"If you think adventure is dangerous, try routine; it's lethal." - Paul Coelho

Thursday, July 31, 2014

Made It To Osh

I'm in Osh, where I can get some work done on the bike. It was an adventure, in that I spent most of the day being lost. I knew where I wanted to go, and kind of where I was, but I could never reconcile the data from Mr. Garmin, my map, and the maps on the iPhone. It was a very frustrating day, accompanied by the usual problems like ATM machines that wouldn't work and cash exchange offices closing before closing time, etc. 

Leaving Khujand was easy enough, headed to Isfara. Past Isfara I would leave Tajikistan for Kyrgyzstan and on to Osh. And it was in Isfara that my sense if direction and ability to think deserted me. I could recount for you each mistake I made, but will summarize by saying I wasted four hours looking for the correct road to cross the border, but was looking in the wrong place. I was too far south, and when a police officer gave me directions to where I wanted to go, following his advice got me to Kyrgyzstan, but on the wrong road. 

By taking the road he directed, I crossed into Kyrgyzstan without going through immigration or customs control. In this part of the world, that can be very serious. I stopped in the first town, Batken, and tried to explain to another police officer. All he could or would say was "Osh."  So I headed to Osh, but not without trying to get some cash. 

The first bank I stopped at would not convert dollars. They told me the exchange window was closed even though others were getting money exchanged. So I tried their ATM. It wouldn't take any of my cards. So I went to the only other bank in town, which was closed, but had two cash machines. Neither of them worked either. Now it was 5:30, and I needed to get moving if I didn't want to get caught out late again. 

As I was headed out of town, I saw a sign on a shop where maybe I could get a SIM card if they would take dollars, so I stopped. That place couldn't, but someone sent for a clerk from the building next door, which was the phone company. An hour and a half later, I had a SIM card and 520 com in my pocket for gas or food. 

I left Batken really feeling the time pressure, pretty sure I was not going to make it to Osh that day. The first 17 km confirmed that, as it was washboard road under construction. But then the road became a brand new strip if asphalt as nice as any I've seen. Soon I was doing 55-60 mph and enjoying the evening. I was on the new Osh-Isfara road. Too make sure I had enough fuel, I stopped filled the tank for 460 com. Now I had 60 com for food, about $1.20. 

The map I have for Central Asia is a large scale map, and does not show enough detail to allow precise navigation. The maps on Mr. Garmin for this part of the world are from OSM, or Open Steet Maps, a cooperative project to map the world. On a computer they provide somewhat better detail, but on the GPS device, the maps can be difficult to orient. They were difficult on this day. With the SIM card I could get maps off the internet, and they gave me the best information, but I had to stop to use them. 

The Osh-Isfara road is designed to allow traveller's to get from one city to the other without traveling into Uzbekistan. The road has been built just south of the Uzbekistan border, although from time to time it still nips into Uzbekistan territory for a bit. By agreement there are no border crossing points at those locations. 

Dark finally caught up with me, and I knew I needed to get off the road. I still harbored an inane hope I could make it to Osh on a few hours. Ha!  I made it to Khadamzhai, and Mr. G said the O-I road went to the left. I went left, and came to a border crossing. The soldier guarding the gate said that it was a crossing to Uzbekistan, and I didn't want to go there. I said "Osh?", and he indicated I had to go back the way from whence I came, then swing way around. 

I tried to follow his directions, but the road headed into the mountains. I tried to figure out where I was and discovered the road I was on dead-ended in the mountains at some "beautiful mountain lakes."  I could not get the GPS map oriented in a way I could understand, without doubt because I was tired and hungry and it was dark. I headed back into Khadamzhai because I had seen a park there. 

I was sitting on the curb next to the park, looking at my map and iPhone, wIting for the town to settle down so I could sneak into the park and camp. I had checked for a place to stay, and nothing was showing up. So I was sitting there, praying for a solution, watching the area, trying to get a sense of the place. A cab pulled up, and a young man got out. By now it is very dark, but he had seen me sitting there. 

He asked in broken English if I was waiting for my friend. I said I had no friends in this town, and I didn't have a place to stay. He pointed at a building about 50 feet from me and said, "Hotel." I was around the corner from the entrance, which he showed me, and it was an old Soviet style hotel. Prayer answered. 

I was a source of great amusement to the two Russian speaking women running the place. I was shown to a room with a bed, a sink, a table and chair, and a wardrobe. I took it. As I was outside unloading the bike, the locals were asking their usual questions, and I was joking with them, and in response to a question about where I was going I said I had no idea because I had been lost most of the day. From above me I heard "Did I just hear an American voice say they have been lost most of the day?"

