CHINA (Xinjiang Province)

Quotes of China 

"This is the only country in the world where the cashier clips her fingernails into the money drawer," and then there are the beautiful women who spit like troopers!

"I used to be all peace and love for everyone in the world ... and then I went out there," Cat's reality checkaout peace and love and tolerance 

"Yesterday I looked at my watch and thought, 'Oh, it's Wednesday ... I don't care'..." - Matija the Slovenian cyclist sums up all our attitudes to time keeping! 

Arriving back in Kashgar, we heard sad and sombering news. The group of excited and heavily-laden Chinese cyclists who set off from the youth hostel had been powering their way to Tibet. Unfortunately they lost one of their group, only to discover he'd been hit by a truck and had died.

There's an affinity amongst us cycle tourers, we're certainly different to the urban hoons (usually); grateful simply to have bitumen and a shoulder to cycle on. To all our cycling friends out there, please be safe . To all drivers, please give us two-wheelers a wide berth (and a bottle of water, packet of biscuits, or offer of somewhere to stay wouldn't go astray!)

Hanging at the border

We arrived at the China-Kyrgystan border about 15km earlier than our map indicated, though we weren't sure if it was the border. From the distance it looked like a truckyard. Little did we know...

"I think it's the one starting with S on our map," Adam announced.  Cat grimaced, "I can think of another word that starts with s ..."

We were pretty unimpressed at the vile village; this isn't China. It looked wilder than the Wild West: rows of doorways set into white tiles, numbers above them, garbage piles, broken glass and nobody around. 

The People's Border Guards were busy shovelling and sweeping the pavement outside their offices. A small and spectacled guard called George told us the border had been closed for 4 days. Oh... that would be why we haven't seen any vehicles for these last days...
He'd been told to advise foreigners to go via Torugart Pass ($150 per person for a permit and car through the Chinese border posts, only available in Kashgar).

But the border would open today if we decided to ignore his advice. "Do truck drivers go to Kyrgystan?" We asked.
"No."
"Kyrgyz trucks drivers?"
"No."
We sheltered outside an abandoned nightclub just as it began to rain again. We huddled over our cups of tea, weighing up options. If the Kyrgies weren't going into their own country, do we risk it? Our hour to decide was up. George looked relieved when we told him we'd sit it out a couple of days, following truck driver example.  "I think you only have little money. You want cheap hotel?"

Gee, is there any other kind here, George? We were thinking hot tub? Room service?

He directed an inebriated man to show us the 'hotel'. He took Adam to the only open shop in town. Thanks Boris, but where do we sleep? Eventually we found the hotel with a quilt over our doorway and al fresco bathroom: a paddock overlooking river and main street.
Our surroundings marginally improved under blue sky though we wondered if this was just nature teasing us with mountains we might not cycle through?

Adam checked with George every time we heard the roar of truck engines. George was eager to put us on a truck, but the drivers were heading 70km to Sary Tash then turning to Tajikistan. Unfortunately, we didn't have a Tajik visa.

Unable to get information on how bad the situation was (Chinglish only gets us so far) we decided to call home; leaving a message on Cat's parent's answering machine that started, "Hi, it's me. This isn't an emergency, but ..." Thank you to Cat's Dad for giving up his Friday night at the pub to wait for us to call back!

Circumnavigating the one block of the village yet again, we noticed the local laundry (a washing machine on the kerb with a long extension cord) and the only Chinese character we can read: Internet. Durgh! (Sorry, Dad) The BBC reported 191 dead and 400,000 people displaced in Osh and Jalalabad. Hmmm, and all roads lead Jalalabad ... 

If you thought bicycles were slow, how about travel by donkey?

If we're turning into lingual bores tune out now, but we still find it incredible how many countries have similar languages. This gentleman chatted to us in Uzbek and Adam replied in Turkish. Somehow we got a conversation. He too was from Osh.

Our truck driver neighbours shook their heads every time we met, Osh nyet. The Chinese-Kyrgystan border inexplicably closes on Saturdays and Sundays, so we pretty much had our decision made for us. 2 more days of waiting with the prospect of no-go? Too dangerous for locals in big Mac trucks to drive, too dangerous for us little pedallers. 

So much for Cat's vow never to cycle up a road to turn around and come back down it!

Pedalling to Kyrgystan

We're pretty excited to be in a country where people like eating as much as we do and the little shops have 'talking calculators'. This little lady in Uluqat was so sweet and had such a great little shop we kept buying 'just in case' (our psychological hangover from a few hungry days in Pakistan is fear of strvation!)

Dry China makes it a challenge to find water and at the end of our second day of plugging uphill to the border there wasn't service station or village on the horizon.

There was, however, a big muddy pond filled with rainwater. We filtered the water through Cat's wool sock, then used our Katadyn ceramic filter. We felt like Survivorman and Survivorwoman. An hour after all the effort it began to rain.

It was still raining the next day so we climbed out of the tent long enough to put cups, pots and bottles around the tent to catch the water streaming down the sides and spent the day sleeping and trying not to think about food! 

A few kilometres of mudslides meant wheeling our bikes across the bogs, trying to follow the paths daintily tiptoed by Mario the Moustache and his coworkers.

Mud up to our knees and axels, but at least we weren't the people trying to push out the car bogged halfway up its doors. We watched them as we cleaned our wheel rims (mud and dirt wear down brake pads ridiculously fast) and couldn't believe our eyes when a dozer rumbled down the road.
"We've been in Pakistan too long. Here, they fix things that day,"

Roadworkers also have great pride in excessively signposting the roads. Only Blind Freddy could miss these gradients.

Blind Freddy must also be a cartographer. Our map showed one 3000m pass, Karabel Pass, near the border. We went over 2800m passes twice before we even got to that pass.
We found a village (not marked on our map, thanks Freddy) that had vegetables. For us, this is the equivalent of finding the Holy Grail though the Uygher shopkeeper (below) thought we were mad to be so excited.

Old Town Youth Hostel, Kashgar

We stayed on in Kashgar a few more days when Ben and Carolina, a French couple on tandem, arrived. 'The Froggies' are inspirational; it takes a special relationship to endure such close proximity hour after hour, day after day. We 'Kangaroos' on a tandem? We wouldn't have made it off the kerb! www.tradileri-en-asie.over-blog.com

Old Town Youth Hostel is one of the best we've stayed. Adam helps out Moan (below) with odd jobs requiring a ladder (or height) and Moan translates us a list of food that we take to our favourite eateries. The entire platter of potato and chicken parts with beak, feet nd beady eyes, is one we won't try again!

Keeping with the French theme, we met Phillippe again and Sylvan arrived on foot, and not just walking from the bus station. He's walked from France ... and you thought we were mad?

When we returned for our third visit, we met up with loads more cyclists and old friends from Pakistan and Urumqi. Kashgar still is the crossroads for the Silk Road. (Links to their blogs are on the Rogues Gallery). The courtyard of the youth hostel was clogged with bicycles and plenty of people standing around discussing the merits of a padded saddle

Matija, Phillippe and Elaine have swapped backpacks for bicycles and we look forward to meeting The Barbarian Trilogy (Slav, Celt & Gaul) on the road!

Food fantasies

After 6 months of dal, rice and chapatti, our food fantasies have reached epicurean proportions, fantastising right down to the number of potatoes we want to accompany chicken schnitzel and gravy or a lamb roast with pumpkin, parsnips and carrots (about 10 potatoes each please). Grilled fish, Greek salad, lasagne, moussaka, garlic bread, cheesecake, and cheese - any cheese ...

Uygher bread notoriously fossilises about 30 minutes after baking. This unbeakable specimen which was kindly given to us was "baked when Jesus was a boy,"

We combat these discus of dubious nutrition with bread soup (stock cube, onion and garlic) or tomato stew. Thanks to Cat's parents for including parmesan cheese in their latest care package. Please send more ... and a comb!

Cycling gives us a lot of time to think and usually that's about food. The only thing missing from this lunch is a little packet of Iranian feta cheese and Turkish apricots.

This is a photo for our fellow cyclists also suffering from gourmet imaginings: fried eggs with herbs and chilli on tooth-breaking bagel. Don't you wish you were cycling with us and our gourmet kitchen panniers? Once upon a time we carried balsamic vinegar too ...

Every cycle tourer has moments of cull-and-chuck to lighten the load. There are a few exceptions, however, namely our beloved Marco and Robert who are famed for carrying a lot of gear, and a group of Chinese tourers we met at Old Town Youth Hostel in Kashgar.
Given, they're making a two week tour to Lhasa and supplies are pretty spartan up on the Tibetan plateau, but carrying gear up to your armpits?

"Everything but the kitchen sink ..." we think we also saw one of those, hidden under the sun visor, shoes, tyres, gloves, bread...

And a cherry on top? No, a pot noodle on top of the 24-pack of bog roll. Strewth! There's a bike under there somewhere. 

Heidi and Steven, do we pack light or what?!

But these cyclists aren't the maddest we've met! We've now met 58 other two-wheelers over these last 14 months; every one proof that regardless of top-knotch gear or a rusted bike with the chain falling off, cycle touring isn't a huge feat of fitness or cash. Just eccentricity, curiousity and ... creative packing.

Camping spots along the Ghez Canyon are difficult to find, but Adam has an eagle's eye for places to hide ourselves from the PSB. With 124km under our wheels we asked if there was a room at the Ghez checkpoint. "You go 40 kilometre." We managed 7km.

The PSB wouldn't have been too impressed with our detour behind some sandy hills and neither were the herd of Bactrian camels. Cat enticed them to come closer with veggie scraps, asking them to "Look at moi, Kimmy! Look at moi!" They preferred to inspect our bikes.

Again, we set up our tent at nightfall and thought we had the perfect lonely campspot until whoomph! We were woken up by our whole tent shaking. Heavy footsteps trod away from the tent. It took a moment to realise: a camel had tripped over our guy rope! 

Cat crawled out and met the gaze of twelve camels and two baby white camels. All of them stock-still and staring. She pulled in the guy ropes, putting more rocks around the tent pegs, six little cairns around our tent. 

Soon she heard more scuffling and went out again. A baby camel dashed back to the herd and Cat put more ocks on top of our plastic rubbish bag. And piddled away from the tent and rubbish heap just to give them something to really be curious about. 

We'd just fallen asleep when the tent see-sawed again. So much for The Camel Whisperer and her tactics. Cat went out and chastised them. We haven't survived freezing on the Khunjerab to be killed by one of you clumsy lot! 

The midnight marauders were nowhere to be seen the next morning. Neither was anything else. Our third morning in China and it was a sand-out. We finished the KKH with our biggest day ever: 140 km of plugging along against the incessant headwind, thankful for the meagre gradient of downhill in our favour! 

We arrived triumphant in Kashgar, the KKH done and truly dusted. Roger was waiting for us with his new wheels, pedals, hubs and saddle. He was raring to get back on the road and tackle the Taklamakan Desert, only to discover a flat tyre before departure! 

"This country is just one giant $2 shop!" - shopping in China is a terrifying lesson in how much crap the world's greatest producer of crap can produce ... crap... 

"About as much ambience as a car boot sale," Cat is underwhelmed with Kashgar's famed Sunday Bazaar, touted as the crossroads of Asia and remnant of the Silk Road trade. Some Tajik hats, a few carpets and a lot of bargain basement items under one corrugated roof that looks like it dates back to the ancient days of 2005. 

We gave ourselves the target of 3 days cycling to finish the last leg of the KKH, Tashkurgan to Kashgar. 

The first 50km of headwinds from Tashkurgan weren't arduous on Chinese tarmac but after Adam was blown across the road on his bike, we decided to batton down for the afternoon; hiding ourselves and bikes in a rocky gully.

Camping in China is a game of cat & mouse with the PSB, Public Security Bureau, who would prefer all foreigners to stay in specially approved hotels or youth hostels so they can keep a beady eye on us. Cyclists are known to be particularly disobedient. 

The wind didn't let up so we bunkered down to wait for sunset, resigned to putting our tent up in the dark. It was 9:30pm before all the peaks were in shadow and the stars came out. We had a few hours before we knew we had to get up and on the road for dawn, just in case the PSB drove by.

We had 20km of uphill left to climb to Ulagh Rabat pass, a windy but positively balmy 4080 metres. The curving downhill was stuff of cyclists dreams and dizzying after nearly a week of rarely seeing 10 kmh.

Cat stopped to watch Adam gracefully curving along and tried not to think about his speed ... at least he had brakes this time ... He stopped when we saw two cyclists slogging uphill. Gayle and John, British cyclists, were finishing their 3 year backpacking trip with a cycling stint, having bought bikes in Bangkok. www.slothsonthemove.blogspot.com

The road dropped down into the marshes that feed Karakul Lake, ringed by mountains. We saw the first of Cat's beloved Bactrian camels with her two humps, hairy legs and sour expression - the camel, that is.

The toughest part of the Pakistan KKH (apart from falling rocks) was the lack of food between Sost and Khunjerab. Now on the Chinese side it was water. The marshes looked pretty unappetising, particularly with goats, horses, camels and yaks grazing. The water we'd pilfered from Chinese worker's camps had to be boiled to combat floating scum so Cat decided we'd try the Karakul Police station.

The gate was unlocked, nobody around, so she ignored the the coils of barbed wire and pushed open the gate. Instantly a soldier appeared, shouting at her.
"Ni hao!" Cat called out cheerfully, "Ni you shui ma?" The kid looked baffled so she held up the water bottles, repeating herself as loudly as a Chinese housewife. "Shui?!?" Eventually some officals came out, impeccable in their olive and gold uniforms. Cat beamed at them, "Shui?"

Judging from the number of stars on their uniforms they weren't used to such mundane requests, but obligingly filled our bottles with hot water. They pointed out Murztagh Ata mountain and Karakol Lake. They politely didn't point out the thick red line painted at the end of the driveway. Stop here? Oops.

The Karakol Lake was somewhat underwhelming. After spectacular scenery for the last 7 weeks in Pakistan, the lake looked like a flooded paddock surrounded by mountains and concrete yurts. Other cyclists had told us of being hassled for staying with local families instead of The Chairman's government-run hotel.

We continued into Ghez Canyon, aware that tonight would be the toughest part of the Chinese KKH to find a camp spot: narrow canyon, rockfall and the PSB lurking.

We met Robert, a German cyclist, who was plugging on despite a split wheel rim. Lesson there, kids: change your rims when the 'wear line' disappears or it will open up like a tuna can! We would meet him and his friend Martin in Kashgar.

Crossing into China - 21st May

We went Back Up The Khunjerab, Chaps, on the cross-border bus, a $25 extravagance with 500 ruppee charge per bicycle. It was a beautiful day, snow-free road across the pass and the marmot chorus was out in full, golden-coat force to sun themselves. Still no dancing, though...

Up on the Khunjerab plateau we realised we'd only been 2km away from Zero Point and probably could have camped in the abandoned building there. Bugger. But that subject is now closed: been there, done that, got the frozen toes and cracked fingers. 

wondered if the boredom and altitude of Khunjerab Pass had turned these Chinese border guards into madmen: helping carry bags? Excitedly taking up Cat's offer to ride her bike? Unfortunately it was "no photo". Sorry, chaps.

The toothy guard assigned to escort our minivan fell asleep; immune to the beauty of the sparkling, snowy basin of Chinese Khunjerab and the best downhill in the world that nobody's allowed to cycle.

Since 1991, the Chinese government imposes travel by bus between Khunjerab and Tashkurgan, the first town on the Chinese side. It's all politely smiled control: bags rifled through at Taskhurgan and Sost checkpoints unless you've Roger's grey advantage ...

A note for cyclists: coming from China, we've heard the Pakistani drivers don't care so cyclists on the NATCO (Pakistan company bus) can get off the bus at Khunjerab and cycle the 1-2 days downhill before 'entering' Pakistan at Sost and getting a visa on arrival. 

And what a difference a mountain makes! Pakistan's steep Karakorum Himalaya is in the grips of a snowy, wet and late springtime as our cracked fingertips, battered toes, and rosy chapped cheeks attest. Here in China, green slopes and even chubbier marmots!

With recent adventure in mind, Roger pointed out that conditions are more favourable to survival on this side of the pass, though we did wonder, would sweet and sour marmot be on the menu? 

