The day I met Wilko: And a girl who is not from Kyrgyzstan

June 21, 2014

I was greeted at the border gate on a cold and sunny morning by a very friendly man who called me an "Extreme Tourist!" It was a title I felt very justified accepting after the blizzard and muddy road, but considering a steady stream of cyclists come this way all summer I probably wasn't the first or last to earn such a compliment. He directed me to a building up some steps, inside of which I was greeted by three doors. It felt a little like a video game where you have to decide which door to try. I'm quite indecisive, so I stood looking confused for a moment until a man down the corridor indicated I should open the first door. Upon doing so I was confronted with a small room with a desk which was completely unpopulated by any people. I went back outside and looked back down the corridor at the man who, still quite far away, indicated that I should knock on the second door. This I did. Knock, knock. A reply came that I could not understand. It might have been "Who is it?" but that seemed too obvious. I thought I should open the door. This I did. I was now confronted with what can only be described as a bedroom, and the man I needed was still in bed. I quickly closed the door apologetically with much embarrassment. Fortunately the man soon got up and led me back into the first room, where my name was written in another big book of names and I was welcomed into the country with a level of kindness not usually associated with border guards that I have woken up unexpectedly. As for what was behind the third door I could not say and that will remain forever a mystery to me. My best guess would be a cleaning closet.

Things had looked a bit brighter when I woke up in the morning

The road improved and opened up into a broad valley, whereupon I stopped to wash the mud off my bike and was soon met by an 'extreme tourist' coming the other way. Gero, a Spanish cyclist, probably deserved the title more than me though, given that he was heading off to cycle the Pamir Highway without a tent. We exchanged our stories and our currencies. He mentioned some other cyclists that I might soon meet - a Frenchman on a world tour, an English guy (not another Brit surely? I'd have to avoid him) and a Kyrgyz girl. A Kyrgyz girl?! Cycle touring?! Even after four sad and lonely years I was still optimistically hoping I might find a beautiful female also riding alone to cycle with and my ears pricked up at the mention of the Kyrgyz girl. I said my ears.

Lovely to see you, fine young children you, what a lovely introduction to your country

I arrived into the small village of Sary Tash where an old man that stank of cigarettes called me to a halt in the middle of the road. He declared in Russian that the road ahead was closed and that I should stay in his hotel. I got a bit annoyed with him as there were plenty of cars on the road and this was clearly nothing more than a ruse to get some money out of me. Annoyed at this rude introduction to his country I cycled off without another word.

A steep pass followed Sary Tash, a long and frustrating climb that was only salvaged by the fact that there was a summit sign and it included the word 'Kyrgyzstan' which meant I could get my country-sign picture completed. And then there was nothing but downhill all the way to Osh, 90 kilometres of easy and well-earned relaxing cycling. Or so I had been led to believe by all and sundry. Imagine my utter dismay then, when just two kilometres of easy and well-earned descent later the road curved back up and I passed a sign informing me that I had another 28 kilometres of climbing at an 8% gradient. Or 2.8 kilometres when I looked more closely. Which was still far too much. Then just when I was thinking life couldn't get much worse another blizzard blew in. Brilliant.

Always nice to get the country sign pic in early
Country Number 34 - Kyrgyzstan!

I was so frustrated at having to cycle up another pass that I could *totally* sympathise with whoever had attacked the summit sign (it wasn't me)

At least upon reaching the second summit I really did have 90 kilometres of easy and well-earned downhill to Osh ahead of me. And the view of the switchbacks down the initial steep descent was really something. But as I looked closer I saw a tailback of cars not moving anywhere. The words of the old man came back to me. "The road is closed, stay in my hotel, the road is closed." Now I was stuck on a mountain top and it looked like he might be right after all, but there was no way I was going back over those two passes, not for love nor money.

Now that is a downhill! (If the road is open)

I went down to where the cars were waiting and found out that there had been a massive landslide that was blocking the road, and it was going to be blocked for at least two days apparently. A trio of motorcyclists were also there and trying to work out how to get down. One of them, a British man named Wilko, was very friendly and rode down to where the landslide was to see if there was a way to get over it. He zoomed back and declared it impossible - the rock was four trucks high. But we spotted a trail down the mountainside that zig-zagged back and forth before rejoining the road below the landslide. It looked very steep but Wilko offered to help me get my bike down.

There were big quarrying trucks carrying the rocks up from the landslide and dumping them back at the top where we were. It seemed like a poor tactic to me. We made our way around them and onto the trail. It was really steep, but Wilko was a strong man and grabbed a hold of the back as I held the brakes down full, and we edged gradually down the cliffside in the rain. From here we could see the landslide and it really was huge. I couldn't believe they were going to be able to reopen the road anytime soon, and Wilko soon decided the trail we were on would be impossible with a motorbike.