Marydean Purves, originally from Wuoming, has been working with NGOs in Africa and Central Asia for 25 years. She was a tremendous assist to me in getting the room, and the next morning getting me on the correct road. I was so fortunate that she overheard me and offered to help, and them did help. 

So with a place to sleep, I took immediate advantage, after making sure I took my boots off. 

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Khujand

I made it through the Anzob tunnel encountering only one traffic jam. It is not quite as bad as portrayed in the literature, but very near. I did not encounter any water more than a foot deep, but the potholes are as massive, as abrupt, and as steep as the articles say. Several times  the front wheel would just drop off and I had no idea where it was going to go. 

The tunnel was started in 2003, and is still under construction. Unfortunately, the equipment used in the construction is not well marked. Reflectors would have been nice, lights even better. Or even general lighting in the tunnel. I discovered three scaffolding type devices almost by accident. Pun!!  

It is difficult to see anything in the tunnel due to dust from the rock drilling, spray from the water running down the roadway, and all of the exhaust from the vehicles driving through and the construction equipment being operated inside. Having done it once, I don't think I need to do it again. 

Here is the portal at the northern end. 


There are supposed to be two parallel tunnels. There was two way traffic in the tunnel through which I rode, and at the south end I did not see a second portal. 

Some views at the end of the tunnel. 




After I left the tunnel, something kept hitting my helmet. At first I thought it was insects. But it was rain. I can't remember the last time I was in rain. Later, it rained heavily for awhile, and I enjoyed it. 

After the tunnel, the road followed a river for quite a ways. I stopped and took these pictures just to give you an idea of the mountains. 





The road was great today. All paved, the only awful portion being the Anzob Tunnel itself. The rest was great. I had a second pass to climb, which with the good road was no problem. At the top, there was another three mile (5 kilometer) tunnel, but it was paved and lighted!  It was a beautiful example of a tunnel. Now I know they can do it. 

After I came out of the second tunnel, the highway dropped rapidly to a broad, widening valley. The towns and villages look prosperous, there are many new houses, and agriculture is king. I took these photos of some grain fields because, well, because I was pretty sure I was in Kansas. 



I made it to Khujand without further incident or fuss. It was a pretty good day after I prayed my way through that tunnel. Tomorrow I plan to cross into Kyrgyzstan at Isfara, then ride south of 0the Uzbekistan border to Osh. If I leave early enough, I should make it in one day. It is only 322 kilometers, or 201 miles. I rode 190 miles today over two 10,000+ foot passes, and two five kilometer tunnels. Assuming decent road surfaces, and no problems with Mr. Moto, I should be able to go 322 kilometers in a day. 

Peace, out. 





Monday, July 28, 2014

Change In Route

I just learned that the route I was going to take along A372 is closed to tourists. I will now be traveling north to Khujand. This route will take me through the Anzob Tunnel, which you do not want to Google. 

Semper Fi!

Bike Maintenance And Repair

I spent 5 hours on the bike doing some maintenance and repair. Replaced the front brake lever. 


You can see the lever on the bottom bent but didn't break. (Pun?). Repaired the kickstand foot that was torn off in Georgia, and the fuel can carrier also bent in Georgia. Now my right foot has more room to operate the rear brake and to stand on the pegs. 

Topped off the radiator again and noted that the rearmost oil tank fastener had pulled out of the air box. You can see from the photo that it hanging out almost an inch. 


I spent at least two hours trying to repair this, plus another half-hour when that black spacer fell down into the abyss around the engine. I couldn't make any headway. I will need to remove everything down to the top of the seat frame so I can get to the air box mounting tabs. I also need a large vise and a larger hammer so I can whack the tabs back into proper alignment. There is a shop in Osh that will let me do that. 

I'm going to start for Osh tomorrow. It should take about three days to get there. I don't know the condition of the road, so it could take longer. The adventure continues. . .

Saturday, July 26, 2014

Turn Signal Repair

My left front turn signal keeps taking a beating. 


  

So I must repair it again. Step one, superglue. After the superglue I use Sugru to add a little strength around the fracture line. This fast setting rubber compound is a fantastic product. 



I also put some Sugru around the ball joint on the left rear view mirror to see if I can keep the mirror from flopping. 


Hope this works. I like to see what is coming up on my left side, especially in the mountains. 

The bike is pretty dirty. If I could find a power washer I'd give it a blasting. I think that will have to wait. 



It's a good bike. Since I'm feeling so much better, I'll have to get headed out soon, I hope. My stomach still doesn't like food very much. 







Friday, July 25, 2014

The Doctor Said

Keep off your feet a few more days (they are still a little swollen, reddish, tender and feverish), the fever is related to the diarrhea issue, and that is probably food poisoning. Great. 