Pakistan

Quotes of Pakistan

"In my country she's ugly," - Adam contemplates a slogan for a t-shirt to discourage men from staring at Cat. Oh, that Aussie humour!

"Next time we pick a route, I want the side of the road that isn't ‘ wobble-and-you-die’!" - Cat's a bit nervous about the Skardu to Gilgit road.

"She looks fifteen," - Cat was unimpressed to receive this 'compliment' from an admirer

"Hello, Mister Taliban!" - The police chief at Humuyan Bridge greets Adam as we pass back through his checkpoint.

"There are two Pakistan's: the city life and the village life," - we try to reconcile the different lives and people we've met. City mouse and country mouse.

"Is it a love marriage or an arranged marriage?" - That was the first question at the India-Pakistan border. The third was "You are a manager and she is a housewife, yes?" Just a taste of attitudes to come…

The Khunjerab 

The Khunjerab ... it really should be pronounced in a thick upper-class English accent,
"The Khunjeraaab, rah! bosh! Tally ho, chaps!"

It was less tally ho, than "plod along, old chaps!" We'd left most of our gear at Sky Bridge Inn in Sost, taking bare essentials and just enough food for 3 days. Sost's trade in instant noodles and chocolate bars skyrocketed.

The road improved progressively as we headed from Sost (2790 metres) toward the Khunjerab and China border (4695 m). The luxury of bitumen, a relatively easy gradient, and no effects of altitude gave us confidence to tackle the pass in a two day climb instead of three days. 

The mountain valley was obscured by fog and a light drizzle had us searching for a safe wide ledge to shelter under for morning tea. The scarred tarmac was proof of rockfall from the sheer cliffs above us and a trickle of pebbles had us moving along. Apart from the occasional China-bound truck we had the valley to ourselves.

Which gave us a peaceful place to clean and quick-link Adam's chain after it snapped! Quick links are up there with penicillin and the wheel as our Best Inventions of All Time!

The cost of entering the WWF sponsored Khunjerab National Park at Dih checkpoint is 340 rupees for foreigners, and we had a minor altercation about the validity of a charge for 'conservation' when at every checkpoint the police drop rubbish and cigarettes.

Just past Dih we saw a protected Ibex being dragged down a hillside toward a KKH workers camps by three men; an inglorious death certainly beckoned. Nice to see our money is well spent on animal protection...

The drizzle didn't ease and by Bar Khun checkpoint (3615m; 50 km from Sost) we were tired and looking for a spot that wasn't mud. We knew better than to ask for hospitality (the police up here charge for a hospitable cup of tea) so filled up our water bottles from a spring and plugged another 1 kilometre past Bar Khun. A mound of gravel hid a wide ledge overlooking the river and we pitched our tents.

Adam, as always, took one for the team and stayed out in the frigid cold cooking dinner while Cat and Roger sheltered in the tent, offering concilatory comments and unwanted advice from the comfort of thermarests and 4-season sleeping bags.

Cat's Mum has been proclaimed, "Lois, you're the duck's nuts" in honour of the fleecy beanie she made Cat which has now been confiscated, even though Adam insists "orange really isn't my colour. Blue would bring out my eyes." So would a well-aimed spoon ...

We heard rockfall all night, the cliff across the river slowly disloding itself. We woke to ice on the tent and had just packed up when we heard an explosion and loud cracking, rock smashing against rock.

Rocks bombed into the river, an incredible minute of sheer noise that had Cat worried about rocks landing on the road - or us - but Roger pointed out, "You would have to be pretty unlucky to have something like that happen. Very improbable." A few hundred metres along from our camp? Our first roadblock of the day.

The valley was snow covered and silent. Just the crunch of our tyres and frosty breath. We felt happier with snow than drizzle, hoping everything would remain frozen in place.

Even the KKH workers camps were still. Sensible people don't emerge from tents on a day like this! When it began to snow, we sheltered beside an abandoned - and locked - tent. Two minute noodles and a hot cup of tea would steel us to Koksil, the last checkpoint and 17km before the Khunjerab Pass.

We were excited to get to Koksil (4070 m) and the snow/sleet was easing. Our tempers flared when the little official wanted to see our 'permission' to go to the pass. Logic simply doesn't prevail: fellas, we've passed through 3 police checkposts to get to yours! And no, we're not going to China because we're on bicycle not the official cross-border bus so do you think they're going to let us in?
"Okay, we keep your passports."
Cat snatched them back, lightning fast, "My passport? I'd rather give you a kidney."
After much arguing and showing our pre-booked bus tickets, they agreed not to confiscate our passports.

The switchbacks up the pass were easy enough and we were feeling confident with the first kilometre under our wheels, 16km to go. Roger was in the lead, us behind. Crack! There was an explosion above us and the first rocks bounced onto the road.

"Rog!" Adam shouted as more rocks fell; house bricks bouncing down onto the road ahead of us, Roger in the midst of the onslaught. A second explosion and we saw Roger leaning over his handlebars. We hesitated a moment, looking up at the cliff before hurrying to Roger.

He was on his feet though not on his wheels. Incredibly, the rocks had landed either side of his pedals, destroying his front and back rims, exploding his front tyre, but missing him and unfortunately missing his panniers which are easier to replace than wheels!

A true cyclist, Roger was more concerned with his lack of bicycle than brush with near death. The KKH almost claimed another life but "Why couldn't the rocks have hit my bloody panniers?!" We moved downhill to safety to survey the damage.

It was irreparable and Roger insisted we go on without him. He'd find a way to get his bike back to the checkpoink, resigned to waiting to flag down a vehicle. We agreed that he'd leave the last of our food rations hidden behind some rocks or at the Koksil checkpoint.

We pushed up the switchbacks, legs pumping with adrenalin, and were happy to leave the steep, rocky section for the flatter, snow covered valley. The road opened up onto a long curve along the hillsides, tracing the route of the river which was frozen and hidden under a heavy blanket of snow.The landscape was monochrome patterns of black rock and blinding snow. Our Jublo sunglasses lived up to their first snow test.

The guidebook promised that soon we'd probably meet, "noisy, chubby marmots" Cat had visions of a Disney-like chorus line of happy, frolicking marmots, though we had no idea what marmots look like. The guidebook lied. We heard cheeps and peeps but no marmots.
We did pass a herd of yaks and to our delight, yakety-yakkies, yak babies. Some of them were almsot the color of the snow (next to the Mamma on the right-hand side)

By now were we less than 10km from the pass and there were a few more switchbacks to take us up onto the Khunjerab plateau. Surprisingly - and a bit disappointingly - the gradient of the Khunjerab climb was much easier than Nemrut Dagi in Turkey or the Megri Pass in Armenia.

Despite drinking lots of water and taking it slow, Cat began feeling the effects of altitude: pounding heart, shallow breathing, tired. But determined to keep going, stopping every 500m to rest. One switchback meant a tailwind, the next brought a headwind.

The Khunjerab plateau was ankle-deep snow and soon we were bogged in the sludgy, icy road. We had to get off and push our bikes, cursing whenever our feet slipped into icy pools of water. A feeling of adventure? It was biting our hands and feet.

We saw a road sign 2 km ahead, a shadow in the blizzard of snow that had started whipping us. That was our goal, the Khunjerab Pass and Zero Point!

We pushed on, struggling to cross the streams that cut across the road. Adam doing twice the work and turning back to help Cat push her bike in sections. She felt terrible and despite trying not to think about how thin the air was, started to give into panic of altitiude sickness and being colder than she ever thought possible. By the time we reached the sign she couldn't go any further and we couldn't see any further. Heartbreakingly, the sign wasn't "Zero Point" but a roadsign to Chinese destinations. Bugger.

"Do you want two minute noodles?" Adam asked.
Cat looked around at the open snowy ground; no shelter. "No! I just want to get down and get warm."
No savouring the moment then...

We decided to turn back; feeling like a failed Everest expediation. So close, yet so far.
The push back across the plateau was hindered by a passing truck that gouged a track in the road but it quickly turned to ice. We passed a lone cement mixer, an incongruous sight.

Our hearts dropped when we saw a pack of small dark shapes near the yak herd. Not dogs, not now, we're too cold and tired to deal with them. They turned out to be the yakkies gambolling around. One of them stood in the road, staring at us unafraid. Adam shouted, "Hey, dopey! Move out of the way!" Crocodile Dundee tactics don't work on yaks.

We were whizzing downhill at scary speed, braking futile, Adam using his newly-repaired shoes to try to stop. Our wheels and drive train were covered in ice, icicles hanging from our spokes, and when we chipped away the ice, hunks of black ice broke off. What the...? Brake pads gone!

We'd packed light and had some tools but were reduced to using tweezers to remove what remained of the brake blocks (every expedition needs a pair of tweezers!) The novelty of Girl Guide / Boy Scout improvisation wore off after an hour of standing around in the cold. We cycled down to Koksil with only a set of back brakes each. 

The 'Roger Spot' was now a 20 metre bed of rocks and we quickly pushed our bikes over the mess, thinking how much worse it could have been . We discovered our hiding spot for the foodbag had been used as a toilet and worried because we only had 2 packets of noodles and a chocolate bar in our panniers.

Luckily, Roger had left it at Koksil Checkpoint. We asked to camp there, unable to believe the evening was pure sunshine when we'd been turned around by a white-out only two hours ago.

But the weather didn't hold. Our Last Supper of rations were crunchy rice and dal, an inglorious end to our day, but even with his fleecy beanie Adam couldn't face the below-zero temperatures in the name of gourmet.
We woke to a cosy tent, thanks to the night's snow. Last night's dinner didn't taste any better partially-frozen so we left it for one of those chubby, elusive marmots.

Downhills and sunshine were on our side for the 68 km ride back to Sost. If only we'd waited another day for The Khunjerab.

We stopped for a while to thaw out; laying our tent, waterproofs and shoes beside the road while we cooked the last packet of 2 minute noodles.

Dih checkpost was proof that Paksitan's police checkpoints are a thorough exercise in the waste of government funds. They asked, "Where is your friend?" We explained he'd already gone through on the bus. They accepted that with a shrug. Given the sleepy officials barely rouse themselves to open the boom gates, if we'd decided to camp up on the Khunjerab or just not ever come back, none of these glorified bookeepers would've noticed.

Our joyful sunshine-downhill mood sombered when we saw that a boulder had landed beside a spot where we'd sheltered two days before. And over our last chocolate bar we watched a hillside explode.

The day's comedy came with Cat's second tumble of the trip. Breaking her rule of "no cleats on bad roads", she slipped, twisted, flipped and landed on her rear in the mud, facing uphill and a group of roadworkers. So much for projecting the image of a strong, capable woman riding a bicycle! Yup, Mohammed, that's why I don't let my wife ride a bicycle...

Passu Galcier- 15th May

We spent two days in Passu, a sleepy village 8km upstream from the Hunza Lake's latest submerged village, Gulmit.

The longevity and virility of Hunza Valley people is famous in Pakistan. The proprietor of the Passu Inn, Gulam, is a living example of longevity; he's 72 and has 9 children, the youngest 6 years old. Miraculous properties of Hunza apricots, no alcohol and a daily diet of chai and chapatti.

Hairy hordes were on the move; yaks heading to their summer pastures above Passu. We tried to find our own pastures, following directions and a hand-scrawled map. Adam risked life and limb on a steep ridge next to the glacier, but couldn't find the track up to the meadows. Later we found out: that was the path!

"We're down to our last chicken," - 12th May

In January 2010, an immense landslide wiped out the village of Atabad and blocked the Hunza river in the Hunza Valley. The Hunza Valley is the tourist drawcard and the KKH lifeline to remote villages but international media is too busy reporting Taliban-related stories that this disaster is a mere footote to the 'current situation in Pakistan'.

Even Cat's beloved BBC has rarely reported this disaster. http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/south_asia/8685515.stm
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/south_asia/8440618.stm 

While the government dithered about what to do, and the top dogs avoided coming north to inspect the disaster, a huge lake built up behind the landslide wall, submerging villages and the KKH, fed by springtime glacial melt.

By the time we arrived in Karimabad, the lake was 26km long and 250m deep in parts! Villages upstream are cut off from supplies, "down to the last chicken" and awaiting the waters to submerge the fields and homes.

China offered to help, after all they were already rebuilding the KKH for Pakistan, but their fee was "too high". International engineers reported the same verdict: clear the landslide before the lake bursts and destroys the valley downstream. If it bursts, it will take 10 years ot rebuild roads, bridges and villages. While we wer ein Karimabad there was some governmetn action: a military VIP was surveying the lake and because he is so VIP no boats were allowed on the lake that day... corruption rampant in the face of disaster.

The landslide is a vision of hell that moved sickeningly under our feet; a huge mountain of grey ash and rubble that rose in clouds and threatened to bog down each vehicle that revved up or down it's steep sides. A few little dozers have been put on to the job and look like toys in a sandpit. It took two of us to push each bicycle. This photo doesn't do justice!

And when we reached the top, a steep path down to the water. Men struggled uphill, hunched under the weight of four or five boxes that they deposited at the top.

Boat owners have brought up vessels from Karachi harbour, a feat in itself. There aren't enough government boats so local people must pay the Karachi sharks. Our boat had 20 people, sacks, a motorbike and three bicycles on board. After 10 minutes of listening to the motor putter and die, we offered the boatman some of our stove's petrol. Cat shared our treasured supply of apricots that were initially refused by a man from a town, but the villagers on the boat eagerly accepted.

Everyone fell silent as we puttered into a village, passing television aerials sticking out of the water, a line of poplar trees submerged to their top branches, the men on the shore gesturing which way to turn but we still ran aground on a rooftop - twice.

Adam and Roger helped lift the 50kg sacks, corners snagging and precious grain dribbling out. The sacks were rolled down a ladder onto the shore. It took half an hour to unload the boat; the village men thanked Adam and Roger over and over.

It was just us and the motorbike pair who were going on to Gulmit. The Karachi Shark killed the engine, dipped into his little bag of hash, and announced he wanted 500 ruppee - each - for our tickets. 500 rupees?!?!  That's 3 nights accomodation or 500 chapattis or 100 eggs downstream or 50 eggs upstream (available food has doubled in price).

Luckily for us, the policeman at the shore in Gulmit was a barely-pubescent 18 year old who treated his rifle more like a handbag than a weapon, and a big group of Chinese workers wanting a boat to Karimabad.

The boat driver had refused for an hour to negotiate so we simply cycled away. Petrol, apricots, helping lift 50kg sacks ... we knew we'd paid our dues.

KKH adventure begins! - 12th May

Our Karakorum adventure got off to a round-about start with a 6km detour around town to find the road to Nomal, the good road out of Gilgit until we'd join the dirt and rock mess of the famed Karakorum Highway.

After a few hours cycling we were excited to see a touring cycle ahead. It turned out to be policemen taking cyclists' bikes for a spin while they were inside drying out. Matija and Amadin had left Gilgit the day before but their 'perfect camping spot' had them floating during the night. We dried out with them over cups of tea in the police dormitory.

Our Fellowship of Five pedalled on through spectacular valleys, passing glaciers and jagged peaks that just needed some blue sky to do them justice and lift the ominous feeling of pedalling into Mordor.

The KKH is stretches of potholed bitumen or mud but at least roadworks make for interesting photos. This one is entitled, A Crap Road.

We camped near the village of Nilt, directed there by two men. The evening turned into a Life Of Brian-style farce with different men turning up to tell us, "This is My Land", "No, this is my land." Brian, we don't care whose land it is, but have a look at our rubbish bag and understand that we are considerate campers.

We were just keen to cook our dinner, Adam's famed rice and dessert menu. Matija and Amadin don't have a stove so, were pretty keen for a dinner that wasn't "tins" that Matija confesses, "Yeah, tins are pretty boring. Oh look, it's tuna again."

With the interruptions from various Brians getting tiring, Matija helpfully put an end to local conversation by answering the inevitable query about where we from,
"Slovenia ... yeah, nobody ever knows it!"

Our fuel of gourmet dinner had us zipping along next morning to Rakaposhi Glacier. After 20 km it was time for The Fellowship's Second Breakfast and to take in the magnificent 7788 m peaks.

On the steep 2km climb to Karimabad, even Amadin the French cyclist extraordinaire (he cycles fast, wearing jeans and woolen jumpers) was slowed, claiming he had too many cups of tea and samosas at lunchtime.

