A solo ride across the Roof of the World

It wasn’t supposed to be a ‘solo ride’ at all. But plans change, life happens, and traveling companions break their arms. My friend Felix – with whom I’d cycled all the way from Istanbul – was coasting down a hill somewhere between Dushanbe and Kulob when his luck failed. More specifically, his front wheel failed and he went down – hard. After X-rays in the regional town of Kulob, it was decided that it wasn’t going to heal anytime soon. We arranged for to meet in the town of Khorog a week later – Felix hitching on a variety of heavy vehicles while I continued on my trusty bike. You can see that adventure in my Youtube video

The diagnosis isn’t much better in Khorog and I am left with the prospect of riding the highest, most remote part of our Eurasian journey by myself. It is equal parts worrying and exhilarating.

As a parting gift, Felix leaves me a whole watermelon and a Katadyn water filter. One of these things is helpful, the other… not so much. You can probably guess which is which.

Khorog – gateway to the Pamir plateau.

The last time I see Felix, he is getting into a minibus bound for… somewhere exotic no doubt. Determined to travel despite the sling, he is a true adventurer. And he left his bike behind. If you’re ever in a hotel (I can’t remember it’s name) in Khorog and they have an old french mountain bike with a brand new wheel – it might be Felix’s bike.

And then I am alone, with several hundred kilometers of remote, high altitude terrain ahead of me. Turning to the east and pushing some pedal, I set out onto the infamous Pamir Highway – the wild east.

A herd of Yaks

The road out of Khorog is steep and the land barren. After the initial climb the road levels out and I make my way between lush little villages, high-fiving kids and feasting on the fresh apricots that these regions are known for. If it weren’t for the heat, it would be perfect. I’ve always found these landscapes to be uniquely charming – low, whitewashed homes and an oasis of greenery, surrounded by rugged crags and backed by lofty snowcaps – the mountain regions of central Asia are truly incredible. For 2 days I follow the course of the Gunt river, pedaling along almost lazily through the morning, resting through the hottest part of the day and occasionally falling asleep under a tree. The villages have names like Wanqal’a and Jilāndi – pleasingly exotic labels for these pleasingly remote communities.

Inevitably, the road climbs. And climbs. I am heading for the 4272m Koi Tezek pass. I consider the long climb to be the price of entry to the Pamirs proper, but thanks to the altitude, the price seems unreasonably high. Cresting the pass in the late afternoon, I am forced to make camp only a mile or so beyond – higher than I’d have liked at around 4100m. I turn in that night fearing a cold, sleepless ordeal but wake up refreshed after a solid 10 hours. High altitude cycling will do that to you! My only problem is the biting wind outside – I pack up and bail, heading down the pass to the Pamir Plateau and my first taste of the true emptiness of the region.

The wind rips across dusty boulder fields under a cloudless sky, and I struggle to make much progress – fighting the elements, my fluctuating moods (altitude does that to you as well) and multiple flat tires. I am short on water and enthusiasm as I roll into Tagarkaki – a lonely little outpost where I am at least able to restock on fresh water, biscuits, potato, onions and noodles. Not exactly a balanced diet but it’s what there is.

Rockin’ the latest Khorog fashion on the Pamir Plateau

And so goes the following day as well. It really is hard to describe the sublime loneliness of a place like this. Surrounded by ancient, empty landscapes and in deep contact with elemental forces – such remote places show us that we’re not the masters of the earth, but that we’re merely a temporary part of something that existed for unimaginable years before us, and will exist long after we’re gone. In stepping away from routine existence and placing ourselves at the mercy of nature, we can truly feel a part of it.

I feel like a tourist.

The summers on the Pamir consist of hot days and cold nights, and finding some kind of sheltered camp site becomes a priority. Any ditch, divot or depression is a potential site. I Usually like to seek out campsites with a view but on the Pamir everywhere has a view so it’s a moot point. Each evening I watch the the sky turn pink in the dying light before crawling into the caress of my sleeping bag and fading out myself. It’s Just me, the universe and a book Felix gave me on Buddhism.