So, I endeavor to persevere in idleness. 

Thursday, July 24, 2014

Time Keeps On Passing, Passing. . .

Ah, boredom. 

Laying on a bed in a hotel is not my forte, nor is sitting in the hotel's garden, as nice as it is.  This not being able to stand or walk (if I want to heal properly and as promptly as possible) is more limiting than I imagined. It reminds me of when I was confined to the hospital for three weeks, but at least there I could go for walks. 

But I am faithfully refraining from standing and walking. My feet are still swollen and tender. I keep them warm, dry, and exposed to the air. I only wear sandals when I must walk, and then immediately remove them to avoid allowing any moisture to form between sandal and skin. Naught else can be done except to watch for any signs of cracks or infections, which I do. 

I would like to get out and see more of Dushanbe. The parts I have seen, which are really just the major arterials, are nicely shaded boulevards. Most of the people are very friendly, and young men stop when they see me to practice their English, or to offer their help. 

Also, while riding the moto, they express their proposed friendship in a variety of ways. Usually, they blow their horn as soon as they see the moto, and start waving and yelling. Sometimes, however, they sneak right up on me, kind of in stealth mode, and only when right beside me or right behind me do they start leaning on the horn and yelling. That has startled me so badly, so many times, that I am quite exhausted by it. Another expression of friendship and the utter joy of beholding such a moto, is to start to pass, then slow down to match my pace, roll down their window, and then initiate a conversation at 80 kmh in a language I have no hope of hearing while wearing a helmet, much less understanding. And finally, sometimes they just want a good long look, so they will get right in the same lane with me. Once again, this can be disconcerting, as they are often looking at me while describing what they are seeing to someone on the cellphone in their other hand, and not looking at the road in front of them. I am reduced to smiling (which they can't see) and nodding my head at them. This lets them know I have seen them, and that I am acknowledging their interest and sharing their joy that we are together, in one lane, traveling too fast on a bad road, and that neither of us is looking where we are going. But they are really friendly. 

In the country, the little boys and pre-teen boys and girls run to the side of the road to wave as soon as they hear it. Teenage boys vary in their response, because their primary concern is to remain cool. If there is a small group of them, they often wave and start uttering the Central Asian (common to all countries I have visited so far) equivalent of "Hey!"  It seems to be a mash-up of noises, most akin to the British colloquial "Oy!" but with more of a grunt. There is a lot of belly used in making the noise. It sure is an attention getter, and therefore a very efficient means of communication. 

To change things up just a little, I think I will order my supper early tonight. Last night I had doner/donar kebab. Tonight I am going back to "Southern Fried Chicken" which is like KFC without Colonel Sander's blessing. If you catch my drift. I actually like the chicken better than KFC, although the fries aren't as good. Since it is not too hot, I will take my Kindle and sit outside, and when my chicken delight arrives, dine al fresco at the table next to this humongous what I call a day bed. 


In fact, I will sit in the chair, the top of which you can see in the photo, while I dine. And salad. I will have some salad too, as grease + roughage = 😎. 


Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Staying Off My Feet

I have been good about staying off my feet today. I have only hobbled downstairs for breakfast, and then outside to read. I'm reading Rick Atkinson's third book in his three part series on Worl War II, The Guns At Last Light: The War in Western Europe. I find it a wonder read, as I did the first two books. 

After I went back inside due to the heat, I was hungry. The hotel only serves breakfast, and otherwise has no restaurant. So I had the mini-bar for lunch. . .  I just had to ask them to restock it when I ordered my takeout dinner. 

But I'm staying off my feet!


Smells of Central Asia

As I ride along in Central Asia on a moto, one thing I can't escape is the smell or smells of the places through which I ride. I love the smells of the open countryside, of hay being cut, or fruits stacked along the roadside. It's the villages, though, providing variety. Wood smoke, food cooking, open water, fresh laundry, sometimes the smell of open sewers, garbage and so on. 

But there was one smell the source for which I couldn't figure out. It was rancid, awful smelling stuff. Kind of like bad fish cooked in garlic sauce. Sometimes I would get a whiff in the countryside too, and I was really puzzled. I didn't care for it, that was certain. 

I finally figured it out: it is my riding jacket. It may be reaching bio-hazard status soon!

Day Two On The Way To Kalaikhum - And The Return To Dushanbe.

I was packed and on the road to Kalaikhum by 5:30.  Not too much further along, the road split, with one branch staying on the north of the "O" river, and the other crossing a suspension bridge and heading south.  Mr. Garmin indicated the southern route was the correct way, and his advice was confirmed by a man and boy lying on a daybed outside a building by the bridge yelling "Khorog!" and waving in the direction of the bridge.  I rode across the bridge.

