprisingly full of life actually, and when I found my camping place among the dunes I disturbed some desert foxes. And if you have heard the popular record 'What the Fox say?' and wondered yourself what the secret sound of the fox really is, I can tell you it is "Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, Waaaaaaaaa, Waaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!"
Today's ride: 116 km (72 miles)
Total: 18,951 km (11,769 miles)
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