"How about that packet of cigarettes that went with them?" Adam asked.

Edging along - 4th May 2010

We’d already seen the steep drops and blind curves of the Skardu to Gilgit road when we’d caught the minibus from Gilgit with our bikes “tied” to the roof – as loose a term as the ropes. What’s scarier than a death-inviting drop? Seeing your bike’s front wheel suddenly hanging over the windshield!

It was an easy ride out of Skardu through the mini desert that lines the Indus River. Slowly we climbed into the mountains. The wide valley was littered with huge boulders, some bigger than a house, and we had plenty of Crocodile Dundee moments of “That’s not a rock; this is a rock.”

And all our rice and dal has been paying off for Adam. Kiddies, eat those crusts and greens so that you too can grow as tall as a telegraph pole!:

And stay away from this one, because if they can't make a good beer, what will they do to H20?

 
Cat grew uneasy as the valley narrowed and the road edged the river gorge. We knew that camping spots would be few and far between. We had just dismissed another spot when the U.N. arrived to save our day with a bucket of curried chicken.

After the strenuous nature of this trip, we quite fancy a calm UN posting to monitor the Pakistan-India border. Sounds as much of a work-creation job as Cat’s secretarial stints. Hmm, what shall I do today…?

We camped at a restaurant in Garbidas, lured by the luxury of two new public toilets in the village. Our host, Muhammed Ali, didn’t look like a man who’d rumble in the jungle; more like sit back and smoke contentedly. He told us about Big Game Hunters coming here and paying thousands of dollars to shoot ibex on the rocky mountain slopes. Hence, a nice stretch of road and porcelain for all thanks to the poor ibex and their sought after horns.

We were lulled into a ‘isn’t this nice and easy’ mood up until Damba Das, another friendly village where we stocked up on chapatti, rice, biscuits and veg. Drinking a Pepsi and buying tomatoes attracted quite a crowd. But everyone’s pretty affluent by our standards – not a single request for ‘one pen!’

From Dambu Das we had a day and a half of white knuckle cycling, plodding along in low gears and trying to stay away from the edge that eroded down the cliff face. Guard rails are for pussies.

As are bridges. We have seen many of these sphincter-clenching baskets crossing the rivers.

The road climbed steeply to blind curves that appeared to disappear into thin air. But each climb was rewarded with a downhill, only tempered by a stretch of sand across the road, another blind curve or monuments to those who had “embraced shahadat” (martydom) when their bus plunged over the cliff.

Adam embraced his own mortality when he turned into a human sprinkler just as we were cycling through the stretch of “Mordor”: soot coloured rocks, jagged peaks, evidence of landslides and the bloated carcass of a dead horse beside the road.

The roars weren’t Orcs coming to get us, just chicken and chai repercussions. We had to make do and hid behind a huge rock until we could pitch our tent at dusk. Luckily, the road is so treacherous there are no vehicles passing at night.

Adam felt well enough to cycle on, so we took a leisurely two days to continue to Gilgit and made the most of the waterfalls alongside the road. Ignoring the occasional passing motorist, we had a shoes-off, clothes-on wash.

It often felt as if we had the valleys to ourselves. The Pakistani trucks travel in pairs or trios so we can hear them coming; the roar of their engines and the clash of their tinkly decorations that sound like a hundred plates breaking.

As always, we had to sign in and out of police checkpoints. We accepted chai because we needed to find out about the cricket. We pushed on our last day to Gilgit to catch the Australia vs Paksitan match. At Alam Bridge we traded the promise of this photo for cricket information.

The Karakorum Highway (KKH) was in worse condition than the Skardu road, thanks to grand Chinese plans of widening and re-sealing the road for 2011 … and counting… But after the attempt to get to Hushey, a bit of sand and rock seems child’s play and for Cat, that was what the KKH was.

She was doing fishies and trying to get air over some of the sandy speedbumps, but someone was setting the no-fun-today pace because there was serious cycling to do to meet our cricketing deadline, woman!

On the outskirts of Gilgit we were excited to see the official KKH sign, but truly confounded by this one!:

Back in Gilgit at our haven of Madina Guesthouse, we were ecstatic that loadshedding has ceased and there’s now 24-hour electricity.

But we’d already missed the crucial match. Australia thrashed Pakistan while we were marauding in Mordor. Something definitely got lost in translation. Luckily, Australia versus Bangladesh and it was timed late enough so that Adam could cook our dinner beforehand, enjoying a seat for once, instead of sitting on the ground.

Number One! - 28th April 2010

Jason (Wang Boren) is a journalist from Shanghai who is cycling the world, half a year into his 5 year plan. Except for a few English phrases, “very, very okay!”, “Number one!” he only speaks Chinese, and some of his maps date back to Soviet times and we’ve drawn roads and marked towns for him. We think he’s the bravest traveller we’ve met, Number One, not letting a little thing like language hinder him!

Follow his blog and photos on: www.blog.sina.com.ch/boren3326  It can be translated via Google Translate. And Jason’s description of solo cycling? “One no good, two … good.”

Polo darling? - 27th April 2010

We returned to Skardu on the day of the polo final, Skardu town versus Shigar village. By 4pm the town was flowing downhill to the "stadium", a couple of grassy football pitches with concrete tiers, and the police were in full regalia for the occasion.

 
We decided to cheer for both teams because we like both places, the crowd cheered for every goal and the two teams were in red so we couldn't tell who was who anyways. 

The narrow pitch was surrounded by a crowd that practically stood on the pitch to see the action and seemed to enjoy a rogue polo ball in their midst. Kids climbed up telegraph poles to see and the few women were safely removed to the concrete stands. 

While this was going on, the next pitch was warm-up for two hockey teams. Cat was appalled at their standard and itching to teach those men and boys a thing or two. Particularly about striking the ball between the goal posts rather than into the crowd that's facing the other way...

Visa extension - 27th April

We applied for a visa extension at the Deputy Commissioner's Office here in Skardu. As expected, it was a delightfully archaic, bureaucratically constipated system of paper shuffling, but we got to meet the corpulent D.C. whose office has a big sign behind his desk "Say no to corruption" and the only toilet in the building... sure you say no to corruption, mate...

We smiled and waited on the unforgiving wooden chairs for a few hours; tolerable because visa extensions are free! But Cat’s cultural breaking point came when the paper shuffler’s fat friend wandered in, ogling her openly as per custom.

Talking about us with the other men watching us, "blah, blah, Australia, blah blah, passport, blah, blah, cycle..."
“She is your wife?” He asked Adam. Politeness here dictates that men ask other men, though we're still pretty sure a man shouldn't ask a stranger about his wife ...
“Of course I’m his wife!” Cat snarled, “No woman would come to Pakistan and say she’s not married!”
“She’s your wife?” He asked Adam. Cat scowled.
“No, she’s my daughter,” Adam deadpanned.
“You're lucky. She looks fifteen,” The official grinned oily.
Cat fought back the urge to vomit: thank you for your ‘compliment’ of being marriageable in your country albeit below the legal age of sexual consent in the developed world.
“That isn’t a compliment, my friend” Adam frowned.
“Children?” Fat Man forged on undeterred by the icy reception.
“No.”
“No? I have ten,” he sat back, expecting adulation.
“That's disgusting! I feel sorry for your wife,” Cat spat and stalked out, "I'm so sick of these stupid men!" 

“That’s very irresponsible my friend,” she heard Adam saying behind her. “How can you look after all your children?”
When she came back, the men had made themselves scarce, and we waited another hour for our visa extensions until the paper shuffler had had enough of us mocking how important the D.C. must be if he can't take a moment to sign two passports or provide his staff with a single toilet.

Bonkers for Baltistan - 25th April

The north-east of Pakistan has us captivated, only marginally less than the slack-jawed, goggle-eyed teenagers and young men who stare at Cat, even in the company of her 'husband' and even with her horrific "man and sun repellant' outfit. She's taken fashion evasion to new lows. Her Turkish pantaloons are fast disintegrating but hopefully hold while the audience is around!

But Baltistan is beautiful, friendly and a photographers dream. All of which were the reason we made the detour from the Khaplu-Skardu road to Shigar village. This is our Pakistan Tourist Brochure photoshoot. Incredible India? Phwoooar Pakistan!!

We crossed another mini desert of sand dunes and a low mountain range. You might think us perverse, but 10% uphill gradient on bitumen felt luxuriously comfortable in comparison to a few days ago!

Adam's saddle is broken so it was an arduous uphill for him, not helped by Cat toddling behind, chattering about how incredible the mountains are, who would have thought there was desert in the mountains, and how high are we now? Are we higher than Australia?

Our new ground rule: it's quiet time on an uphill. And definitely no singing.

But his replacement saddle is winging its way to our rendezvous point ... 500km away! Perineum ordeal aside, it was a beautiful downhill into Shigar Valley. All very green and pretty but nowhere near as exciting as seeing ... shops! From Skardu to Khaplu we'd only found 2 villages where we can buy meagre food supplies. Here, there was a row of shops - with stock!

 We found the guesthose just up the road from another option for camping that we declined:

 Shigar has a fort that dates back to the 1600s and has been lovingly renovated. At 4000 rupees (40 euros)/ night, it brings employment and much needed revenue to the area. We stayed at the 300 rupee NAWPD guesthouse at the other end of town, walking up to the fort to blow 3 days budget on much-needed fries.

The manicured gardens were an escape from the "one pen" chorus and a chance to watch the gardeners practice thier polo swing: lopping off the heads of dandelions and daisies.

The one restaurant in town had a beaming owner, Naseen who also owned the shop next door and had a few rooms out the back of his shop as a guesthouse. He's an astute business man: he and his wife have only one child and agree, no more!

Naseen's restaurant had television and constant electricty supply so we settled in for the IPL final: Chennai Super King vs Mumbai Indians. Cat had the advantage, being a woman she's not expected to join in conversation and kept watch more than Adam and Imran, a cricketing fan from Shigar, who chatted on.

 
We returned the next afternoon for more cricket and a shy little lad missed his pickup truck because he was standing in the door watching the cricket. We invited him in for a soft drink and a seat while he waited for the next one. Adam's order of dal and chappatti turned into salan, a beef stew, and chappatti. It's been a long time between cows for us!

When we left the following morning, Naseen presented us with a box of dried apricots and sweets from his shop. We were overwhelmed. People here are so poor that an offer of tea isn't forthcoming like in Turkey or Iran, unless invited ito someone''s house, so a box of food humbled us. We're trying to ration our treats!

 
The long way round - 24th April

 We were woken by more teens coming to see if we were awake at 6a.m. after they spotted Cat taking some photos early on. We made them wait another two hours before coming out for breakfast on the verandah and to wave to our fans ;-)

 
It was mosty downhill from Macholo to Talis village, then a steep downhill through Talis on rutted laneways. The type of run you don't want to do in reverse! The flat orchards had us fooled and soon we were climbing through Marzigon village, passing stone houses and terraced wheat fields.

People had stopped us all morning to warn us about landslides between Marzigon and Hushey, but we wanted to see how far we could get. 

About 4 km after Marzigon we saw two of the landslides. 

We decided not to get too close, remembering the poetic warning a farmer had given us that morning, "You hear people calling? You hear rock falling? You going!"

 
We waited for sunshine to take good photos of the valley, pondering what might have been. Pushing our bikes up the riverbed to Hushey truly would have been mad.

 
An hour of pondering then it was a frantic scramble for plastic jackets and trousers as rain swept up from Macholo Valley. At Marzigon the rain was subsiding so we decided to cross the bridge and take the scree road to Haldi.

We'd seen it from the our side of the valley and it looked a gentler gradient than the village road. From Marzigon bridge excited kids hounded us through the village, screaming like little banshees.

We'd heard of the good bitumen road between Haldi and Khaplu and that route would avoid the horrible climb into Talis village and the cobblestones of Saling/Youchang Bridge. We rode as fast as we could up the scree road, but on the steeper sections we weren't much aster than the hobbit-like fellow following us form the village!

 
It flattened out and we had views again of the Shyok River and its riverstones. We dipped down into Haldi, excited at the thought of bitumen and a smooth ride back to Khaplu.

We were turned around.

Haldi is the edge of the military zone. After much wheedling about trying to find us a jeep or somewhere to camp teh night we realised Haldians wouldbe of no hope. One man told us about a 10 day expedition with Koreans that reached Haldi the day the military closed the area.

"That's a nice story, but you were in a car. Where's the problem?" Cat shrugged.

"That was an expedition?" Adam asked, "Ten days? How about a year on a bicycle?"

We headed back, shaking our heads at our unecessary 12km round trip from Marzigon bridge. Truth is, we'd suspected we'd be turned back but had hoped powers of persuasion and a big beard might win favour!

 We pushed hard up the hills through Talis, roaring at the crowd of kids who jumped back, screaming and laughing, then continued to chase us. We stopped to buy rice and biscuits, the laneway blocked by bodies, and Cat almost caused a blood bath when something nearly fell out of her handlebar bag ... one pen!

Macholo to Saling was no less rocky but the thrill of an almost-out-of-control downhill made yesterday's uphill slog worth it! We hurtled downhill, trying not to end this trip Wily Coyote style. Think we'll gradute to BMX bikes when we get home.

And back at Youchange bridge, guess what we saw pointing in the direction of Haldi?

Indus and Shyok Valley - 22nd April

The mountains just kept getting bigger and more spectacular as we cycled east from Skardu to Khaplu. But with a broken saddle and headwind, Adam wasn't feeling the same 'historical ambience' of cycling beside the silted Indus River as Cat was.

"Can you believe we're actually following in the footsteps of Alexander the Great's army and all those British explorers and Indian pundits of the great game?"
"And the tyre tracks of that 4WD," Adam noted dourly.

Mood darkened with a broken rear spoke, discovering our cassette remover tool kit only has two of three parts, and passing viewers stopping to comment inanely, "Cycle problem?" No, he likes his bicycle upside down, thanks.

We managed to feed the spoke through the cassette then pull it back out and put the correct size in. Our mechanical efforts seem to be a trial of errors so we don't want an audience! On the upside, we provided a diversion for the father and son teams who were breaking and collecting rocks from the base of the mountains.

The Indus cuts a wide path through the valley and we can see where glaciers and river have formed the valley. Falling boulders seem less imminent, always a comforting sight not to have them towering above us. It's a desolate, dusty landscape capped by snowy peaks. A village is marked out by the cluster of green on the banks of the river.

We turned from the Indus to follow the cleaner Shyok River to Khaplu, crossing the Humayan bridge, a police checkpoint where we planned to come back and camp with them ... cricket fans with electricity and a television sounded like good company

We camped at the edge of Gwari village, between irrigation channels in a little forest. We naturally attracted a lot of people interested in how we put up our tent and cook our dinner. Some of the men accepted a cup of tea as Adam did his bit for feminism by not only cooking dinner, but cooking breakfast AND washing up afterwards. The Gwari housewives were entranced by his domesticity. Some sharp elbows coming their husbands way, we suspect ...

When we reached Khaplu we were feeling good and didn't want to turn around and follow our tyre tracks back just yet, so decided on Khaplu to Hushey. At Hushey we'd have views of the Masherbrum Range, the one in front of K2. It's a notoriously bad road, even for jeeps, but Aussie attitude of "give it a go!" kicked in.

The Traffic Police seem to think we'd be kicking ourselves in a few kilometres.
"Yes, you are experienced but your wife is not."

Cat snorted and turned away, shaking her head in disgust. Chauvanism is getting wearing and the put-downs about her are always made to Adam, never directly to her. (Because that is being culturally polite.) Sometimes defending herself seems futile but Adam was determined,

"Do not underestimate my wife! We cycle 10,000km together, we have the same experience. She carries a bicycle that weighs the same as her, 55kilogram. In the west our women are very, very strong."     They looked unconvinced but there was no reason to prevent us going, so we cycled off ... with Cat in front!

3 km from Khaplu we crossed Youchange Bridge, a wooden suspension bridge, where we met an IT student who had studied in Sweden, considered himself wordly, gorgeous and mature for just having married. he told us all this then added he was living back in Saling village with his 'cute' wife, just across the river. Cat told him to respect his wife and children by only have 2 kids. Adam told him to get out of the photo.

The road from the bridge to Saling village was riverstones (cobblestones on steriods!)