Here, the riverbed was boulders and gravel.  It reminded me of the gravel bars with which I am familiar in Alaska, with various sized round river rocks, varying in size from the size of cabins or small cars down to pea gravel and sand. On the other side of the bridge, someone had bladed a route through the gravel, much like a "Cat" trail used by the miners in Alaska along the river beds and gravel bars there.  I bounced along it for 100 meters or so, then the front tire hit a ridge of loose large stones, and washed out.  There went the left front turn signal again.  I unpacked, got it up, and it would not start again.  I took it apart.  I jiggled things.  I took apart the kill switch and started box and blew it out.  I put that back together, and it started again.  Good.  I packed up, and rode it another 25 meters. It was deja vu all over again. Another wash out, another fall to the left. 

Not even 6:15 yet, and I have been down twice.  Every time I go down, I bang up some part of me, and those parts nag as aches and pains.  It also takes time to get it, the moto, unloaded, up, and reloaded.  I am so glad I did not bring the big bike, which weighs at least 100 pounds more than this one does.  Still, 425 pounds is not something that 67 year old men sneeze or scoff at.  It takes energy to get the thing up on its two wheels.

Finally, I rode up the "road" about 300 meters, where it then takes a dip down across a stream bed and up to the final border post on the other side.  Once again, this is a small stream, about a foot deep, with steep gravel banks of large stones, in the middle of a gravel stream bed.  Two-wheel cars cross it several times a day, and they have worn down the banks a little in their ruts.  I chose a rut, got across the other side, and the rear wheel bogged down in the deep gravel, and over I went.  Three falls in less than 400 meters.  I did not feel good about this anymore, and I definitely was NOT having any fun.  I unpacked, and the border guard came down from his post to help me get the bike upright.  It started right away, thankfully, but I had a lot of difficulty getting traction in the deep gravel.  I don't know if it is me, my technique (Rominiac will help me out here), or the tires, but it did not want to come out of that gravel stream bed.  I finally broke it free, and charged up the river bank like I knew what I was doing.  I didn't, as it turns out.

The border guard helped drag my bags up to the bike, and while I reloaded, he took my passport, etc. I then took off, knowing I was already tired, and it was only 7:00.  The road followed right on the south bank of the "O" river for a few kilometers, then turned due south and into the mountains.  I was feeling better, as the roadway improved for awhile, and I stopped to take pictures.  I love these mountains.





I finally made it to about kilometer post 82.  There, I was faced with this stretch of gravel. 



The slope was about 6%, and the rocks were large.  I couldn't make it.  The bike would not go in this gravel.  I was exhausted.  My right arm was aching, and I was having trouble with my throttle hand.  Both knees are so painful that I can barely ride standing on the pegs.  Moreover, it seems as though the moto has developed a fuel leak.  I can't find the leak, but I think it is on the left side.  When the bike falls to the left, I get a significant spill.

After contemplation, I decided I had better turn back.  I was only a little over 20 kilometers from Kalaikhum, but I couldn't see a way to get there directly from where I stood.  I did not want to run out of fuel and have to be rescued, and I didn't want to be hurt and evacuated.  Given my physical state, and the state of the bike, I decided that seeing the Pamir Mountains was not as important as seeing my wife and friends again.  So I turned around, took this picture, and headed down the mountain.  It turned out that this was the correct decision.


Sometimes I think riding downhill on a bad gravel road is worse and takes longer than riding uphill on a bad gravel road.  It seemed like forever.  I was headed back to Dushanbe to regroup.  The ride through the heat and on the bad road seemed to take forever.  But there were some joys along the way.  About 15 kilometers back towards "town" I met Malcom and his partner, whose name I have forgotten.  They had seen my bike in Bukhara, and as she got off her bike, Malcom's partner shouted at him, "It's that guy from Alaska!"  They were both so nice, offering to slow down and let me ride with them so I could take another shot at it.  I demurred, and it turns out that was the right choice to make, as you will see.  Then the Swiss couple rode up on their bikes, with another Swiss couple as well, and they stopped to see what was going on.

These are all super nice people, as my friend Dick Hattan told me they would be.  The type of people (like Dick for instance) who go on these kinds of adventures will stop and help every person they meet.  It's just wonderful to contemplate.  Malcom and his partner offered me pain pills for my arm (I declined.  The last thing I need is to be befuddled by pain meds while riding a loaded moto on these gravel roads), and I gave them some medical supplies they had forgotten to bring.  And then one of the Swiss women told me about a southern route to Kalaikhum that is paved all the way and only three years old or so.  Perhaps that would work to get me into the Pamir Mountains.  This young woman reminded me so much of one of my oldest (or should I say longest) friends from high school, Carol Kress, now Carol Sigafoos and married to Jay Sigafoos, my best friend from high school.  This young woman looks just like Carol when Carol was a sophomore, and is as gracious as Carol.  So nice to meet such super people.