Just another Pamir sunset…

The Other Cyclist

…His name was Andrew, and he was from Adelaide (I think). I awaken to a ripping wind which thankfully is heading east, like me. We travel together, the wind and I – friends at last. In fact, with the huge sail area of my panniers and bags, I mostly just coast, letting myself get swept along by nature itself. This wind is strong enough that it can haul 50kg of bike and 70kg of me down the road – and it is constant.

And then a distant speck on this dead straight stretch of road. Not a car, not a Yak. Eventually the speck becomes a cyclist – my first tourist on the Pamir.

Andrew is heading west. Andrew is not having a good time. After salutations and introductions, he asks me how far it is to the next town. I don’t have good news for him – he’ll be struggling most of the day if he’s going to make it to Alichur – the windswept little town I passed through yesterday. He has plenty of food and water at least, and so there is little I can do but sympathize as we stand together in the middle of the road, wind howling around us – with very different prospects for the day ahead.

And sympathize I did. One of the things about bicycle touring is the unspoken sense of community that comes with it. When we venture out on two wheels, we leave a lot to fate – illness, injury, weather, mechanical issues and hundreds of other factors can halt a bike tourist in their tracks. The bright side of this is that other cyclists are always ready to help out. It’s nemo resideo – no man left behind, especially in a place like this.

Andrew from Adelaide – going the wrong way.

He’s the first cyclist I’ve seen on the plateau and (other than my brief village shopping trip) the first human contact I’ve had in several days. We spend 10 minutes comparing notes, stories and general banter, but our time together is over all too soon. Wishing each other luck, we part ways and I continue east with the wind at my back.

Murgab is the largest settlement on the Pamir plateau with a population of around 4000, a number only slightly greater than it’s elevation of 3600m. It’s also home to the Pamir Hotel, and the first shower I’ve had since leaving Khorog days ago. Murgab itself is dusty, run down and tragic, like everywhere else in the Pamirs. I spend the late afternoon wandering the backstreets and giving the mangy dogs a wide berth. I am the only guest at the Hotel and as far as I can tell, the only tourist in town. For all it’s infamy, I have so far met a total of 1 other traveler on the Pamir Highway.

That number doubles the next day when I come across a German on a motorcycle – a rather worn looking KLR. Jurgen is simply exploring for the sake of it – pointing his ageing moto down the faintest of desert tracks and returning to Murghab when his supplied run low. He is looking forward to another week or so of exploring before he has to turn for home – back to Hamburg via a whole slew of interesting countries. As we part ways and I watch him blast off across the plain, I am quite envious of Jurgen. Cycling the Pamir was hard and I wondered what it must be like to explore it with such (relative) ease.

And then the feeling passes. I am a cyclist, and I am a badass. Let’s turn some crank!

Not ideal, but not a worry for this chap.

The Road to Karakol

Turning some crank means, in this case, slowly climbing the 4600m Ak Baital pass – the highest point on the highway. There is a chill in the air as I approach the pass, feeling more than a little of that sublime alone-ness that solo travelers crave. And then something interrupts my solitude – a faint noise that seems somehow out of sync with such a place – a car. Not just any car but a typical clapped out, soviet era junk that gurgles and creaks it’s way past me, it’s sole occupant waving merrily as he pushes his bucket of bolts beyond it’s design limits on his way over the high pass. In another minute there is only a faint cloud of dust to show he’d ever passed by.

And in another 20 minutes I come across him, pulled over with the hood open – working patiently at some problem in the depths of the engine bay. I stop to say hello and make a pretense at being able to assist him. The man’s name is Kamshad, and he is trying to get home to the town of Karakol, the small lakeside village that lies down the other side of the Ak Baital. While we wait for his engine to cool, we share vodka and cigarettes (not exactly what I need but it’s a great ice-breaker. He offers me a ride to Karakol but having seen his vehicle in action I decide I am safer on my bike – and anyway I don’t want to cheat myself of the descent I’ve worked so hard to earn.