The Aussie attitude struggled to stay strong against the mud and deep potholes of Saling village, followed by a steep climb to Macholo village on a brain-shocking, rocky track that edged the Macholo La mountain range. The headwind made us wonder about this "give it a go" when a man stopped to kindly tell us we only had 2km to go.

Rattled and exhausted we pushed through Macholo, determined not to get off our bikes despite the gradient and very aware of our exanding audience at each turn through the village. Definitely no camping here! By the time we reached the NAPWD guesthouse, nearly 300 kids and adults were hanging over the fence, sitting in the tree or standing uphill to get a look at the two foreign maniacs and their "cycles!"

Aware that we hadn't seen any bicycles (wonder why?!) we invited the older boys to try ours. A quick turn around the yard turned into the muddy Cycle Derby of Macholo - a real crowd pleaser!

Cousin lovin' - 26th April

 We’ve met men from Lahore city and had frank conversations with village men. We’re keen to swap experiences and the city and/or educated attitudes make us hopeful for Pakistan's future. But the negative stereotypes of Pakistan (marrying your cousin, treating your young wife as a baby machine, insatiable preoccupation with sex) are alive and well in the rural areas.

Girls might have more opportunity to learn to read and write, but the rural Pakistan we’re seeing is tribal, religious and chauvanistic to the core. Here’s a conversation we had with a 21 year old government official at the Gilgit bus station:

“It is said I cannot marry my father’s brother’s daughter. But I can marry my mother’s sister’s daughter.”
“You would still be marrying your cousin.”
“Mother’s blood is different”
“No, you are blood from your father and mother. So your mother’s sister’s daughter is the same as your father’s brother’s daughter. In western countries this is illegal. You marry your cousin and the government sends you to gaol. Our government has to protect the children.”
“Protect the children?”
”If you marry your cousin your children will probably be … slow, have learning difficulties or physical problems. Our government protects children, makes them healthy by saying we cannot marry our cousins.”

We didn’t add that we’d seen a few village products of cousin lovin’ in his region…
“No,” he insisted, “I can marry my mother’s sister’s daughter. I learnt this in the tenth grade.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Cat exploded and laughed at the guy. “You can’t marry your cousin; your kids will be retarded!”
Sensing wounded male pride, Adam excluded her from the conversation but explaining genetics to a young man who had been educated to his full potential was futile.
“Okay, so you marry your cousin but why so many children?” Adam asked.
“I asked my grandfather this once. He had six children and he said he doesn’t worry because God will provide the food.”
“No, surely a man must work to provide food for his family?” Then the conversation turned to the merits of a dictatorship. Adam eventually gave up the debate.

Other open conversations with educated men who’d left their villages for work were similarly confronting! The proud announcements of the number of children even outdid Kurdistan. A smug lawyer has 9 children – and he considers himself educated?

“In our village there is one woman … 17 children! Well, 14 alive. Our women are very strong!”
“No,” Adam insisted, “It’s nothing to do with strength. Your women have no choice. Your men should be educated, they should respect their wives. It isn’t good to make your wife have so many children. This is why western women look better for longer – they don’t have so many children and they wait until later to have children.”
“But the man doesn’t know…” came the excuse, “Every night, five minutes with his wife and she is pregnant. They have no education.”

“Every night?!” "Five minutes?"  Don't know which horrified us more but, clearly, these people need to ride bicycles!

Phander to Gilgit - 17th April

We took 3 leisurely days to cycle from Phander to Gilgit, following the meanderings of the trout-brimming Gilgit River and dropping from a chilly 3027m to balmy 1700m. It was more rollercoaster than mostly downhill but bitumen makes up for any uphill slog!

As we followed the river we thought of a story told to us by Mr Beg, an 80 year old gent from Hunza who has taken us under his wing. The man is living history of Pakistan and the end of Britain's Great Game in Asia and we can't get enough of his stories and tips for survival, such as shooting a cobra only when you are holding your pistol with both hands to ensure the shot. "Oh, I've had great adventures in my life!"

 In the 1930 there was a new political agent travelling to Gilgit with his wife. He decided to travel downriver by boat. Mr Beg told us, "I was only six or seven at the time, but I remember thinking, oh my goodness! Why on earth would he travel by boat? That river is terribly treacherous, rocks and so forth."

The agent's wife protested and refused to get into the boat, claiming she would die, but he of course insisted. Soon enough the boat hit rocks and capsized. She disappeared, dragged under by her heavy clothes. "For forty minutes they watched him splash around, looking here and there, shouting for his wife. But she was gone and soon, he too disappeared."

Her body was found months later, washed up on the river banks, her clothes and jewellery perfect. The police travelled upriver from Gilgit to retrieve her and buried her in the British cemetary plot in Gilgit. As for her bossy pegleg husband? "Well, they never found the political agent. Nor his leg!"
We didn't spot it either.

All along the river wherever there's flat fertile land, there’s a village. Life clings to the river but with one eye over their shoulder at the towering peaks, we suspect. Earthquakes and landslides have wiped out entire villages.

The Gilgit River from Phander to Gupis is famed for trout fishing so Cat is hoping to encourage her Dad to bring his gators and rod to these tranquil spots. Where the road dropped down to the river we hoped for a good rest spot, but always a little too steep to wheel our bikes down. And far too steep to wheel our bikes above the road; everywhere seems to be scree or at the base of a steep slope with boulders perched perilously at the top.

We had our first stone-throwing incident, and to her credit, Cat turned and screamed at a kid who was about to throw one at her. Screaming in Kwar language that "No, no, no! I don't like! I am wife!" sent the kid running, as did Adam’s well-aimed stone in return. But teaching them a lesson will hopefully come from the letter we'll write to their Imam askign them why their village is a stone throwing anomaly in their area and what about Islamic hospitality to travellers?

“What is your religion?” Adam got grumpy at this point in the conversation with some girls we met at Ginch village.

What a question for a child to ask! It’s bad enough that 5 and 6 year old girls must wear headscarves; we just don't understand how a child cause offence to a god by having uncovered hair. Surely temptation is a flaw of the person who feels tempted, not just the woman's for being born a woman?

 “We can’t be angry at these kids for asking that because they don’t know anything else,” Cat protested later, “They don’t even learn science at school. Mathematics, Urdu and English. They don’t all have television, internet, we don’t even see newspapers being sold in the shops. So their lives are pretty limited.”
“Well, maybe just meeting you and seeing that you don’t have kids and you’re 31 might make them realise that not all women are like them.”

But discussing the lives of girls and women just depresses Cat. We saw a story in the Lahore newspaper about police preventing a marriage ceremony in the north-west tribal areas between an 8 year old girl and a 12 year old boy. So headscarves on young girls isn't the only means of 'protecting' them...

If you can read and write, know how to ride a bicycle or swim, and aren’t married by 15, ladies, you've got a hell of a lot of freedom by our standards!

Phander - 14th April

We’d planned to cycle from Gilgit to Chitral via Phander and the 3734m Shandur Pass, a famous polo ground. The Flemish advised we should take a bus as far as Phander then try our luck at getting any further. If not, at least we’d be descending back to Gilgit rather than climbing to Phander only to be turned around.

We tried not too look at the scenery or back over our shoulders too much as the bus climbed into the mountains. Or get too excited about bitumen because that usually leads to disappointment! Blue skies over jagged snow-capped peaks, rocks overhanging the road, a steep drop into the Gilgit river, magnificent scenery.

Sure enough, we couldn’t go any further than Phander. The Flemish had given us an envelope of photographs to deliver to a family they’d stayed with at Phander police checkpoint. Sending letters via the Northern Areas bus driver is better delivery than Pakistan Post. The family, particularly the girls, were ecstatic to receive their photos.

They invited us into their home, a two-room clay house for 8 family members and a goat. A wood stove smoked in the middle of the room, funnelling up to a chimney cut into the roof with views of the sky. But adding new sticks to the fire filled the room with smoke every time.

Over cups of salt tea, droop chai, we were invited to try our hand at helping make chapattis on the iron skillet. Cat’s first was a disaster that for the rest of our stay, the family wouldn’t let her live down. Fancy a husband being a better chapatti maker than a wife! After chapatti disaster we suggested a Pakistan versus Australia cricket international in their backyard.

It wasn’t the flattest turf and had its share of obstacles; one shot nearly hit the cows and the loud cheers for a six that went over the fence and two yards over started the donkey braying. Cat let Australia and women's cricket down by getting out for a duck and bowling "like a girl". Luckily the ball broke so we retired for tea, going to the market to buy sugar for the family.

“Shekar?”
“Nikki!” (Don't have!)
“Shekar?”
“Nikki!”
When we finally found sugar, we also found tennis balls, so the cricket continued until that ball broke as well.

We made a faux pas buying too much sugar and spending 130 rupees ($1.30) at the shop, but we tried to explain that in our culture you have to bring gifts to a house. Hopefully we made up for it by taking lots of photos of the family.

We were shocked to find out everyone’s ages. The older brothers are 22 and 24 years old
The girls are 23 and 16 and their mother is 40. The Northern Areas rule is to deduct 15 years to whatever age you guess!

That night we had dried tomato and potato soup with the chapattis and convinced the family to allow us to bring cake to the dinner table. A luxury in this hungry land of chappati and chai.

The language here is Kwar but the girls speak English so translated when Cat’s attention span for learning started to wane. Phander is near a lake of the Gilgit River so we asked about trout fishing.
“My father goes fishing for two days and catches one big fish,” Cat told them. Rahim Baig grinned as his daughters announced, “My father too! But two days and one little fish!” He grinned ruefully. Adam asked him if the point of a man's fishing trip was less to fish and more as an escape for sanity?

The next morning Cat spent a few hours with the women, writing down Kwar language then headed up the hill with the kids.

The girls wanted a photoshoot and their brother was keen to use our camera, though Cat had to wrest it back from him later. It seems “no” is not told enough to little boys!

The kids helped us pack our tent away and one little girl had startling green eyes and red hair. We’ve also seen light-haired kids with Slavic eyes, almost Russian looking. The theory is that these genetic heirlooms are from Alexander the Great’s armies who came through here in 327 BC

Gilgit Rendezvous - 10th April

We arrived half-crazed from lack of sleep at Madina Guesthouse in Gilgit, one of the best guesthouses we’ve ever stayed, and made our rendezvous with Steven and Heidi, the Flemish cyclists we met in Iran and Nepal. We really do look like a quartet of derros!

They were pleased to see we’d lightened some of our gear and we were pleased to hand over a squeezy-bottle of honey to load them up a few more grams!

Heidi and Steven have already cycled the Phander and Skardu routes we’ve also planned to do, but our grand plans are scuppered by arriving too early; most passes won’t open until 1st May or later. So we hung out in Gilgit, bulking up on sleep and street food.

Cat and Heidi went out unescorted in search of the Holy Grail: a replacement chain breaker tool to break Cat’s chain so we can replace a bent link with a quick-link (we’ll buy replacement chains and cassette in China). 9800km was a good effort. The girls weren’t too surprised by being told by mechanics to simply hit it with a hammer but were irritated by seemingly polite conversations from bystanders that ended with requests for their room numbers.

Everyone has seen them out with their ‘husbands’ and plenty of people are genuinely friendly but there are still men of all ages who want to try it on with unescorted women.

Bussing part of the KKH - 9th April

The heat of the plains is phenomenal so rather than 5 sweltering cycling days, we caught a bus from Lahore to the transport hub, Rawalpindi. We missed the night bus to Gilgit so we had to stay overnight but foreigners aren’t allowed to stay at the bus station; we’re confined to Sadaar Bazaar.

Adam begged the police to make an exception, pointing out how far Sadaar Bazaar is when you’re on two wheels in evening rush hour. They gave us special dispensation to stay at a hotel-restaurant opposite the station, writing a note for us to give to the hotel.

The Rawalpindi to Gilgit bus was going to take 14 hours, the ticket seller had told us. We turned up to discover a minibus and a driver telling us it will be 20 hours. The women beggars at the bus station hassled Cat for money, eyes beseeching and hands outstretched. Cat shrugged, “My husband doesn’t give me any money, just like your husband doesn’t give you any money,” The all-male crowd thought this hilarious.

The women persisted, so she showed them that her pantaloons don’t have pockets and she’s already ripped a hole in the back of her second-hand shalwar kameez thanks to her bicycle saddle.

Meanwhile Adam impressed the bus station crowd by lifting our bikes single-handedly, climbing the ladder with them and passing them to the luggage man on top. Hercules! Hercules! He secures them himself because once our bicycles nearly fell off the roof thanks to inferior double-hitches!

It was a relief to head into the mountains. Pine forests opened up to the big valley meadow of the Chattar Plains and we glimpsed snow-capped peaks in the distance.

The lower part of the KKH is Kohistan, known for an ultra- conservative population with the unsavoury pastime of throwing rocks at cyclists. Most cyclists capitulate and catch a bus through Kohistan.

We passed through some towns and villages where there were less than three women on the streets and the body language of young men made us glad we weren’t cycling. Hooked noses, shalwar kameez and vests, felt caps ... it felt tribal only a few hundred kilometres from Islamabad.

The men on the bus treated us like personal guests and overlooked Cat’s fauz pas of sitting in the main area of the first café that we stopped at. After that, we sat in the family area reserved for women and children, no choice really when café owners spotted us getting off the bus, a bit of a “get in there!” snappy gesture!

Our guardian angel, Abdul Khadar, always joined us, at a separate table, to ensure we got subzi (vegetables) or palak aloo (spinach and potato). He's got those crazy eyes, we agreed, but a heart of gold

In Besham the “break break” was actually “brake break” while the handbrake was fixed. The men paraded us along the main street, up to the bus stop to await the hand brake. The cosmopolitan Lahore is far behind us, the “real Pakistan” of the tribal areas has begun. If this was a romance novel, Cat would describe the men as brutally handsome, liquid brown eyes or having hawkish noses.

And fashion dictates are not just for women who cover their faces and for whom a strong nose would definitely be an advantage. The men wear a variety of hats and facial hair: the tribal Pashtun hat, a knitted skull cap, a square cap, no hat at all; beard and mostache, no moustache, clean shaven.

We soon realised the Karakorum Highway has a grand name for a potholes dirt road, one of the worst we’ve taken. The temptation to give up an cycle was tempered by the police presence in Kohistan and the massive boulders beside the road, some of them bigger than our bus.

Travelling in Pakistan is travelling through a geography textbook. It’s magnificent, deadly landscape. Glaciers have gouged the valleys and rivulets of landslides run down the rock face. Entire sides of a valley are just scree, waiting for heavy rains to sweep tonnes of rock into the valley.

Because we’d taken the morning bus, we passed through Kohistan at night and had an armed escort between each police checkpoint. Though the bloke sat in the middle fo the bus to talk to Adam, rather than keeping a keen eye on the road. One old gentleman had waited for hours before coming over to Adam to simply say, “Australia is surrounded by a lot of sea.”

We were sad to see him and his son get off the bus at 2 a.m.: a soldier escorted them through their village to their home. It seems Kohistan is dangerous even for locals at night. Our driver and a few men put on their Aghan hats once we reached a certain checkpoint, and the routine of foreigners signing-in at checkpoints began.

Morning light showed us a harshly beautiful landscape: valleys scoured by ice falls, little vegetation.  After 22.5 hours of driving, 1 hour of breaks, and the same driver all the way except the 30 minutes he handed over to another passenger to drive, we spent two days recovering in Gilgit.

To scarf or not to scarf - 8th April

In Lahore, it seemed 50-50 for scarves or no scarves. So Cat chose not to wear unless we went to a Qwalli (music) afternoon at the temple, Sufi music night or she was out with Fouzia, a British Pakistani woman travelling solo. Two unaccompanied women out in the evening drew enough attention without flaunting their uncovered follicles as well!

But she bristled at a lecherous little 24 year old receptionist , Imran Khan, who had for days bragged about his ‘Australian girlfriend’ (she’d given him her email address - wow) and had tried to portray himself as being cool. As Cat and Fouzia were leaving the hotel to have dinner together, he decided to be pious and dictated,

“Madam, this is not good,” he gestured at Cat’s long-sleeve, below-the-knee shalwar which looked like a floral nightie but showed 2 inches of flesh below the lacy neck. Cat doesn't wear the chest-covering dupatta like local ladies, “And you should wear a headscarf for your protection.”