I continued back to town.  I was tired, and having control issues with the bike, trying to muscle it instead of letting the front wheel find its own way.  Don't ever do that.  It just makes you more tired, and the front wheel is stronger than you.  Once again, the inevitable happened.  Trying to avoid a pile of flint-like store next to a pothole for repair of that pothole, I hit the edge of the pothole and was thrown into the pile of gravel, falling to the right and trapping my right foot between the fuel carrier on the side of the bike, the food peg, and the flint gravel pile.  I was stuck.  It was over a hundred degrees, in the direct sunlight, and all I could get when I moved my foot was gravel in my boot.  I was pinned like a bug.  I was sure I could eventually get out, but for several minutes I was stuck.  I finally heard the sound of a car engine and saw its dust cloud.  When it appeared, I waved at it, and it finally stopped.  Three men got out and pulled the bike off me, then drove off.  I rode off, now with a wrenched right knee as an aching complement to my aching right shoulder.

Later, the bottom of my right foot started feeling like I had rocks in my boot, and I was sure I did from my incident with the gravel pile.  Strangely, it felt the same in my left boot.  I pulled over for a rest, took off my boots, and shook them out.  Gravel came out of my right boot, but not my left.  I wiped my hands across the bottoms of my soggy, sweat soaked socks to remove any remaining rocks, wigs, insects, whatever, and put my boots back on.  Strangely, the feeling of rocks in my boots persisted.

Later yet, the bottoms of my feet were really hurting.  Whenever I stopped to get water, or rest, it really hurt to walk on them.  Moreover, they were really hurting even while I was riding, even though I couldn't stand on the pegs at this point because of my knees.  Just shifting and using the rear brake (going downhill, and whenever in gravel, I use the rear brake) was enough to hurt.  Hmmmm.

It took forever, or so it seemed, to get back to Dushanbe.  When I got back to the Mercury (they were happy, but not too surprised I think, to see me), it felt like the bottoms of my feet had been cut with razors.  When I got to the room after getting the bags off and into the hotel, I stripped off my boots, riding pants, and socks, to discover that I had, like a damn fool, and in spite of knowing better, inflicted trench foot upon myself.  Otherwise known as immersion foot, it is a cold weather phenomenon caused by wet feet that get cool, etc.  Not changing my socks overnight when it was cool in the mountains, and not changing them in the morning, were enough.  I showered, dried my feet, ordered in what amounts to the Tajiki version of KFC, and crawled into bed.

I called Meredith and gave her an update.  She counsels me to stay put for several days, sort out the body issues, and see what the mind says after I feel better physically.  After not doing what I know I should have done earlier, I am inclined to do what she counsels, for many reasons, not the least of which is she knows, or comprehends, more about situations such as this than do I.

This morning, my feet are still swollen, although the whiteness of the tissues has dissipated, now leaving the feet reddish.  I can only walk slowly and painfully on them, so I am sitting and reading or writing.  When you Google "trench foot," as I know you will, you will see what I must do.  It turns out that I made the right choice to return from that road when I did.  Otherwise, I would be in some far off village, or lying by the side of the road, waiting for a medevac.  And that sets aside the issue of if the moto is capable of going on without major work.

The current plan is to wait until I can get around, then check out the moto.  When I have discovered what, if anything, ails the moto, I can decide what to do.  Until then, I have been looking at that Southern route, and keeping in mind that I have to be out of Tajikistan by August 8.  So keep checking back to (a) see the pictures I haven't been able to post yet of earlier adventures, and (b) see whether I can keep on going.

On the Way To Kalaikhum -- And Back


Tajikistan is a very, very beautiful country.  The mountains here are beautiful - high, steep, with the history of their birth unveiled time after time in magma flows and violent upthrustings.  I am more taken with them than any mountains I have ever seen on any continent I have visited (or lived upon).  And that is without ever getting into the Pamirs.  Yet.

Tajikistan is also home to the most beautiful highways in Central Asia, and the worst.  I left Dushanbe later than I wanted to, because things in Central Asia just take time, such as banking and buying SIM cards, and even refueling, and because the traffic in Dushanbe is typical of Central Asia.  But I finally got out of town at about 11:00, and enjoyed the first 72 kilometers of good road.  The mountains come up right away, and I was soon in the hills, leading to the mountains visible in the near distance.  The road is lined with small villages and farms, interspersed with fields.  I think it is beautiful.




