Closing an amazing life chapter in Kyrgyzstan

The border, we were told, would be a simple affair. A relatively short distance from Karakul Lake in Tajikistan and we’d be met by one of the most backward looking government outposts I’d seen anywhere in my many travels. Operating out of a couple of run down huts high up in the mountains, the Tajik border guards were certainly friendly and hospitable with tea and cakes on offer, but also, as we’d been warned, keen on some additional “fees”. We tried in a lazy manner to dispute the bare faced extortionists, but with two weeks left on my journey and not a single care to give about such an insignificant amount of money, I caved in and Rik followed suit. The border guards had it pretty rough. There “offices” included a small kitchen and an even smaller bunk room and apparently they did shifts of two weeks at the border and two weeks in town) or something to that effect). With no Internet, no tv, no alcohol and no other company I can imagine they’d have plenty of time to think about life. They told us Winter was the worst. I believed them. Bitterly cold with only some makeshift coal fires to keep them warm . Probably on their way to cases of Black Lung for good measure. One of the offices had one particular guard obsessed with people taking off their shoes upon entry. I could see why, it was his home more or less, but when I scanned the floor I didn’t think any amount of dirt we could potentially bring in would make it look worse, but I complied with his directive apologetically.

 

We met some more travellers whilst we awaited processing, including a few cyclists we’d encountered before. This time there were some Koreans on a 4wd tour with a local driver. We then rode on into no man’s land shortly after and felt good about being on our way to a new country.  The scenery was spectacular and we felt very remote yet again. Weirdly enough we’d been seeing some beavers recently and their bright orange coats stood out in contrast to the brown mountains they inhabited. I was fascinated by the fact they even lived here. I thought they were likely to be around rivers, but not the case. After perhaps 20kms we reached the Kyrgyzstan border, definitely the longest no man’s land I’d ever come across. The process was typical – wait to go through the booth and then on to the main checks. However, today would be a little different. With several 4wds ahead of us, it took longer than expected to get through the booth. We weren’t quite sure why, but we would soon find out.

We already knew Internet was scarce in these parts. Little did we know that would be the same for the border guards. And so began a very long wait. Initially we paced around waiting to see if we would get our turn to go into the office to do the paperwork, but it became clear we weren’t welcome near the building and were told to wait outside. At least there was a big shed for shade and an ever growing number of overlanders joining us in the queue which made for some interesting chats. Perhaps the funniest exchange occurred between myself and a border guard when I took it upon myself to prevent some “queue cutting”. I saw a Western couple who arrived after us enter the office and I thought to myself “I’m not having any of this” and so I proceeded to on into the office after them. The story unfolds as follows:

Border guard: “What are you doing here?”

Me: “You mean like here in Kyrgyzstan or here in the office?”

Border guard: “Here in the office.”

Me: “Oh, just checking if it was our turn yet.”

Border guard: “It’s not. Get out.”

There ended my curiosity on processing times. Soon Rik whopped out his cooking gear and we (mostly he) cooked up a feast. For my all my wild travels, I still hadn’t camped and therefore, had not even used my stove once. I blame Anne and Anthony. Those guys convinced me I should take it all and I now lay claim to the world’s best travelled, least used cooking and camping gear. For me camping was more a hassle. Accommodation was always cheap and available and with my minimalist setup on the bike trying to carry extra water and food didn’t seem too worth it. I think if there was a fresh water stream at every potential camping spot, that would have had me sold, but I’ll admit I was very lazy on seeking such locales out.