“Listen, Imran, your boss gave me this thing to wear so you discuss it with him. And whether I walk around in a burka or a bikini your men still bloody stare and make comments; they behave like dogs and piece of cloth doesn’t protect me from that, does it?”

When he heard about it, Adam was livid, “If you ever tell my wife what to wear I will slap you. Do you understand? It’s her choice what she wears or not. Don’t ever speak to another man’s wife like that again!”

Cat knows that headscarf is de rigeur for the Islamic Republic of Pakistan outside of Lahore and has no problem with it because “it’s the rules” and simply wearing a scarf equals a certain amount of respect. This means a better chance of talking to people, not just horny teenagers who want to get closer to the ‘loose’ 'uncovered' western woman.

She only shakes hands with women and if men insist on trying to shake hand , “No problem” we both get angry. “No! You don’t touch me!”
“You don’t touch a Muslim wife, so you don’t touch my wife!”

The division of the sexes is blurred for some men when they encounter a western woman, but Cat’s learnt this can work to her advantage.
“I still don’t understand how uncovered hair can be offensive, but now I find myself hiding from staring, giggling idiot boys by pulling my scarf across my face. It’s a strange kind of power .. but at least it’s MY little bit of power!”

Laid out in Lahore - 3rd April

“Sir, do you have any liquor?”
“No we don’t drink,” Adam replied. Seeing the Custom Official’s disbelieving expression, he added, “No drinking and no smoking. We’re healthy cyclists.”
The official raised an eyebrow then tried again, “Sir, any liquor?”
We just shook our heads. Not even a titillating mouthwash, my friend, sorry. He waved us into the Islamic Republic of Pakistan.

50 km later we reached Lahore where chunks of hash are proffered across the table while you’re eating lunch at a grubby local eatery and liquor can be obtained at The Holiday Inn simply by having a western face, no passport or queueing required, just step forward and buy as much vice as you’d like. Officially a permit is required but it’s always a holiday at the inn.

We partook in neither, knocked out for a week by a farewell gut-wrenching present from India and didn’t see much beyond four walls and rooftop terrace of Regale Internet Inn. This backpacker crash pad is $2 for a dorm bed and Cat was given a secondhand shalwar kameez (long blouse) to wear. We met up with Phillipe and Francis from Amritsar temple, also Jason (Chinese cyclist) and Haroon (Brit).

Lahore is the land of Sufi, a branch of Islam that’s most mystical and involves enjoying poetry, music and life and the best sufi musicians are in Lahore.

The Sufi man had had a bit too much hash and only belted out five songs before retiring himself and his bells.

Traffic-wise, Lahore is the most relaxed city we’ve encountered on the sub-continent though still congested and appalling driving! While we pushed bikes through a traffic jam on the outskirts of the city a big crowd gathered. The men and boys just wanted to talk, not to touch our bikes and nobody even mentioned “one pen, one rupee”. As we rode, moto drivers and taxi drivers pulled along side to ensure we were going in the right direction.

Despite this we managed to lose each other at a roundabout, resulting in Adam side-swiping a car as he did a u-turn and knocking his own panniers off. It’s only the second time on the trip that we’ve lost each other; the other was on our first day cycling!

The Mall is a main boulevard and testament to British rule: wide thoroughfare and grand whitewashed architecture that now houses a string of shops and banks, even a Subway and KFC. Having learnt of British behaviour to their subjects from a local journalist it’s pause for thought when we walk down The Mall. Any Pakistani man on horse, bicycle or rickshaw had to stop and bow to a Brit and let him pass or be arrested and flogged. Thousands chose the latter as protest against the imperialists.

Nowadays the protests are more explosive, like the US Consulate in Peshawar that was bombed. As always, it was civilians not officials killed, similar to US killing Pakistani civilians with drones sent from Afghanistan. That afternoon the news also reported yet another attack against civilians, a suicide bomber in a crowd in Dir province, north of Peshawar and west of the Swat Valley. But this turmoil doesn’t affect the welcome we’ve received here.

At Fiesta Icecreamery Cat is actually an advantage: women and children sit upstairs in a/c comfort instead of the crowded all-male streetside café downstairs. We nearly caused a riot in the café with families and groups of teenage girls coming up to talk to us.

According to one group of girls, their English textbooks are “Too easy! Hey, thanks a million for talking with us!”

Adam now wears a bandanna and one boy remarked admiringly to Cat, “Your husband is really, really cool.” Then his sister quickly added, reassuringly, “Oh, but you are also cool!”
Gee, thanks, kids…

India part 3

Quotes of India

"Madam, will you sell me your bicycle?" - a hopeful souvenir seller at the India-Pakistan border tries his luck despite us telling him earlier that the bikes cost $300 (we wish!)

"So 12 months with your legs straddling a tiny saddle? How crazy! How much more do you think you have in you before you decide to put yor sleeping bag over Adam's head during the night?" - Thanks to Tracy Tydd for this great email. Oh, the temptation is mutual!

"Glad you are taking multinational hand gestures to a new level of global understanding and world peace," an email from Kristin Mojsiewicz, encouraging Cat's response to rude boys and lewd policemen

"365 days together and 300 of those ended in tears!" - Not quite but it hasn't always been smooth sailing. We're not the souls of patience, but are trying to end an argument with a joke and a hug ... or grovelling request for "a big serving of humble pie." "

You know David?!" - Every cyclist we've met has also met David Bopp, the mildly famous and inimitable Swiss cyclist of short shorts and oversized aviator sunglasses. From all accounts (including photographic evidence he sent us) he spewed and shat most of his journey from Switzerland to India, but kept on pedalling. Now he's back home but David, we salute you! www.velotrip.ch

Border Patrol - 2nd April

Lance Armstrong would have struggled to keep up with us as we hooned to the India-Pakistan border only to miss it by 10 minutes. Arguing that they were letting through an international bus and we were technically also a vehicle had no sway.

We trundled back out to the crowd that was queuing for the Border Closing Ceremony later that evening. We met two Aussie photographers, Andy and Terry from the Central Coast (www.andrewbellphotography.com ), and three kids who were distracted from their serious business of selling Indian flags.

“Madam, how much is your bike?”
“$300 second-hand. We bought it from our friend,” Cat fibbed. This is another of our lines. Even so, 300 dollars usually makes people’s eye bulge. What a figure!
“But Madam, doesn't the UK have the pound not the dollar?”
Bugger. Busted by the kids.
Still, hope persists.
“Madam will you sell me your bike?”
“I said 300 dollars, sweetheart, not 300 ruppees.” 

We took their photo and the boys were gravely concerned that their house didn’t have number. We agreed on the restaurant and they were satisfied. Then they came frantically through the crowd, “Madam! It is best you send the letter to a person. Send it to Majeet the Manager. Do you need to write it down?”

Assuring them, she’d remember the name of Manjeet, Cat was then instructed, “Okay, 5- days waiting. 10 days maxiumum then no more waiting!” Righty-oh boys …

The Closing Ceremony at the border started pumping on the Indian side with Bollywood and pop music, women and kids getting up to dance, wonderfully uninhibited, and Cat was pulled up to join them.

Then it was time for pomp and Ceremony and men in snazzy hats.

The crowd roared. “Hindustan! Zindabad!” as the military marched out, double-time, did some fancy manoeuvres at the Pakistan border that we couldn’t see because of the scary guard who made everyone sit back down immediately just with his fierce frown and twitch of his eyebrows.

The Indian crowd drowned out the Pakistani crowd and once the flag was lowered and safely marched back into the barracks, the guards gave up and let the crowd surge toward the border to take photos.

More of an attraction was Adam, particularly when it was discovered he was Aussie and a cricket fan! “Sir, are you following the IPL?” and “Sir, did you see Sachin?” The double-century of Tendulker is talking point everywhere.

Cat was asked ladylike questions such as “What is your national food?” and “In Australia … do you have Maggi noodle?”

Amritsar and the Golden Temple

Funnily enough, our last stop in India was our favourite place in India! The Golden Temple, the holiest Sikh shrine, has a dormitory for travellers so we joined the masses who eat and sleep at the temple.

There was a sign warning us of all rules for the dormitory, though we think the last two lines need speeling and punctuation.

Cat was aiming at becoming a chapatti champion and is considering ashram life, though her chapattis still need some practice.

Communal preparation of food, eating together, it was all lovely until the second night when we were caught in a terrifying crush outside the dining hall. Cat also ran out of patience with elbowing one's way into a toilet before someone else slipped in from behind. Chivalry for old ladies and children - forget it! But in Indian terms, the Golden Temple was a pretty orderly experience!

NEPAL part 2

First Anniversary of our adventure 31st March 2010

On 31st March 2010 we'll have had 365 days of Living the Dream (a wonderful Australian phrase that we remind ourselves on a bad day or a bad road, like this one in Georgia)

Geographically and athletically we're a long way from our frantic 3pm departure from London when we had to go via the city centre to pick up Adam's passport from his work. Thank you Troy and Leanne for a memorable send off and reassuring hugs! Troy said, "Jeez, you've got a lot of Sh*t" and Leanne kept saying, "It's such an adventure!"

Thank you everyone for all the well wishes, care packages, spare parts packages, offers of bed/meals with your family and friends, and the continued suggestions that we are mad!
Richard Dawkins, author of The God Delusion, wrote that if one person has delusions they're considered insane; if many have the same delusion it's called a religion. We're wholehearted believers of the Church of Cycle Touring. All nationalities, saddle shapes and pedal speeds welcome! All you need is two wheels, a padded rear, and a healthy dose of curiosity.

Others who will be pedalling their dreams in 2010 ... hello to Jodie Burton and Tom Hudson, who lived near us in Kilburn, London but we've only 'met' via internet. Their meandering migration to God's Own Land begins in May and they are also aiming for Melbourne. If you can offer them a bed or beer on their way, please do! Follow them on: www.pushbikediaries.com  Hopefully there's more pedalling than pushing going on there...

And Joe Waudby who dropped us an email. He's cycling Europe this summer and we hope you get your Koga, Joe! We remember those European times of beautiful bitumen, forest trails, patisseries and looking like cyclists instead of an eccentric pair in faded clothes ...

Daily Routine - 24th March 2010

Not to ruin the illusions that we are ultra-atheltic cyclists, but we've decided to come clean about our daily routine. Hopefully this is proof that anyone, even fat-bottomed girls, can just get on their bike and ride!

This is a trip of a lifetime but we're creatures of habit nonetheless and not as early risers as other cyclists! While Adam prepares our tea and breakfast (porridge or leftover rice with fried eggs), Cat rolls up our Thermarests and packs up our bedding, books, cards, torches and other crap we seem to 'need' in our tent each night. .. light travellers?

After breakfast we roll up our tent and load the bikes, marvelling that it's only taken 1.5 hours from waking to pedalling. Unlike our European friends, we wear helmets and slather on our sunscreen. Australian indoctrination!

We cycle 4-5 hours each day, that's about 60-70km. More if it's a great road and nice climate (Europe's spring days of 100km are long ago); less is it's hot, uphill or we get a better offer! Hospitable cups of tea are sadly lacking since we left Turkey and Iran. Islam insists on hospitality to travellers so fingers crossed for Pakistan, China and Central Asia.

Water and food are daily considerations. Some cyclists purchase food at the end of everyday, but we've had some hungry days in Georgia so carry the makings of three meals in our panniers! We buy petrol for our stove once a week, carrying 1.6L in MSR bottles.

For water we fill up at mountain springs or if we have to, use the village pump. Since India and Nepal we have had to start filtering water from village pumps. We don't want to contribute to the plethora of plastic we see roadside in nearly every country...

Once we find our perfect camping spot, we strip our bikes of pumps, bottles and bike computers, then put up our tent. Adam bangs in the pegs and locks the bikes to the tent with our Abus cable lock (worth the weight) while Cat stacks the panniers in the tent alcove and rolls out the bedding. Our stove is fired up for cups of tea. Cat chops while Adam cooks and we take it in turns for washing up. We filter our water while dinner cooks. 15-20 minutes to filter 10L of water through our Katadyn mini filter.

Bathing? Adam's come a long way from worrying about not showering every day. Now an utterly unsavoury pair, we wash in a spring, or use the folding bowl if we have enough water, or baby wipes. Heaven is a hot shower.

If we have the energy, a game of cards, but 8pm is a late night. Conversation? Romance? Sleep is much more appealing after a day of sitting in the saddle!

365 days together would test any relationship to its limits. Over the five years we lived together in London our jobs meant we've never been a regular couple who see each other every evening; sometimes a twenty minute window between shifts, sometimes not for months. It's been 365 days of wonderfully memorable times and moments of, "What the hell are we doing? Give me my passport! See you later..."

But we've learnt to apologise and keep talking until the anger and petty irritations go away, or Adam breaks the tention with his famously bad jokes. Sanity Days are vital: time apart when we get to a city! When we get home it will probably feel like we've been together a few decades. There are no secrets when you live in the confines of a 2.3m x 1.5m tent ... and no spare room to escape to either!

The Kathmandu Conspiracy - 17th March

It's all a conspiracy of changing visa rules, random public holidays, and death of ex-government figures in Nepal ... we appreciated the last occurence because it meant a few extra hours of electricity to permit the nation to watch his funeral and Adam to catch up on his vice of 'quality' t.v. viewing: "Medical Emergency!" "Relentless Justice..." If only it had his favourite, "Family Fat Surgeons" and "Deadliest Catch"

Kathmandu has proved to be Kathman-don't-be-going-anywhere and we're renaming this "Our cycle tour of waiting around the world". Pakistan changed their rules for visa applications made outside your home country. Previously 2 days, now 4 - 6 weeks to process.

So we're trapped in Nepal by bureaucracy; unable to leave by any land border and unwilling to fly to China! India refuses to grant our transit visa until we have the Pakistan visa in our passports. Tibet definitely isn't an option - $60-$80/day to get the permit to cycle without the mandatory jeep and guide. Guess it's all just meant to be ...

The plus side is meeting many cyclists. Nepal is the cycling Mecca. We've already met Marco (Swiss) and The Dutch, Chris and Larissa, and The Flemish, Steven and Heidi, in Pokhara. Kathmandu brought together more two wheeled afficionados for daily breakfasts on the rooftop of our guesthouse, Kathmandu Peace Guest House.

The Kathmandu Cycling Circle is Reto (Swiss) who has finished his tour but delaying his ticket home www.far-rider.ch ; Peggy & Phillipe (French) who began their trip with a hard-core start: www.intotheworld.to-depart.com ; Kevin (Ireland) and Paul (Belgium) who met a few times along the way from Europe www.paulswereld.be ; and Heidi's mum, Marcella, who flew in from Belgium as honorary cyclist and spare parts courier.

Adam should be collecting commission from the bike shop, jeans shop, ladies' tailor, camping stores ... two leather jackets and ten pairs of jeans later... Somehow we've avoided the creme of Kathmandu's souveniers: a tinny bamboo flute, crappy little mandolin or tiger balm.

Those who don't recognise us still offer, "Hash... smoke?" and don't know what to say when Adam enthusiastically shouts in reply, "Hash?! Smoke?! Yeah, get me 20 kilos, you fill my suitcase for the plane tomorrow..."

An Apology! - 17th March 2010

To Adam's Mum: the mention in his last email, "Money? Please send $100,000 ransom money" was a joke. Really. He just wants a bigger budget for half-price chocolate ... and more face paint ... and more tailored clothes like the 6 pairs of $10 jeans he's had tailored ...

Trucking to Kathmandu - 14th March 2010

Our knack for untimely journeys on public transport continues! We’d already decided to find a truck or bus to take the four of us to Kathmandu to avoid the most congested section of the Pokhara-Kathmandu highway. We arrived early morning in Mugling, the main junction of Nepal, to find it unusually quiet; few people on the street, even the pushy pani (water) vendors were subdued. The buses were ground to a halt.

Over breakfast we found out that the country’s main highway was being crippled by a violent strike: the Tamang caste was protesting their lowly position in society. This group, 7% of the population, had the main highway at a standstill, but not to worry, the police said, the road will probably open at 4 p.m.

A Nepali truck driver, Rajiv, who’d worked in Iraq, offered us a free lift – as long as we agreed not to fuss if the protestors stopped us. Protecting his truck was most important. We particularly like the tassled colourful interior.

The truck crawled along the highway, stopped by passing drivers where the road was closed ahead, moving on when word came through, stopping again, time for tea, time for a bath at the mountain spring.