After km 72, the road deteriorates.  Coming to the end of a little village, and out from the shade of its tree lined streets, I saw a vast bowl of dried grasses, with the hills to the left and a river in a gorge to the right.  Straight  across the bowl, and leading to the edge of a hill near the river where the road disappeared behind the ridge, was a dusty, dirty road - the road that leads to the Pamir Highway, another 40 or more kilometers away.  I knew it had been too good to last.  Off I went.

The road follows the north bank go the Obikhignou River.  Near Rogun, it looks like they are getting ready to build a dam, as there are huge stockpiles of gravel, the size of small mountains, and what appears to be a construction camp built on a bluff high above the river.  This river is a very powerful, full throated beast of a river, carrying a tremendous silt load.  Everywhere there is evidence of the torrents that empty into it when it rains in the mountains that stand near the river.  It's not a wide, sluggish river, but a storming upheaval of water pounding downstream between its limiting banks.  I had the impression that the river would destroy any and every thing that came into its path.  I did not see a single pylon in the river (except one of its tributaries) that survived to support a bridge.

The road carves, as I said, its way along the northern bank, generally up on the hillside.  The hill above and the river below are a constant challenge for those who have designed, built, and maintain this "highway."  The hillsides are constantly eroding onto the roadway, and the hillside below the roadway is constantly eroding into the river, or being eroded by the river.  




A view across the river
This bridge with pylons in the river is over a small tributary entering the Obikgingou from the north

This was taken along  a stretch of paved roadway.  Occasionally, after km 72, there is a stretch or two of paved road that lulls one into believing it is all going to be good from there on.  That hope is quickly destroyed in less than five minutes.

The unpaved portions of the road are potholed, washboarded, and rutted gravel.  Cars and trucks can blast along at 80 kmh or better, but I am slowed to generally under 30 kmh.  Time passed slowly in the baking heat and stifling dust.  After at total of 135 kilometers or so after leaving Dushanbe, I came to the first of three control points for access to the Pamir Highway, where police checked my passport for the required permit.  In an interesting manner, the last maybe 10-15 kilometers are also paved!  At this point, the highway branches, with the northern branch, A372, proceeding on to Osh, while the southern branch, M41, leads to Kalaikhum (another 104 kilometers or so), and then to Khorog (another 192 kilometers) which is the gateway to the Pamir Highway.  Actually, M41 in its entirety is considered the Pamir Highway, but you don't get into the Pamir Mountains until after Khorog.  Leaving the police point, I took this picture with my iPhone, ready to tackle this next adventure:


It was getting late, but I figured I still had a chance to get to Kalaikhum that night if I kept going steadily.  Events were to prove me wrong.

The first maybe 17 kilometers are up into the hills on a gravel and broken tarmac surface, with many recent repairs of crushed (and not so crushed) rock bladed over the surface.  It appears that whenever there is a heavy enough rainfall in the adjacent mountains, the mountains empty the water right onto the road, washing it out or badly damaging it.  On these surfaces, I was managing around 15 to 25 kmh.  It was clear that I was only going to get to Kalaikhum that night if the road got better.

Nonetheless, the surrounding scenery was stupendous.  The road broke out of the little front range and into the river valley.  Sometimes, the river had left room for pasture lands along its banks, and sometimes not, but regardless, the views were beautiful.



Occasionally, I would find a few hundred meters of surviving tarmac, and really rock on!  But still progress was slow.  I stopped and talked with some bicyclists, a lone German fellow and then a Swiss couple, and they were all so very nice that I wanted to just talk and talk.  But I had a time crunch on my mind, and kept grinding it out.  The heat was still oppressive, with that kind of heat you only get in the mountains where the rock and the valleys trap the heat and slowly bake you.  Water started to be a problem, and I kept stopping and buying water, and chugging a half liter of bottled sweet tea whenever I could find it.  I also stopped and did a complete refuel to take the fear of running low off my mind.  Moreover, as I was hungry for lunch, I stopped at a place that advertised soup and fish on its sign.  It was located on a rock bluff maybe 60 feet high jutting into a tributary to the "O" river.  I was thinking maybe a bowl of soup and some bread would do nicely.  Alas, no soup!  Instead, I was served 5 smoked and dried fish, about 6 inches long each, bread, and tea.  The bread was very good.  While eating, the teenage boy living there took up his fishing pole and went down to the river below to catch more inventory.  The pole was a branch, maybe 3 meters long.  The float was another branch, covered with moss, about one meter long.  From his float dangled a length of monofilament with a hook.  I did not see what he was using for bait, but there were plenty of grasshoppers around.  He just hurled his float upstream, and let it drift downstream.  Apparently he was successful to some degree, as I had just eaten the products of his earlier labors.