Unfortunately I didn't have the time or presence of mind to photograph either the landslide or Wilko for your viewing pleasure, which is one of my greatest regrets in life.

The best I managed was looking back up at the landslides, but you can't really see the one that was blocking the road from here, but you can see the whole mountain was basically landslides

Back on the tarmac I was finally able to enjoy my hard-earned and relaxing descent. But alas the road was wet and of course my stupid front mudguard had broken off the day before, so a steady stream of water curved up from the road and directly onto my face. Mmmm, relaxing! Beyond the switchbacks I entered a valley with grassy patches besides the river where there were many yurts. People were living in these traditional tents as their animals grazed around. The children all shouted out and waved happily as they saw me and the sun even came out, making everything seem much better. But the road was still wet and I stopped at the start of a village to put my poncho on. Veronque had given me this in Dushanbe upon hearing I was planning to cycle the Pamir without a rain jacket. It had been left at her place by another cyclist, an understandable thing for someone to do given how ridiculous it looked. I mean, it was a poncho after all. But keeping dry seemed more important than looking good for the kids, so I put it on all the same, and it flapped around like a cape as I continued down into the village.

The yurts seemed to have taken all the best camping spots

Halfway through the village I saw another touring cyclist at the side of the road. She was talking to some locals and asking them to open up a small shop for her. Yes I said 'she'! Yes I said 'her'! Yes I said 'shop'! She was a her. It was a she. A lone female cycle tourist! And as I pulled up alongside her and said hello, I saw that beneath her red North Face jacket she was a very attractive looking one! 'Damn and blast!, I thought, 'I wish I wasn't wearing this stupid poncho!'

This is what happens when you try and take a picture of someone in Kyrgyzstan

Naturally my first thought was that she was the Kyrgyz girl that Gero had mentioned and for a little while I actually thought she was, but once we cleared things up it turned out she was Ana, from France. We talked for some time outside the shop and got along very well. She was really lovely. It was great. We even bought Snickers together. I was, of course, very happy at this unexpected turn of events. I guess I always knew that if I cycled for long enough, and far enough, eventually I would find exactly this - a gorgeous girl, also cycling alone, that I got on great with. And I suppose, if I'm honest, deep down inside, I always knew that she'd be going the other sodding way.

*** (Please allow for a brief pause in the narrative at this point whilst the author of this blog bangs his head repeatedly against a brick wall) ***

Ana had started cycling from Cambodia six months earlier, and was on her way back to France. She had come through China and was going to Tajikistan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Iran, Armenia and Turkey. Or to put it another way, exactly the same route that I had just done. Still, it was already early evening, and I was sensible enough to suggest we camp together. I told her about the grassy area with the yurts and we cycled back up through the village that way and set up our tents.

Right lovely kids, I suppose I've got to pretend to like you while I'm trying to impress this girl haven't I?

So we spent a nice evening talking, and found we had a lot in common. Ana told me about China, and how the drivers always toot their horn. "When they see you they toot, when they pass you they toot, if they see a cow they toot, if they get in their car they toot. Its so annoying, and so painful. It makes me so angry, so mad, just always tooting." I looked at her whinging, complaining face and thought to myself, 'this... girl... is... perfect... for... me!'

Then I remembered she was going the other sodding way.

*** (Please allow for a brief pause in the narrative at this point whilst the author of this blog bangs his head repeatedly against a bicycle saddle) ***

We talked more as the stars came out and we laid outside, my emergency poncho finally finding its true calling in life as a picnic blanket. Ana told me about the time that, having just backpacked through Africa, as she pushed her bag in a shopping trolley through a Cape Town mall she was mistaken for a homeless person. This was approximately the moment when I realised this was probably the girl that I was going to marry. But then I remembered she was going the other sodding way.

*** (Please allow for a brief pause in the narrative at this point whilst the author of this blog bangs his head repeatedly against a surprised young donkey) ***

Oh well, what else could we do? We just had to enjoy our nice conversation under the stars. Then I saw a shooting star and made a wish. Can you guess what I wished for? I looked at Ana and... you know what, I'm sorry, I can't do this anymore...

*** (Unfortuately this blog post must end early at this point, as the author of this blog has a splitting headache and needs to lie down) ***

20/06/14 - 81km (11km in something that was probably Kyrgyzstan)

21/06/14 - 60km

Today's ride: 71 km (44 miles)
Total: 21,222 km (13,179 miles)

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Rich FrasierI can’t wait to hear how this ends!
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