It took ten hours to make a three hours trip but we were in the safest hands on the road: Rajiv had driven for the US Army in Iraq and moaned that nobody in Nepal obeyed the road rules. We couldn't agree more!

Over-packed minibuses cut in front of us, competing with moto riders hell-bent on a grisly end. Nobody paid attention to the police in flak riot gear, the smouldering remains of tyres incinerated to tarmac or the rocks that had been thrown onto the road.

Riding through Kathmandu from the ring road to the touristy neighbourhood of Thamel was a doddle compared to the white-knuckle views or transport and cliffs we’d had all day…

The gawkers at Gorkha - 13th March 2010

Gorkha is famous as the old capital and things looked propitious; just after the turnoff on the Dumre-Gorkha road we found one of our best camping spots yet: a village football oval beside a river. It was a memorable day also because we washed twice in one day! First, an afternoon wash at a village spring then an evening bathe in the river. This makes up for a few days of stench.

We waved at the local girl who had the unenviable job of tending the herd of equally bored buffalo. We were her amusement, particularly Steven’s bare bottom and Cat’s Olympian trip-stumble-bellyflop into the river.

Aware of our beautiful surroundings we only used miniscule amounts of soap and detergent to rinse out our hair and clothes, everything drying with the wind before dinnertime. As the women crossed the river with big baskets of stones on their backs, we again felt like privileged westerners.

The road to Gorkha was a near constant uphill. We climbed 900m in altitude in 2 hours and 20 minutes, from the river valley where we camped up to the terraced fields carved into the steep hillside. Cat plodded behind the others, tired after our big days of cycling hills.

Unfortunately a slow pace makes her even more of a target; though men and boys will take any opportunity to hassle. Seeing any boys and young men beside the road makes her stomach knot with nerves and her mind scream with anger that at 31 years of age, wearing loose trousers, long sleeves, beige socks pulled up to her knees, a big hat, and big sunglasses, she’s still considered prey!

Would you think a 10 year old could be sexually intimidating? Seeing four boys spread out across the road, stopping to watch your approach, stepping closer to your bikes... or seventeen year olds that give you a head start on a hill then race to catch up? Could you even imagine a 7 year old as menacing or malicious? How about if three of them surrounded and tried to push your bike from under you? Cat stopped, shouting and screaming at them until the villagers came running. These ridiculous predators never expect a woman to react with such venom and volume!

It’s difficult for Adam to deal with her accounts, and for us to not take frustration out on each other. When we cycle close together, there's less hassle but we naturally have our own pace and it's impossible to be beside each together every minute of the cycling day. Even if Adam waits a few turns ahead there’s a few that sneak up.

So it’s time to fight back, even against those boys in Gorkha where the fearsome Nepali warriors come from!

After all that uphill effort, Gorkha was uninspiring. Perhaps we have more expectations of a place than those who arrive on a bus?! We ate rice and curry lunch, looked at the steep uphill that continued to the palace, noticed the loud protest march coming along the street and decided we’d prefer an afternoon of downhill to staying another moment there.

On the way down Cat grimly presented an erect middle finger to all males who shouted "Give me ...!" in her direction. That's the Nepali catchphrase: “Give me rupee, give me pen, give me chocolate.” No surprise then to find the water branded that as well:

What the...? 10th March

Namaste! Tourist! Cycle!
These are usually the shouts we hear on the road. Adam initially thought the guy was pointing at his 'cycle' and ignored him while he waited for Cat at the busy Dumre junction.
"Wash your trousers!" The guy shouted.
"What?" Adam stared at him. Who was this guy? How is Adam of any interest to him?
"Wash your trousers! Your trousers are dirty! Wash them!"
"My trousers are dirty? Your whole country is FILTHY!" Did this man have no concept of the dustiness of riding a bicycle?
The man got on the bus, ignoring Adam's mocking laughter, very disgusted with the dirty tourist who had the insult to shout, "I'll wash my trousers when you people learn to pick up your rubbish."

Up, down, up, up, up to Besisahar - 9th March

We don’t normally cycle up a road only to turn around and cycle back down it (only once when we got lost in Croatia), but we were killing time until we pick up our Chinese, Pakisan and India visas. The detours off the Pokhara-Kathmandu highway seemed more interesting than waiting in either city and we were keen to cycle with Heidi and Steven, albeit a little daunted by this fit pair!

A month off the bike has taken its toll on our never-quite-athletic bodies and we plodded along feeling pretty unfit. We’re also carrying a few more things than we really need, extra treats, a few more spares.

The Flemish are King and Queen of light travel and eyed our panniers with glee, thinking of what they can convince us to get rid of. After a few camp dinners and breakfasts they conceded that the plastic jar of parmesan cheese and the ten packets of instant custard constitute survival essentials…

Our first detour was to Besisahar, a long uphill of lovely bitumen that petered out 15km from the town and gave us a few switchbacks with steep gradients that brought back memories of Armenia’s gruelling climbs.

On the way, Steven’s gear cable snapped and luckily we, the pair with the spares, had one to give him. Heidi gave a mechanics lesson to us and a local Nana.

Annapurna was shrouded in cloud by late afternoon and Besisahar had a Wild West feel to it, so we stopped only long enough to stock up on food then cycled back the way we came. A kilometre later we found Mulpani village with its relatively flat fields.

One lady agreed to let us camp in an empty field as long as we didn't 'dust' (poop) there!
A pair of twenty-year old girls chatted confidently, proudly telling us that Mulpani means Source of Water (always a good location for us!). Cat in turn gave them an insight into Western ideas of love and romance when they asked about our "husbands".

“Don’t get married yet!” Cat urged the girls, explaining that girls in the west usually live with a boyfriend before deciding whether to marry or to break up and find a new boyfriend. The girls were stunned. "Really?! You can live together before marriage?"

“I really like tall men,” One girl admitted with a rueful smile, “But your husband is already married!” The girls giggled and Adam grinned wolfishly - even after five days of being A Filthy Unwashed he can still pull the ladies!

In the morning Heidi and Cat were bailed up by the women, with heaps of kids around as usual, and we preached our mantra again: first marriage and love time, babies later – only a couple of babies! There are too many people in the world!!

Even as we explain our lives (always with that little fib about being married) we realise that personal choice and contraception are such luxuries.

 Sarangkot - 7th March 2010

We were excited to cross tyres again with The Flemish, Belgian cyclists Heidi and Steven who we had met in Yazd, Iran. Practically born on a bicycle, Heidi doesn’t walk or backpack but Steven convinced us all to leave the veggie burger delights of Pokhara and hike up to Sarangkot to camp.

The thought of waking to views of Annapurna and Machupuchre mountains was appealing enough for us to ditch our bikes, hire some backpacks and use our shoulders as well as our steely thighs for an expedition.

The novelty wore off after 100 metres.

We gasped up the uneven hillside steps up to Sarangkot, looking for our paragliding buddy, Howie from Liverpool. Our legs much prefer going round-and-round to up-and-up so we spent more time sitting and scouring the sky than walking. We were overpacked so we didn't take a camera and will borrow some of Steven's - watch this space...

A Russian girl in tiny shorts was a delightful diversion. We wondered if she really knew what she was doing and would we be watching her leap to her doom. She had her helmet and harness on, but wasn’t able to arrange her chute for take-off. Not to worry though, her bum-hugging short-shorts guaranteed helpers who organised her gear for her. She soon leapt off the hillside and away – that girl knew exactly what she was doing!

Steven spotted the perfect camp spot: a grassy hilltop plateau, and we learnt what it means to camp with Steven: edging around terraced fields, clambering over barbed wire, pushing through bushes, then being rewarded with a fantastically secluded spot.

The Chinese Tourists arrived at 5:43am.

We couldn’t ignore the People’s Republic alarm clock and luckily we didn’t because the Annapurna was icy and beautiful in the dawn light. Once the red ball of sun rose over the ridge the mountains were soon hazy. The Chinese trekked down the track – definitely an unadventurous way of finding a good spot. Call us unadventurous but we chose their route out instead of Steven’s!

Hooray-hooray, it's a holi holi-day - 1st March 2010

We seem have a knack of coinciding our public transport journeys with public holidays. Our three day journey back from Delhi to Pokhara was scuppered by the huge Hindi festival of colours, Holi.

We had to choose between a 12 hour night bus from the border or two nights in Birganj, the border town. We opted for the grubby guesthouse option; the memories of seeing seven crashes in one day’s journey on a winding Nepalese road didn't bode well for anyone's overnight karma. But we couldn’t escape the revelry of Holi and were given a big dusting of colour when we ventured out.

One guy was too enthusiastic, smearing over Cat’s face and groping her breast. Instantly she grabbed him and slapped him hard. He was as stunned by the slap as she was. She'd always imagined doing this; imagining it everytime this last year that she's received a grope or lewd comment. So he copped one for all the dodgy boys we’ve met on the road!

INDIA part 2

It's all meant to be ... 28th March 2010

“It’s meant to be…” has become our mantra. We’re learning to relinquish any control of the universe of visas, public transport, slow postal services, crossing or not crossing paths with people. So meeting Ray and Judith, Adam’s grandparents, was a sign from the universe that this was meant to be.

We found out they were in India at the same time we were, so met up in Bangalore after our backpacking trip and their annual ashram sojourn. (And yes, this one's going in The Rogues Gallery!)

It was wonderful and invigorating for us to feel the instant warmth and connection of spending time with family; two wonderful days together and still we hadn’t run out of conversation and a need for french fries (we'd all reached our rice and lentil limits!).
Ray and Cat both had dreaded lurgies but the sweaty natural curatives of chilli and raw onion worked well. Attempting vigorous Indian chilli that’s the size of a rice grain is only for the brave, foolhardy or utterly desperate!

Indian road trip Part 2 - 17th February 2010

"Yup, we're back in India ... the land of closed shoes..." It's a familiar sound: a phlegmatic hack that courses up from the little toe, wriggles through the body cavity, streams up the throat then expectorated with vigour to land a few millimetres from Cat's feet.

We returned to Delhi to meet Lyn and Jesse, our friends flying in from London to meet us at our almost-halfway point of the trip. And also bringing us a suitcase stuffed with spare parts, 3 spare Schwalbe tyres and survival essentials such as a kilo of Cadbury’s chocolate and instant custard … Adam went a little mad with his online ordering and we owe Jesse and Lyn an immense thank you!

Adam and Jesse mixed up arrival times so we met them off the plane, and a few hours later were on a train to Agra.

After a lunchtime curry we wandered to the park outside the Taj Mahal, dodging touts pushing water, postcards, souvenirs but we couldn’t dodge the monkeys. Led by The Big Bastard, they leapt out of the bushes and snatched our bags of fruit, scattering oranges everywhere and narrowly avoiding a kick from Adam. He stayed on monkey alert while we snoozed under some trees.

The Monument of Love had a monumental queue so we paid the ‘guide’ to get us through the queue faster.

The Taj was crowded with thousands of Indians on their romantic pilgrimage and it was exciting to be part of the enthusiastic crowd!

We queued with the masses to see the disappointing interior of The Taj then had to lie down again. 

The lying down continued at Agra train station. Jesse and Adam hooked into a bottle of whisky (a very Indian pastime) while we played cards and waited 6 hours for our train. Adam awoke in our 2nd class sleeper (luxuries of curtains, pillows and sheets), wondering how he’d changed clothes in the night and why his beard was a chunky stink … Cat happily recounted his efforts with the whisky that was.

So he was pretty quiet for our first day in Pushkar, famous for its camel fair and stoned hippies. We arrived in style in an old Ambassador car, ticking off another of our "India wish list" items.

Pushkar coincided with a holy day and thousands of weddings took place on this propitious date. By lunchtime we’d memorised the Pushkar brass band’s entire wedding parade repertoire …

We trained over to Jaipur where our taxi driver admitted that The Pink City’s reputation was a bit overrated: more like The Dusty Terracotta-Coloured City. Adam and Jesse sat out an hours’ decision making on cushion covers but perked up enough to buy a few kilos of doorknobs for our respective dream houses. (An on-the-spot purchase almost on par with buying a 1 metre ceremonial wooden spoon in Turkey last year!).

The hubbub increased back in Delhi where we made effort to fill the near-empty suitcase (packed with a few kilos of 'bloody door knobs!!) and boost Cat’s pancake quota before heading our separate ways after our lovely ‘halfway holiday’ time together.

NEPAL part 1

"Can o' peas?" - one Kathmandu drug tout needs to work on his pronunciation

"It's definitely dull bhaat" - our enthusiasm for Nepal's staple diet has waned

"Water? It's not the season." - our attempt to buy an emergency bottle of water as backup to our waterbags filled from the village pump were thwarted ... not in season? Intriguing.

"Cracked heels are genetic" - this headline from the Himalaya Times relieves one of our many worries... 

"My name is Superman. My country? Japan, ah-so, a-Honda!" - Adam tries a different answer to the usual questions.

"Do you some to our country to see the natural beauty?" "Will you come to my house to drink water?" "Catarina, will you take me to Australia?" - Adam books his place in hell for fooling a lovely little boy who stole our hearts with his winning smile and told his neighbours that Adam was from Japan and Catherine from Australia.

Pokhara - 8th February 2010

After taking a triple room at Little Tibet Guesthouse in Pokhara, we cycled with Marco to find The French Family. They had generously taken one bag of ours and two of Marco's in their camping car. Such kindness is difficult for us to repay in anything but bars of precious Lindt chocolate, poor attempts at speaking French and the boys having photos of their hands with Adam's.

We sought them here, we sought them there, those French we sought them everywhere! Even cycling out of town to find the campground where they had been spotted by two other French - mere boys who had no concept of distance. 1 or 2 km, they shrugged. We cursed them: a 16km round trip on potholes bitumen and sandy jeep track along the valley. Though a paraglider made a nice distraction from watching the road.

Eventually we found them. Apparently there was another French family in town with camping car and two children. Children cannot limit one's adventures! Next mission was to track down our fellows for a cyclists' reunion. We'd not had internet for 5 days thanks to our cycling breaks clashing with the electricity load-shedding schedule of Nepal.

We had missed The Basques who were already off hiking the Annapurna Circuit, but still had Marco to room with and help Adam with the porridge and tea-making. And we were ecstatic to meet up with Chris & Larissa, aka The Dutch (www.fietsenvoorsac.nl )

It was strange fate that brought us all to Pokhara at the same time. Larissa had problems with her leg tendons so they had rested in India. Then she was bitten by a monkey. They had to track down 3 rabies shots with precisely the same ratio of ingredients. An ordeal of indescribable frustrations: "Yes, this shot is for rabies, Madam." "But are they the same ingredients in this shot?Is everything the same?" "Yes. See, the packet says Rabies."

Luckily, Larissa had had her rabies vaccinations before leaving Netherlands otherwise it would have been a course of 5 jabs. And more tears and pronouncements of "I've had it up to here!"

The group counsel agreement was: India is not great for a cycling world tour and why doesn't anyone write that explicitly in their blog? So we have. Even Marco, the consumate soul of peace, love and understanding didn't click with India. "India?! Such a feeling of violence in me. Happiness for some times but then violence again!"

After the hospitality of Turkey, Iran and Pakistan, and the peace of Nepal, well, India sticks out like a rabies shot jabbed into a tender backside. But despite this, we all dream of India's big mountains of Ladakh, Manali and Leh, worthy of a trip in themselves. Keep on dreaming!

Heading toward the Himalayas - 6th February 2010

The road from Butwal to Tansen would be our first cycling in 12 days and we were at least 2 steaks, 3 pizzas and 2 kilos of cakes heavier than when we last sat on our bikes ... not to mention the well-stocked panniers from Kathmandu supermarket indulgence. Adam justified adding 1.2 kilos of Lindt chocolate to Cat's panniers - it was on sale. The love of a bargain runs through the Thomas Family male gene!

Butwal to Tansen lived up to expectation as the toughest leg of the mountain road. Choking roadworks led to lovely bitumen winding through the steep-sided valleys, mostly uphill to Pokhara. 

Cat was in the lead until late afternoon, her little legs pumping along; her Kathmandu excesses fuelling her athleticism and gymnastics.