Along about 4:30, with about three hours of daylight left, I ran into a stretch of deep dust drifted across the road way.  I had encountered this deep dust before, and had not experienced any problems. This time, the dust was much deeper, and I was going too fast, and down I went.  The dust was very fine, the consistency of talcum powder, and red in color.  I landed on my right side, banging up my right arm and shoulder, and straining that arm from elbow to wrist.  I also picked up a raspberry on my right elbow from the Kevlar lining of my riding jacket, which stung a lot, particularly as the dust got into it.  Down in the dust, I unpacked the bike, and after several efforts, was able to get it upright.  Dust was everywhere!  And it was thick dust, packed tight into every little crevice.  After getting the bike upright, I tried to start it.  It would not start.  The battery was good, as all the lights and the horn worked, but not even a click of the starter motor.  I had to get the bike off the road, onto the grass (hopefully upwind of this dust patch) so I could start troubleshooting.

The problem was the tires would push the dust into a compacted mound in front of themselves when I tried to push it forward.  I had to dig a trench with my foot from the front tire to the side of the road to provide a route of less resistance.  Time was passing me by, and it took a few dozen minutes to get the thing up and off the road.  I took apart the switch box that holds the starter button and the kill switch and blew them free of dust, but that did not work.  So I took off the right side cowling to check the fuse box.  Then I heard the sound of a motorcycle approaching, and a solo rider rode up, stopped, parked, and came over.  Sasha The Vulcan is a Russian from Vladivostok, and together we checked all the fuses, blew at dust, checked battery terminals, etc.  I took apart the switch cover again, blew out some more dust, put it back tougher, and finally the engine started.  I have no idea what caused it to get well, but I suspect it was shorting across the kill switch, or jamming the kill switch somehow.  Regardless, it was a great sound to hear!  Sasha lugged my bags over to the bike for me, and we agreed I would meet him in Kalaikhum later that night where there is a guest house.  He rode on, and after I got packed up, I followed.  I had lost over an hour of daylight from this fall, and collected some bangs that were very sore.

About half an hour before nightfall, I came across the second of the police checkpoints, and they took about 15 minutes to enter my name in their logbook, and check my permit again.  This checkpoint was right on the riverbank, and at a point where the river was crossed by a suspension bridge to what looked like a large village on the other side.  Since it was dusk, I didn't have time to check further, but kept riding.  Here, I made a big mistake.  I should have found a nice level place to camp before nightfall, but I ignored all of my professed promises that I would not ride at night, would always lager up before nightfall in a safe place, and etc.  I paid for this mistake.

After nightfall, I knew I had to find a place to camp.  Riding after dark through these villages reminded me, for some reason, of a troop movement I made one night in Viet Nam when the commanders decided we would travel by jeep and truck from Chu Lai to a ridge south of a village named Duc Pho to set up a detachment.  For whatever reason, the movement was scheduled for after nightfall, and so we drove along these pockmarked, potholed, badly damaged "roads" through darkened villages all night long.  I was uncomfortable then, although armed, and I was uncomfortable in the now of Tajikistan.

In the full dark, and before moonrise, the inevitable happened.  One of those rain fed torrents had washed out the road, leaving a field of rock debris across the roadway.  Marginal work had been done to scratch out a line where vehicles could traverse this area, and the boulders had been removed, although some large rocks remained.  To make it worse, the stream had rerouted itself so that a portion of it was flowing in the newly scratched roadway.  Not deep, mind you, never even a foot deep, but enough at night to hide whatever was there.  Foolishly, with a village only a few hundred meters behind me, I rode into it.  Almost making it all the way through, the bike finally hit a large stone in the bottom, bounced to the right, and slowly, against my straining body, tipped over and fell on its right side.  Brave bike that it is, it kept running, too!  After turning it off, I unpacked it it, and slowly got it upright.   Thankfully, it started right up.  I remounted, and started riding it out of the water.  A few meters later, it hit another rock, bounced to the right, and we had a deja vu all over again.  "Damn," I said.  By now feeling the effects of the earlier fall in the dust, it was more of a struggle to get it up, but I did.  After all, there was no reasonable alternative.  I got it started and out of the water.

I repacked, and started up the road.  My feet had gotten wet in the stream, but not really any wetter than they had been from the earlier sweating that had taken place.  Each night when I remove the riding suit and boots, I am soaked.  Now, I knew I needed to find a place and get off the bike to rest.