After probably six hours at the world’s most remote border (or so it seemed) we got processed and were on our way. Well almost. Rik had left his ignition on earlier and had flattened his battery so I had to push him to get him going. The ride into Kyrgyzstan was stunning. The dramatic change from brown mountains to green mountains was remarkable. In fact, you would almost think two countries many years earlier had negotiated the border line precisely on that distinction! The roads were also vastly superior. Riding became relaxing again and I was appreciating the smooth sailing. Given my navigation tower was still hanging on by zipties, I was glad for the tarmac. We rode up and down some beautiful mountains and it was on the descent I discovered my rear brakes wee gone. Alert, but not alarmed, I kept it safe and didn’t try to push it. It was late in the day when we reached Osh, but it was just the beginning for us. We met up with Sam and Lukas again and after getting ourselves settled into our dormitory, we were off for a reunion dinner… with beers of course. After so long, it was great to see them. By now they’d already covered a lot of Kyrgyzstan and were back for some bike maintenance. Sam had had more troubles a couple of weeks back with repeated plat tyres, but we already knew this because our WhatsApp messaging group was alive and well. Around this time, Bento was in Kazakhastan and it wouldn’t be long before we saw him again too.

Conveniently located across the road from the hostel was a large hotel with a pool. We spent the next day relaxing there with a beers catching up on stories of our recent past and plans for our immediate future. We also had a Kazakhstan guy staying in our hostel who was waiting for some shipment. Sam was kind enough to invite him out when first they met and he since became one of the gang even though we had to use Google Translate to converse in Russian with him.

Rik was waiting for another shock absorber to be delivered here from Europe and also had some stomach issues, so I took the time to put together our Bartang video over a couple of days. (A task I knew would be horrible to have to try and do when I got back to Australia.) We ended up in Osh for about 6 days. A little longer than planned filled with bits of boredom here and there, but it was nice to recharge regardless. About the only exciting thing that happened was the water getting cut off in the city. This meant no showers and no toilets. After two days I couldn’t handle it anymore and braved the dormitory restrooms which by now resembled an outback outhouse. I thought to myself at the time “I’m not gonna miss this when I get home.”

Rik got his shock absorber sorted and I got a tyre changed. I had some other issues giving me concern. The clutch seemed to be intermittent in recent times (including my ride down the mountain with no rear breaks) and I’d hoped the resident mechanic would have it resolved with a clutch bleed, but it wasn’t to be. His investigations led to nought and so I hoped it would get me just another thousand kilometres further to see out my journey.

 

 

Our next destination was more of a pitstop on the way to the famous Song Kul lake. (Well “kul” means lake, so it’s like saying ATM machine, but you know what I mean.) The town was called Kazarman and the ride to and past thee was spectacular. We overnighted in one of the hostels and met a few travelers of the usual sort: motorbikers, cyclists and even a campervan with a couple of Italian families in it. The next day we made our way to Song Kul and again the riding impressed no end. We stopped more than usual for photos and enjoyed the dirt action as we wound up and down. I was particularly in the zone that day and let it hang out a bit in sections. We arrived at Song Kul and it was awe inspiring. Atop this mountain we were on an incredibly wide, flat, green expanse that gently enclosed the beautiful lake. The weather changed dramatically too. Clouds were looming and a storm was coming. We pulled up at one of the collection of yurts and were greeted by a 21 year old Kyrgyz girl who spoke exceptional English and explained that this homestay place was her and her family’s business. In fact, she’d actually set it up herself with a loan from the government which was keen to see people help build the tourism industry. Impressive!

 

 

 

After settling in and meeting a nice NZ couple (on motorbikes) and their British travel companion, Kiffy, we took off up the adjoining slopes in a mad rush! We were riding all over the place. It was incredible fun. Kiffy was a mad man and he and I shot off over the back looking for even more excitement when suddenly I found myself between two peaks in a boggy marsh. “So this is what Ireland is like” I thought to myself. I managed to get through it with great difficulty and started charging up the hill only to be thwarted by small clumps of grassy dirt. Little mounds absolutely everywhere. I waved to Kiffy for us to abandon the jaunt and we soon found ourselves sliding down a steep grassy slope all in an effort to make a short cut back to the yurts. It was fun, exhilarating and hairy. I was shattered after all the energy expended and thought “What kind of idiot am I taking all these risks on my penultimate day of riding?” Some might argue that’s the perfect time to take risks, but with a tight schedule and a remote location I considered myself lucky not to be bogged or worse.