Marco's recumbent is best suited for downhill and flat roads, so we two upright cyclists were waiting for him in a village when, to our disbelief, a camping car pulled up. The family of Eric, Elise, Theo and Elliot drove from France to Bangaldesh and are now making their way back home. And fuelled our own dreams of one day taking our own family travelling ... www.theliot.fr

The boys are wonderful, so confident and exuberant. And Eric and Elise indulged us with a little piece of Europe by inviting us into Le Camping Car for tea and biscuits. Adam forgave Cat for giving away one of the precious Lindt chocolate rations to the family.

But he started to get worried when the second day she gave another packet to two French cyclists we met between Tansen and Randi. (Roman and Nico, travelling with trailers rather than panniers: www.routedescimes-jimdo.com )  "We're all travellers and everyone needs a treat," she protested. 

Nepal is the first country we've travelled with a guidebook and Lonely Planet is giving us the irrits! Loads of incorrect info about Kathmandu and buses, now a description of Tansen as a charming medieval town. Inspired, we plodded up the steep 5 km uphill at the end of the day, already knackered.

The 'pick' of Tansen guesthouses meant overflowing toilets and loud guests, and 'medieval' features? Nothing any more compelling than any other village we've seen.

"This guidebook must be written by an American. Pfff. They think medieval is 100 years old," Marco dismisses Lonely Planet.

Sleepless nights like Tansen make us wish for the peace and solace of camping. So we took it easy and traversed the rest of the winding road to Pokhara in 3 days instead of 2.
Little villages were an opportunity to stock up on samosas and fried bread wrapped in newspaper ... tastier than they might seem!

We were rewarded with our first glimpse of the Annapurna foothills and bridges strung across the valleys. This bridge is positively modern; on the Kathmandu road there are little cages and the people manually haul themself across the highwire. Terrifying.

Adam found us perfect camping spots on hidden ledges overlooking the valleys. But not so hidden as a billion little tracks cross these mountains and we received a couple of visitors who were out gathering wood or walking home.

Nepal is heavenly. Impossibly blue rivers edged with white beaches. Terraced fields. Pink mountains at night and grey mist slowly burning off in the morning. Noodles and apple crumble for dinner; green tea and porridge for breakfast. Our life is beautiful. 

It's a small, small world - 4th February 2010

We left a bag on the Kathmandu-Butwal bus and thus, after a big barny to rival the Guns N Roses songs blaring through the adjacent room's balsa wood wall, we spent the next day waiting to find out if we could get our bag back. We did, minus the supremely coveted items of our empty soap holder and tubes of superglue. Butwal isn't exactly a compelling place and our bus looked and leaned like the one below... and that's a pretty good one...

A cycle-free day meant we could attend to our mouldy tent, thermarests and rain jackets. And explore the delights of the local supermarket. Can ya guess what it is yet? 

We declined to purchase "Green peas in Brine" and a can of "10 hot dogs" as the latter brought memories of a tastebud-lacking flatmate addicted to canned "meat", peas & corn.

While Adam was perfecting our new okky-strap system for carrying our dry bags on our back racks, a bearded traveller with a huge, familiar smile arrived at Kandara Hotel. A moment bef0re recognition: Marco the Swiss cyclist from 6 months and fewer follicles ago!

This photo is called "the progression of beards". Don't be fooled by Cat's clean-chinned appearance, a rogue and hirsuit Italian gene still lurks there...

We met Marco at Nemrut Dagi, Turkey, a time when we were convinced that the only other cyclists in the world were Swiss. Fate brought us together again to finally cycle together and see Marco's recumbent bicycle (French: velo couche!) in fully-loaded action.

Watching Marco take some of the turns was incredible and a little stomache-churning! He also took the pressure off us: in the villages people wanted to fiddle with his bike gears and brakes instead of ours. He took one for Team Aus-Swiss ... and in every village after that.

Kathmandu - 30th January 2010

Despite the whispered offer of "Cannabis? Hash?" Kathmandu seems less like a mystical Hippydom than a pitstop for trekkers and climbers. Think we have missed the Magic Bus vibe by a few decades!

Shops selling brightly coloured cotton hippy clothes equal thos selling trekking gear. We've seen more North Face jackets and beards (though none as long as Adam's) than striped cotton pants and dreadlocks - except at the Indian embassy of course. There the great unwashed still reign and we'd usually fit right in but cities mean bathing for us.

Kathmandu was a milestone: our first steak in 10 months! Pepper sauce, chips and mashes potato completed our own Shangri-La experience of meat after 2 weeks of camping dinners and local lunches to ward off the cold days: 2 minute noodles and "good for you" but uninspiring dhal bhaat (lentils and rice). K-Too Pub was our steak n' chips Mecca.

Shona's Trekking Store in Jyoti Street has been our second Mecca (after the K-T00 Sports Bar for steak and sport tv). Andy and Shona rent and sell trekking gear, so Adam ordered a customised sleeping bag. They assured us, our sleeping bags will be 3 seasons! They've been doing this for decades, so we're looking forward to some snuggly nights at last. We've been pretty jealous of Urdin & Izaro's sleeping bags.

Our Tibet hope (independent cycling entering from Nepal) was always slim but all hope dashed by the bargain price of "20 days independent cycling tour with a jeep and guide": US $1500. The 'bargain' element is that our 'independent cycle tour' would exclude cook, food, guesthouses and flight... oh good. Short answer: cannot enter Tibet from Nepal on cycle, foot, vehicle or mule without a tour package involving a jeep and guide. So to Plan C to get over the mountains.

Our interview with the Consul at the Pakistan Embassy got off to a slow start. The television on his desk was showing Pakistan vs. Australia in the cricket. After ten minutes of discussing the merits of the gentlemanly Waugh brothers and Pakistan bowlers, and the poor captaincy of Ricky Ponting who led Australia into less gentlemanly conduct of the game, we reluctantly got down to business.

The Consul was utterly thrilled that we wanted to go to Pakistan. "You will have a wonderful time," he assured us. Not that we need assuring because the six cyclists we know who who went through last autumn and winter have all raved about Pakistan and agreed that, like Iran, what you hear on our news channels is not true for all.

The Karakorum Highway into China is closed until May so the Consul suggested he give us a two month window to get to Pakistan and then a three month visa that starts on entry. "Then you can take your time, start Karakorum as far as Gilgit then wait for the pass to open."

Leaving the embassy we were walking on air. A phrase often used by Adam's greataunt, Ann, sprang to mind, "So civilised!" What a change to usual embassy offhand procedure. So, when we come back to Kathmandu in March, The Consul will update us about security and process our visa in 3 days, standard process. And no, it doesn't depend on Pakistan defeating Australia in the cricket ...

The Butwal Bus

Our last day of cycling in the Terai was one of the most beautiful cycling days ever: hill climbing through forests, a glimpse of sunshine and only three vehicles all day - we arrived in Butwal (pronounced Bootwahl or Buttwall - we prefer the latter) to find crowds lining the bridge. If only it was a fanfare for us, Urdin and Izaro.

Butwal's an unattractive town and what we thought was simply the last day of festival was actually a strike called by the Communists (more chilled than the hardline Maoists).
This meant everything was shut and we struggled to find a hotel room and anything to eat. It was a glimpse into how things would have been a few years ago during the civil war between Maoists and government. And another affirmation that cycling is preferable to buses!

The next day, Urdin and Izaro pushed into the mountains for Tansen and Pokhara while we headed on the bus to Kathmandu.

Nepalese buses are characterised by a bus boy hanging from the door and a rooftop crammed with boys, ricesacks and random pieces of household furniture. Inside, we had front seats and the prospect of a clear view of the road. The 52 people and children (no chickens unfortunately) crammed onto the minibus obscured our view. We were happily oblivious to the near misses apart from the people landing on Adam's lap.

The views distracted us from the discomfort. Where else in the world do forested mountains slide down to white beaches lining crystal-clear rivers? We wanted to jump out and run our toes through the white sand.

But beautiful views become mundane after nine hours. Lucky for us there was more excitement: communal travel sickness!

It spread throughout the bus, barely contained by thin black plastic bags. While Adam had been used as a human couch for the duration of the journey, Cat had the equally unenviable position of a window seat. This meant being gingerly passed people's spew bags to drop out the window. However unenvironmental, the alternative of nursing these bags didn't bear thinking about!

Festival Days - 21st January

We declined the opportunity to go to temple at 1am and indulge in ritual bathing in the freezing river. We cherish our own bathing ritual: a shared bucket of water on the rare occasion we take a room. Hot water from a pipe is a luxury we dare not dream!

It was the last day of the Terai five-day festival and perfect day for cycling: nobody on the roads except cyclists and a herd of goats. It was also the equivalent of Ladies Day at the races.

All the girls in their best, making the most of the day with an early start on the roads, walking and cycling in groups. We were held up at various roadblocks by crowds of women, dancing, singing and refusing to let us through until we handed over rupees.

While waiting for us in a village and being surrounded by impossibly excited kids (only a quarter of the crowd below), Adam and Urdin spotted the holy grail of gourmet: a cake cart. Sighting at the the Aussie towering over the Basque and the Nepalese, Cake Boy knew he'd be making a visit to temple to thank the gods for his biggest cake sale ever.

Even on temple day, someone is hapy to cook lunch. Our hostess wandered up the road to find a shop that sold dried noodles and was ecstatic that yes, we wanted a lot of chowmein.
Puhl? (Eggs?)
Chaa, danyabad! (Four, thanks!)

With the village watching us eat, we had a restrained lunch of 8 plates of noodles, 4 eggs, 6 cups of tea and 2 scarily yellow cakes. Our hostess hammed it up for the camera.

Two weeks in the Terai - 20th January 

When we entered Nepal at Mahendranagar, the western border and The Basques, Urdin and Izaro were beside themselves. "No more India! We're in Nepal!" Arriving in Nepal marked Urdin's 1 year on the road. But their relief it was more than this anniversary.

Urdin & Izaro had had a tough time in India and were robbed while camping. Luckily, they got their bikes and gear returned to them, (minus their precious Coco Pops pilfered by the police) but are still shaken.

This two weeks together was all the more precious for being the first time they've camped since the robbery - excluding hotel rooms where they put up their tent indoors to avoid mozzies and unsavoury sheets!

The Terai is the south valley of Nepal. Over 15 million people, half of Nepals' population, crowd the valley, competing for space with the tigers, elephants and rhinos of the national parks. We veered around this little fellow who was sitting on the road.

As we cycled near Bardia National Park we saw spotted deer and black face-white fur monkeys. And tried, unsuccessfully to cross a shallow river without getting wet toes.

We can barely walk a flight of stairs without puffing (we tell ourselves that our muscles are geared to cycling not walking or stairs) so weren't sure about Urdin & Izaro's plan for a one day walk in Bardia National Park.

But it was our first day without fog or rain so we joined them and Hukum, owner and guide from Jungle Base Camp. After 9 hours of trudging through eye-high grass, thorny wet jungle and seeing footprints of just-missed elephants and tigers, we were running out of oomph. Then we saw the biggest arse in the park: a rhino's rear ambling ahead of us!

Even more exciting than the rhino's rectum was that night's inaugural meal, Tortilla de los Basques! 2 eggs each, mixed with onion, garlic, sweet potato, white radish, coriander. Adam had great envy. Between campers, envy is all about the size of the pan.

The Terai proved easy cycling, easy enough for even a little comedy car to tackle

Long flat stretches, lots of villages, swathes of quiet forest, gentle hills then a few in the Central Terai for warmup for what's to come. Above the cloudline is hot sunshine and we strip down. Then the downhills bring us into the foggy Terai again.

Cold days mean hot lunches and a two hour lunch break while we wait for lunch to be cooked over a clay oven or fireplace. Our biggest meal so far: 12 eggs, 8 packets of 2-minute noodles, 8 buns, 6 cups of tea, 1 packet of biscuits.

Nepal has given us fantastic camping spots; well-hidden in the wet jungle and open forest. We camped beside rivers that are just wide gravel beds, waiting for the icy spring melt.

We also added to our lit of 'Worst Jobs in the world': chipping rocks that are taken from the riverbeds? Or filling a truck with gravel ... one shovel at a time...?

After a week of cloud we finally saw sun for an afternoon and the meagre mountains of the Mahendranagar Range to our left. Somewhere behind them is the Himalayas - and our thighs tremble at the thought!

Half Way

We're now almost halfway through our journey and cycling means we think a lot, perhaps far too much! Here are our reflections: good memories and damn hindsight.

Favourite gear

Both: Our Koga World Travellers aka The Touring Tanks. Thank you again Koga & Bigfoot Bikes for helping with our few niggles! 

Both: Ortlieb 10 litrewaterbags, Ortlieb folding bowl, mini Katadyn water filter

Adam: The compass on my bike, my pillow and earplugs kindly donated by Terry & Lucile

Cat: Merino wool base layers, wool socks and my Turkish pantaloons - so attractive

Wish we hadn't bought...

Adam: Kathmandu 3-season sleeping bags. After 6 months, just as we get to The Himalayas, they're useless. Lost too much down. Waste of money.

Cat: And the Solar Panel, we haven't used it.

Favourite country

Both: Turkey, Iran and Nepal, equal first place. Sri Lanka for 'the beautiful nature' and people (Trincomalee highway countryside, Sri Lanka, below)

Stunning Croatia and fantastic camping spots in Georgia and Armenia.  (Lake Paravani, Georgia below)

Best climb

Adam: Tatev, Armenia

Cat: The Meghri Pass, Armenia, wow-wee!

Both: Nemrut Dagi north side in Turkey.

Best camping spots:

Adam: Everywhere we camped in Turkey. And Akrata Camping, Peloponnese - a home from home with the Greek malakas, Manoli & Toula

Cat: Camping in Nepal - except the wet jungle nights! Forests in Georgia and Armenia, and 'big sky camping' in Turkey (like this at Seyitoren near the Georgian border):

Worst camping spots:

Adam: on a slope in Georgia. And Nemrut Dagi, Turkey - broke a peg and my patience on those rocks

Cat: the tiny forest in Armenia where we practically froze while camping in dog and human poop.

Best meal:

Adam: homecooked gnocchi bolognaise, 1kg roasted pork in Croatia; Nol's BBQ lamb in Turkey

Cat: Urdin & Izaro's tortilla! And the stale Russian ration biscuits that we turned into crumble for our stewed apple dessert.

Both: Sema's Turkish breakfasts and Elaine's big English breakfast fryups!

Wish we had...

Adam: researched our sleeping bags better

Cat: World Peace and open borders so we could just go wherever we want. Oh and a Time Machine so I could go back and stop that first person who ever gave 'one pen' 'one bonbon' and 'one rupee' to a poor child ... and spoilt it for everyone ...

It was overrated...

Both: Pammukale, Turkey (UNESCO entry fees same price as a room!), Shiraz, Iran (uncompelling city and we didn't find any famous wine)

Go there!

Both: Iran! Esfahan for the incredible Imam Square and best food in Iran. Yazd for beautiful clay buildings and the wonderful Hotel Caravanserai. Hospitality, history and wonderful carpets made us fall in love with Iran. 

Sri Lanka! Safe after the end of the civil war, beautiful beaches in the south, jungles, tea country and wonderful friendly people who need the tourist dollar / pound / euro.

Nepal! Stunning scenery - mountains, jungles, rivers - and rhino's with lovely behinds

Lessons learned...

Adam: That I enjoy uphill - unbelievable.  Also, get a double-entry visa just in case

Cat: In Iran, ask for a hotel room with a window pane. In Nepal, ask for one with a door...  Learning that I generally don't like men, particularly those aged between 9 and 99.

Looking forward to...

Adam: I've had my steak so my new custom-made sleeping bag from Shona's Outdoor shop, Kathmandu ... catching up with Jesse & Lyn in India, put that first actually ... having another steak ... using my new frying pan ... cooking together at the end of the day

Cat: A hot shower when Kathmandu electricity comes back on ... The next leg of mountains and isolation ... crossing tyre tracks again with some of the cyclists we've met ... Adam's gourmet camping breakfasts of fried eggs and leftover rice.

Both: Bitumen!

INDIA 

Cycling out of India

A grand total of two days cycling was enough for us in India. After all the hospitable countries and good camping countries we've encountered so far, India doesn't fit into this tour. We'd love to come back and cycle the mountains of Ladahk, Leh and Manali ...