A few kilometers later, I spied what I thought would do.  There were no villages nearby, although I could see the lights of a few scattered houses.  I wanted to get the bike off the road and hidden from view, as this road is a major smuggler's route bringing the opium and its derivatives from Afghanistan to market.  (There was traffic including trucks, cars and motorcycles all night long).  I didn't want any of these nocturnal "travelers" to see anything that might make them curious enough to stop and investigate.  I rode the bike off the road between a large bush and a small tree, put my gloves on the mirrors to hide any reflection, and covered the bike with my camouflage poncho.  Checking it with my flashlight, there was no shape, no reflection, and it looked like part of the shrubbery around it.

I moved off downhill about a dozen meters, and found a pocket of rocks that looked comfy, and settled in.  I didn't make a formal camp, or undress, figuring the riding suit and boots would keep the insects and vermin off me, and they did.  I was actually comfortable.  Well, as comfortable as you can be on a rock bed, but just relaxing from the constant jarring of the bike felt good.  The stars were beautiful, the Milky Way a brilliant band of diamonds, with a shooting star or two to enliven the scene.  I kept looking for the movements of satellites, but I didn't spot any.  Perhaps they were further south . . .  Much later, it really cooled off, and I had to take out my shemagh and wrap it around my head to keep warm.

I woke up shortly after five, and started preparing to get on to Kaliakhum.  The day did not start too well.

Sunday, July 20, 2014

Off The Grid

I plan to leave for the Pamir Highway in a few hours, which means I will likely be off the grid for a few days. If there is cell phone service, I will try to post at least short updates. Otherwise, Osh is the next large town. You can always keep track of my progress on the two satellite trackers. 

Saturday, July 19, 2014

I Can't Help Myself

Why stay in a hostel when you can stay in the Mercury Hotel?


It has a grotto. 


Where I am "working."  (I have to update some maps. That's work, isn't it?)(Answer: Yes. I've been working on it for three hours. Past time for lunch.)






Dushanbe

I made it to Dushanbe in decent time. I will post more today about the sights and so on, but I thought I should get something up to let everyone know where I am. 

Also, I am keeping an eye on the events as they unfold in the Ukraine, and the mounting tension between the U.S. and Russia. If the situation becomes such that riding alone through Russia becomes too risky, I will leave the moto in Osh, Kyrgyzstan, and fly home from there. 


This is what Southeast Uzbekistan looks like. 



And this young man stopped by to say hello while I was stopped by the side of the road in Dushanbe. 







Wednesday, July 16, 2014

Mausoleum of Amir Temur, Samarkand

Repair & Maintenance

Today I was going to tidy up a few things on the bike, then go see Samarkand. One thing led to another on the bike, and since I had the tools out, I just kept on. I wound up repairing the console fairing and the front left turn signal, which required taking both apart, and topping off the coolant and replacing the air filter, which require the removal of both front covers. 

There was a lot more tightening, revising the load, discarding, etc. I probably discarded another five pounds or so, maybe more, certainly not less. Since it was only 85 F, it wasn't bad as heat went, but I got a little burned because of taking the Cipro. 

At the end of the day, the moto is tighter and a little leaner. Still more to go I think. 

Dragoman.com

After I unpacked, but before I was checked in, this vehicle arrived. 


People started piling off, and a guide and driver. It is a tour from Dragoman.com, which I haven't looked up yet. It seemed like a clown car from the circus, as folks kept climbing out. I just thought it was a kind of cool truck. 

Later I went out for dinner. I couldn't find the pizza place the hotel spoke of, and decided I would try and find one of the restaurants instead. Just as I arrived at one, so did a group from Dragoman. They invited me to join them, which was very decent of them, so I did. 

The restaurant was an outdoor, upscale kind of place, with fabric draped chairs. I thought I had landed in a wedding reception. We were seated next to the fountain, which had about 10-12 feet of vertical reach. Of course there was a DJ, dancing, and colored lights like a disco palace on the fountain. Hilarity ensued. 

The travelers were all very interesting people. This was not their first rodeo. These folks have all traveled extensively. I listened to many stories. It was a lot of fun. We ordered our food individually, each pointing in turn to our choice in the menu. The server just wrote a list. Sure enough, he had no idea who ordered what. The salads came, and we sorted those out. However, the kebabs all arrived together in a pile on two plates. This required a major effort to get straight, but everyone finally received what they ordered. I had lamb chop kebab and a Greek salad (the salad was interesting in that it was dressed with a little bit of tampanade). 

The bill was presented to Tim, the Dragoman guide. 230,000 CYM. Whoa!  A hundred bucks on the nose (at the official rate). After everyone chipped in what they thought they should, we were still just a little short, but we all kicked in another 1,500 CYM and the pot was right. It was quite a stack of cash. Here is what 91,200 CYM looks like:


It was a nice evening.