 

 

 

That night we all huddled in the dining room yurt with all the travellers and were treated to an amazing rendition of a traditional Kyrgyzstani folk love song by our host. She then requested we recite our own so I dutifully bellowed out Waltzing Matilda and it wasn’t long before we were all producing our favourites new and old. I reckon we sang til midnight and I’m pretty sure the early birds who were probably craving precious sleep were hearing it from their yurts. Everyone had brought different kinds of alcohol so there was plenty to fuel our great gusto.

The next day was cold and miserable. For the first time in weeks, I was layered up in shirts and jackets ready for the ride. I was terrified my bike might not start after the rain given my electrics had started to become exposed so I was greatly relieved to hear it kick over. Rik and I said farewell to our newfound friends and headed off into the rain around the lake. After many months and thousands of kilometres it had all come down to this – my final day of riding. I couldn’t believe the end was in sight. In many ways I was relieved to know I’d almost made it and could go home to my comfortable existence again, but on the other hand it was going to be hard to say goodbye to the wandering lifestyle full of new places, new people and new experiences. I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of being utterly drenched and freezing yet again, something I’d always hated and dreaded in equal measures. But in some ways, it seemed almost appropriate. Adventure to the last.

As we made our way along the partially washed out dirt roads, we noticed a number of small landslides. Nothing too challenging or dangerous, but enough to keep you wondering if there might be an even bigger, impassable one ahead. We managed to catch up to Kiffy and the kiwi couple who fell into the trap of being invited into a yurt for tea and then being stuck there for some time. The five of us pushed on and then just Rik and I as the three of them stopped for some reason I can’t seem to recall now. What happened next was inexplicable. I was even in two minds as to whether it should become a part of this blog, but here I am writing about nonetheless.

As I pushed on in the drizzling rain, a number of tourists frantically waved at me from the side of the road. I pulled up and before I’d even taken my helmet off these people were desperately seeking my help. Nearby I saw a man lying in agony on the ground with some more people around him. What I could gather was that a local Kyrgyz man had ended up crashing his car over the small 3m cliff down to the creek below and these Spanish tourists and their local tour guide were trying to help him. Rik arrived and we quickly went over to him. The injured man had his wife and his young cousin with him and apart from some bruising, cuts and a large dose of shock manifesting itself as mild hysteria, the wife seemed to be ok as did the young cousin. Rik quickly set about trying to establish the state of his vitals and it didn’t seem promising. (Rik happens to be a medic in the Dutch Army so that was about the only thing in this poor man’s favour.) Miraculously, a ute (pickup) came driving along with an Englishman at the wheel who offered to help shift the man to the nearby village where there was a medical clinic. Although only 10kms away, this road was quite slow and we figured it would be at least 20-30 minutes before they made it to the place. Rik was gravely concerned with the man’s dropping temperature and his makeshift bed on the tray was less than ideal. We gave instructions for the wife to keep him awake and with that they were off with the Spaniards and their driver close behind. Just then Kiffy and the kiwis arrived and we explained what happened. We had also found out that perhaps the man may have left his handbrake off and as the car started rolling away tried to stop it, perhaps from outside the vehicle, hence leading to his disastrous state. We headed off and before long made it to the village just in time to see the ute arrive. We quickly went over to assist and Rik again checked for vital signs. The wife was desperate by now having witnessed her husband slowly slip further away from consciousness and Rik’s look to me said it all. She implored me with her eyes as to his state and I indicated we didn’t know. In any case, we needed to get him inside. Rik, the Englishman and I then carried him inside. Rik and I both knew the man had passed from this life, but we had no business pronouncing it and once inside it became clear even to the wife. As much as the volunteer nurses tried to calm her she was hysterical. The Englishman had since departed and Rik and I were left talking to the young teenage cousin outside the clinic – me having failed to escort the wife out of the treatment room. The young cousin was completely in shock. Silent, wide eyed and completely absent. We awaited momentarily in case the poor wife got worse, but by now the reality had hit and she just cried. At that moment, the Spaniards arrived and we shared with them the sad news. It was then that we left.