We met The Basques, Urdin & Izaro, in Bareilly (we caught the train from Delhi!) and the four of us cycled to the Nepalese border. We have new shirts thanks to our lovely Delhi tailor. Cat has her Cowgirl shirt (perfect for on-bike karaoke of Shania Twain) and Adam looks like a 16th century explorer.

At the last village we stopped before the India-Nepal border we were left alone. Being able to stand and drink water without an unsmiling, staring audience is indescribable! After half an hour, a Sikh gentleman came over to show us the daily regional newspaper and that was the cue for people to come around, a polite mob all patiently waiting to have a look at the picture.

We'd arrived in Pilbith the evening before and been hounded by a reporter. We wished we could read Hindi because his report was surely creative writing.

"How is India?" His eyes sparkled with the thought of this scoop.

"Umm..." We paused.

The reporter was impatient and suggested, "Happiness and different culture?"

"No, not happiness but, yeah, different culture..."

"Happiness and different culture, okay! Difficulties?" There was a hopeful tone.

Terrible traffic? Feeling edgy all the time? Having random men sit in our hotel room? An audience within moments of stopping?

If we came here on a cycle tour for India alone, we might like it better and like it for what India is - noise, inescapable company, forceful touting, entrenched inequality of the caste system, human crap and cows. India is the low point of our trip so far.

Barely a smile anywhere, which is exceedingly disconcerting when we're surrounded by fifty or more unsmiling men.  In a village one of us stays with the bikes, the others go shopping. We don't relax and take off our helmets. Just shop quickly and move on from the mob who don't smile let alone respond to our Namaste (Hello). Not even a head wobble but plenty of itchy fingers. Cat usually smiles and threatens through clenched teeth, "Touch my gears again and I'll break your bloody arm ..." 

The journo was impatient. "Traffic and bad driving," We agree. It's easier, but far less cathartic to be polite. Such is the difficulty of celebrity!

Rajasthan Road Trip - 30th December 2009

An overnight bus from New Delhi to Udaipur sounded comfy: our own little sleeping compartment! Getting airborne while horizontal was hilarious the first time. Twelve bumpy hours later ...

We rendezvoused with Terry & Lucile, friends from London, who were doing a three-week tour of Rajasthan. They stayed at the beautiful Poonam Haveli in Udaipur.

Havelis are magnificent old mansions, many converted into hotels. Rooftop views of Udaipur palace and lake were only appreciated after hours of catch up. Terry & Lucile are the consumate epicurean travellers, loving a good curry as much as a beautiful building, so perfect company.

And we don't have a guidebook yet, so it was great to travel with friends who actually knew where we were going and what it was that we were looking at! We found the biggest turban in the world at the Udaipur museum

And tried to get in the hippy groove of things, man ...

On our last night in Udaipur it was Moharrem, a Shia Muslim mourning day. It's known to be pretty bloody in some parts of the world, with self-flagellation with whips. Here it was just crowds fo crazed boys, who occasionally got into a frenzy with a stick, and lots of shouting about the street parade of giant towers. Men controlled them on ropes and the lights were powered by a generator on wheels behind. When it passed a building, people leaned out to rip off decorations. 

From Udaipur, we took a car to Kh fort, possibly the most amazing fort we've ever seen. The outer walls look like elephants rumps, according to Cat, though our photos don't do the sprawling fort justice.

From here we drove to Ranakpur to see an incredible Jain temple. The Jains have lots of rules the main one being no leather inside the temple. Terry told us that the Lonely Planet said 1044 columns inside the temple, but we lost count. Will take the LP's word as gospel on that one...

The drive to Jodhpur was an eye-opener. Literally. We daren't take our eyes off the road. India takes first place for terrifying driving and we're glad that our bikes are still in their bike boxes from the plane. Not tried cycling here yet. Possibly not daring at all!

Jodhpur is famous for the horsey-trousers, a fact which the dopey pair of us hadn't put together. It's also the blue city, painted with an oxide that repells mosquitoes and looks beautiful from the palace above town.

We didn't think Indian palaces and forts could be anymore jaw dropping, but Jodhpur Fort was another one for the Incredible India list.

The wonderful thing about India, when in a large space that is, are all the Indian tourists on holiday, enjoying their country's history and enabling Cat to get lots of photos of colourful saris. Though the appreciation of fellow man wanes when we're all together in a confined space ...    

As always, though, food was a highlight and Jodhpur was no exception. The Omelette Man near the market gate served up masala omelette sandwiches and we signed his 23rd book of appreciative comments verifying that here, indeed, are the tastiest omelettes in the world.

Made all the more tasty by sitting on a plastic stool in a busy, fragrant street, watching the world and sacred cows go by.

SRI LANKA

Adam: "I think we're pretty similar to jockeys."  ...a 120kg, 2m tall "jockey"?

"We are the only people we know who have tried this, cycling to Trincomalee. We felt so proud of ourselves! Then we met you..." Unwittingly we destroyed the dreams of 7 cycling Sri Lankan students.

"Do you feel sick after eating kottu?" The national dish (similar to pad thai) is notorious for giving an upset stomache, but still everyone (including us) still eats it.

Back in Colombo and Negombo - December 2009

Colombo is a city with a few nice places to kill time; in particular McDonalds where all the travellers congregate to commiserate the lengthy and lottery-like process of obtaining an Indian visa.

We put our visa application in as soon as we arrived in Sri Lanka, then came back 3 weeks later to collect it, rather than waiting around for 7 uncertain working days. The morning of collection comes with a warning as we hand our passports in, "If your embassy hasn't validated our letter requesting verification of your identity, you will not get your visa today. Come back in 8 hours time."

Our interminable 8 hours was broken up by a great lunch with Asanka, Shaun's cousin. He kindly distracted us from worrying about 'what if...''.  But we got our visa and headed back to Negombo beach to pack up our bikes and keep our date with fellow cyclist, David from England.

We met David at Ruwini Restaurant, Negombo where we stayed with Ajith and his family. Also, the only good food in the area so as well as attracting tourists, it attracted the freaky Sri Lankan Santa Claus brigade who carolled Boney M-style Christmas songs.

It was great to finally meet after swapping emails over the last month and David's stories about cycling Cuba and other places sparked more dreams of two-wheel destinations ...  We hope we gave a good fanfare as he rode from Ruwini to start his Sri Lanka tour!

Ajith's daughters, Charuni and Santali, helpfully jumped into the bike boxes that "Adam Uncle" was trying to use. Sensing Adam Uncle's frustration as he was in a rush to box our bikes, not the kids, in time for our flight the girls left the bike boxes and donned his Size 15 boots and hat instead, giggling "Look! I am Adam Uncle!" Even more hilarious was watching these tiny girls try to ride his bike.

They are forever etched in our memories for our endless games of hangman where the girls beautifully pronounced, trousers as "Trrrowsers!" and hopefully guessed "Papaya Lassi?!" for any word with a P in it, even if the word only had 3 letters ... 

A lovely invitation

We had a blissful four days or rest and drying out mouldy gear in hill country town, Kandy. The only excitement, apart from dry knickers and t-shirts, was the arrival of the President who was campaigning for the upcoming elections on January 26th, 2010. He's also released a 'commemorative' bank note to commemorate the end of the civil war in 2009. It has soldiers on one side and himself on the other. Perhaps a subconcious reminder to voters?  

It was downhill to the coast and  on the way we dropped in at Kurunegala to visit the aunt and uncle of Cat's university friend, Shaun. He'd raved about his Aunt's cooking, "Best in Sri Lanka!" and arranged an invitation to The Abayakoon's for lunch.

It was a hilarious and gut-bursting lunch with our wonderful hosts. We'll forever remember the description and charade of a Sri Lankan dog, surely the laziest in the world! They barely move, snoozing on roads and ignoring trucks and cyclists. (Except the sole athletic dog that caused Adam to swerve, wobble then fall off his bike on a downhill into Kurungela) 

We took a drive up to the giant buddha overlooking Kurunegala to walk off our lunch. Trying to find the one bit of shade on the hot rock! 

And Cat was pleased that monkeys stayed in the forest below, not near the temple. The sight of a monkey has her breaking out in a nervous sweat. 

Cycle faster than a  raincloud? Impossible!

Our tropical paradise has become tropical indeed: "mmm, what's that fruity smell? Oh that's us!" We bunkered down in French Garden Anton guesthouse for 4 days as rainy season set in with a vengeance. As did kottu repercussions ...

Our first day back on the bike was a slow 40km from Trinco to Kantale where we stopped at the first (and only) guesthouse we saw and watched the cricket. (Fellow cyclists we'll put a list of Sri Lanka guesthouses on our Route page).

South from Kantale was beautiful cycling through the jungle and over a causeway between a "tank" (reservoir) and flooded rice fields. 20km from Kantale we found another paradise: the new bitumen road sealed all the way south.  We zipped along, rising from 8m above sealevel to a reassuring 56m, reassuring because when we reached Habarana the deluge had set in again. 1pm, right on time.

Cat, who has a pathological hatred of damp, is nearly beside herself these days. "Nothing dries! We smell like mould!" So much for an easy start to rainy season.

One of the must-see on our route is Sigiriya, an ancient rock fortress, and we took the Polonaruwwa highway east from Habarana, turning onto a backroad at Moragaswena. We had the thick jungle to ourselves, just us and some wild peacocks. The only thing that spoilt our beautiful morning was arriving at Sigiriya and discovering tickets are 2874 rupee each ($28) whether you want to stare from the bottom or climb up. Or $57 for a three-way ticket to Sigiriya, Anuradhapura, and Polonnuwa.

We've been on the road almost 9 months now and exhaustion and extremely tight budget are setting in. We sat outside the ticket office, utterly dejected that Sri Lank'as cultural heritage is four-times the cost of a room and well out of our budget.

Unable to justify $56 to climb a rock we got back on our bikes, took a photo from the front gate, and looked for a shop to shelter from the next deluge. Think we need some time off in a warm and dry place to re-energise and re-motivate! Sigiriya is on our "come back" list.

Barbed wire and beach

When we arrived at the coast, Nilaveli stood up to it's reputation as overpriced. We'd decided to come here to see the white deserted pristine beach (not so pristine after tsunami) and spend our money here in one of the poorer parts of Sri Lanka.

The cheapest room started at $15 for beachside cabins with ocean views obscured by razor wire. Might get the togs snagged on that, we decided and headed off to look for something without a neighbourly army watchtower. When we were told $25 then $40 for a spare room in a bloke's house we rolled our eyes and cycled out of town, south toward Trincomalee. Thank you aid workers for putting these hotels on your expense accounts and driving up prices for the common man.

We wondered about the tsunami as we pedalled along roads 16m above sea level. New bridge being built, the roads eternally in a state of being built. Just past the "Trimcomalee 6km" roadpost, in Uppuveli village, we saw, "French Garden Anton", guesthouse.

From the guesthouse it's a 200m walk along a coconut tree lined path to a beach ( no razorwire though barbed wire seems to be a popular fencing material), goats grazing and cows wandering and crapping along the sand. Our simple room is $10 including dinner. Bargain beach time. Then we got rained in.

Backroads Sri Lanka

Leaving Negombo Beach, cycled north along the A3 to Chillaw then turned off to try the secondary roads via Waripola and Padeniya. After Padeniya, it felt truly "backroads" as jungle took over from ricefields.

The secondary roads aren't perfect, but less traffic and a lesson in appreciation for what you get: a smooth stretch for daydreaming or potholes to keep us on our wheels. To us it seemed "flat": long easy climbs and gentle downhills, though still working a sweat in the humidity and requiring an 'Elephant' soft drink or three. Any hope of a secluded picnic and midday snooze is usually dashed by visitors from the nearest village!

We stopped to visit Paduwasnuwara temple ruins - the highlight being an inscribed tablet and the royal lavatory - then pedalled on to a little place called Daldadagama. Love the excessive use of syllables!

Daladagama had 2 eateries so we ate at both: a chop-chop shop for kotu (meat and veg chopped up by a man who considers himself a two-cleavered musical genius) and a place that made coconut milk crepes shaped like a cup. Gourmet travels abound.   

In Anuradhapura we stopped at the first guesthouse at the edge of town, Charm Inn, and it certainly was charming. The locals seem outraged at the price that UNESCO and the Sri Lankan government charge for the temples here ($25) so we followed our tuktuk driver's advice and visited the free or $2 ones.

We've realised over the course of this journey that we are more people-food-markets-travellers than old building-travellers and the plethora of temples at Anuradhapura were no exception. We lost enthusiasm for dagobas (pointy white monuments) after the first two and the second one we were only enthusiastic because we'd drunk belly, a strange drink with brown sugar that makes everything seem positively technicolour afterwards.

From Anuradhapura we cycled east along the Trinco highway to the temple at Mihintale where the highlight was staring down a monkey that interrupted our picnic. Monkeys: a reason against wild camping that we hadn't considered previously. After climbing the long staircase like good sweaty pilgrims, we balked at $5 to look at a dagoba similar to  yesterday's lot, and like a pair of philistines we wandered back down the stairs in search of something to eat. This being Sri Lanka, it's bound to contain coconut, Cat's least favourite.

It was the first dodgy day we'd had in ages, but when we shake our heads and cycle away from one person quoting a ridiculous price, the next shop turns out to be friendly and reasonable. The guesthouse in Honowarra was closed so we were taken to a family's house where the starting price was $10. That's beachside prices and apart from an trickle in the gutter-free dirt road out front, there was little to resemble a water view.

We cycled out of town, hoping to pitch our broken tent at an army post or a little shop. We found neither and five minutes after starting out, dusk became pitch-black darkness. No moon to light our way, just our little headlights and the glare of trucks looming behind.

Then another cyclist passes us, and another. Seven students were cycling to the Trincomalee coast and planned to stay at a temple tonight. We joined their convoy, nine cyclists and four lights riding through the night, veering off the road as trucks lumbered past. The road climbed and dipped, and we cycled somewhat blindly. The jungle closed in around us and after an hour of cycling we came to an army post. They warned us to get off the road at a home-shop close by: elephants on the road!

Pitching the tents wasn't without drama: the lads cut stakes with a machete to tether their tent and we discovered our twice-broken crosspiece was now thrice and irreparably kaput, despite our own best efforts at staking it again. At least this time it wasn't a cold, wet and windy night.

Though the humidity makes camping uncomfortable and is already disintegrating our well-worn clothes. Our fragrance has tropical notes: Eau de Mould. Cat's shirt has ripped down the back and there are holes in her one pair of off-the-bike daks. The lovely Turkish pantaloons, now converted to shorts, are the only item impervious to destruction.

Our host helped us pitch our tents as the moon rose. His wife made dinner (dal and bread) and breakfast (roti and chilli) for a princely $1 each. As always, the envelopes for posting photos will come in handy as a thank you for helping us 9 rowdy campers.

The boys rose at 04:51 am and the morning light revealed the jungle and lake where we bathed last night. No elephants.

The Trincomalee highway turned into one-lane in parts and bitumen had been potholed, patched, repatched and repotholed, but it was far from the worst road we've seen (Georgia still holds that illustrious record). This road was all the more sweet for being relatively flat and ending at a beach.  

Kicking off in Sri Lanka

The inaugural Carlton Rugby 7's were being held at Sugadadasa stadium in Colombo, a hair-raising hour by bus from Negombo beach. So we stayed an extra day.

Colombo's security is impressive, simply driving around the city there are heavy gates and army galore, so security at the rugby was tighter than a Scotsman pocket: go this gate, no go another gate, pat down, show me your camera, take a photo. Cat resisted the temptation to push the button and say "boom!"

We wondered where the ticket office was - there was none. Free international rugby, great seats, and a bag of fish roti: heaven.  Sri Lanka, Thailand and Brunei gave a good show and these "little" countries were more exciting to watch than the big names. The Aussies were disappointing so Cat cheered the other team. Stony silence reined in the seat beside her for the second half. Apparently it's never "just a game"...

Security is also not a laughing matter. Waiting to catch a bus outside the stadium afterwards we were scooted off the road and onto the pavement by stern army boys with tense expressions. First there was Fiji champions' minibus, who nobody cheered so Cat gave them a happy dance and got them waving back.

 Then commandos on motorcycles whizzed past, accompanying the VIP politicians at breakneck speed. Just as they passed there was a huge explosion and everyone jumped, looking around in confusion.

Fireworks.

Whose bright idea was that?!