I rode with a heavy heart for the rest of the day. I had just witnessed a young man die a completely undeserved death and all he was doing was having a nice weekend drive with his family seeing his country’s most beautiful sights. I couldn’t help but think “why not me?” After all the risks I had taken, all the close shaves, all the crazy roads I’d ridden, how is it that this vibrant young life should be the one to be completely extinguished and not mine? I thought about his wife a lot. What her life would now be like, the mourning she would go through and maybe never fully finish and the young cousin who had to witness it all. I found myself thinking of them and praying for them for many days. There were many times I was reminded on this trip just how precious and fragile life is. I thought the accident in St Petersburg was the biggest one of all, but this one completely eclipsed it because a healthy young man was now dead.

By now, I just wanted to get to my final destination Bishkek. The remaining couple of hours was one of heightened attention and deep contemplation. I was in no mood for stopping, evidenced by the fact Rik and I not once, but twice, flew past highway patrols attempting to stop us for speeding. (They don’t seem to care too much in these parts.) We finally arrived and checked into a nice hotel for the first time in a long time. We had finally made it or to the point: I had finally made it. Rik’s journey would take him several countries further, but for me this was the place I would finish my ride. We reunited with Bento and caught up on all our stories over good food and beer. But the adventure wasn’t quite over yet. My time frames were incredibly tight due to the fact I’d decided to go back to Moscow for three days. Whilst things with Katya had long since faded away, there was a lovely girl from St Petersburg called Anna who I’d been in contact with for some time and the two of us arranged to meet in Moscow. And so to add one final element of craziness to a very crazy trip, I found myself on a plane the next morning bound for Moscow. I couldn’t actually believe I made it. The schedule was so tight, not a single thing could go wrong. In fact, only four days earlier, legislation had passed allowing World Cup visitors to come back to Russia using their Fan IDs so I was wondering if I may have been the very first to take advantage of this offer! Without it, I couldn’t have gone back.

We had a great three days in Moscow taking in some old sights and new and in the blink of an eye I was back in Bishkek. I’d allowed two days to sort my bike out with the logistics company and my prudence paid off. The first day was spent getting the bike washed, fuel drained and then trucked to the depot. Simple enough one would think. But as luck would have it, the bike washing shorted out the electrics on my bike when I was en route to the mechanics. In fact, barely 3kms from my absolutely final destination! Devastated, I went into problem solving mode and before long my misfortune became good fortune when I managed to get my bike onto a truck and over to the mechanics. I had a further brainwave when I was able to get the truck driver to let me do the fuel drain on the back of his truck saving me precious time. Rik and Bento were there too getting their respective steeds their services and were most amused to see the manner of my arrival. And so with my official letter saying I’d drained the fuel (for the air freight), the driver and I were off to the freight company warehouse. This would prove to be no easy task. With the working day at an end, I found myself on the phone constantly to my contact trying to find this hidden place. Fortunately, he was kind enough to meet us there after hours to receive the bike and I would come back the next day for the crating.

And so it was I found myself back there mid-morning kicking about whilst I waited for the crew to finish their other crating tasks. Time ticked by and after a rather boring day, the job was done and I found myself in a car with the crew heading back to head office to get some paperwork done, meet a solicitor to sign over my rights and miraculously at about 6pm everything was done with me due to fly out the next morning! I breathed an enormous sigh of relief even though I still had no idea how the bike would get home. But I could work that out later. At least it was in safe, professional hands for now.

 

 

 

I enjoyed a farewell dinner with Rik and Bento and with that I was off early the next morning. My flights would take me through Urumqi, China where I would overnight in a hotel. After thirteen months off work, 30,000kms of riding, several thousand of driving, umpteen countries spanning Central Asia, Persia, Russia, Eastern Europe and Western Europe I was finally done. I couldn’t believe many things: One, that it was over. Two, that I had actually made it and three, that I actually really felt great about going home. As I’ve said to numerous people “I really did scratch that itch”. Of course, everyone seems to think there’ll be another one soon, but we shall see. For now, I’m very thankful for what truly was a once in a lifetime experience.