I do accept his offer of hospitality though, and when I roll into the vacant looking Karakol some hours later, he comes rushing out to greet me. I am presented with a bucket of tepid water to wash (amazing), and treated to tea and biscuits while his wife Seema prepares a hearty meal of Plov, chunks of meat (goat? sheep? Am I being naive?) in a buttery rice, served on a big share plate and eaten with one’s hands. I have little to offer in return but they graciously accept my contribution of semi-melted chocolate – possibly only to spare me embarrassment. After taking me on a tour of the town (doesn’t take long) we turn in at the customary early hour – I in the living room curled up on a pile of blankets with another pile pulled up over my shoulders. I drift off happily, marveling at the places I’ve found myself and feeling grateful to the universe for presenting me with such a wonderful opportunity.

Chilling with my host Kamshad in the village of Karakol.

Wonderful yes, but all good things must end. And in this part of the world, sleep ends at dawn. I don’t exactly get kicked out, but it is clear that I’m expected to be on my way. The day has begun and these people have lives to lead. And so after a quick breakfast of bread and tea, I’m back on the road, grinding gravel and headed for the border. The road skirts around the stunning Lake Karakol – a large mountain lake surrounded by low peaks, in turn surrounded by a vast emptiness.

The Tajik Badlands

The road is straight, and flat. I am at the peak of my fitness. And yet I can barely make any headway. I estimate that I’m making 2km/hr. And it has been like this for hours. The reason for my painfully slow progress is simple – the headwind is absolutely manic. Like a thing possessed, it tears at my clothes, batters my body and pushes my loaded bike around like a toy. It rips and howls and claws at me like an animal, and it’s beating me down on an emotional level, too.

Off to my left, dusty tornadoes form in succession – a hundred meters high. I watch them warily as I alternate between pedaling and pushing into the tempest. My lips are cracked like the dry mud of the valley floor, and the dust keeps my eyes watering continuously. I know the border is only a few kilometers further, but how long it will take is beyond my ability to judge. Anyway, I have no choice but to keep pushing forward. There is no shelter – nowhere to sit out the dust storm and definitely no way to pitch a tent. I lean into it, literally.

By the time I arrive at the Tajik border post I am physically, emotionally and even spiritually drained. I’ve heard a lot about corrupt border guards and tourists often having to bribe their way across the border. Thankfully I have no such worries and am sent on my way after some biscuits and tea. As I prepare to ride off, some bad news. The Kyrgyz border post is 20km away. Oh, and it’s prohibited to camp in the border region – I’d have to make it there today.

Low skies and straight roads.

As I coast down the northern slopes of the Kyzylart pass, it starts snowing. And as I get lower, snow turns to sleet. I am numb, shivering and desperate to get somewhere. I have only fleeting memories of this section of the road – potholed bitumen, rugged green slopes shrouded in dense, cold rain fog, and above all – of frigid desperation.

Arriving at the Kyrgyz border post some time later, I am genuinely worried that I might be hypothermic, and I pester the guards to let me come inside and sit by their heater. Eventually they oblige and I can feel myself come back to life – bare feet by the heater and a belly full of hot tea. But try as I might (and I do) they won’t or can’t let me stay overnight. And so after an hour of relief, I pull on my freezing socks, layer up and prepared to head out into the cold once more – literally the last thing I want to do. Sidling over to me, one of the guards leans in close and lets me know that there is shelter just up the road. What this ‘shelter’ is, he doesn’t say.

Home sweet home.

Ten minutes later, I get my answer. A hundred meters or so off the road stands a dilapidated old… trailer? Rail car? I poke around it for a bit in the freezing drizzle, but even as desperate as I feel, it looks too much like the set of a horror movie. The small shipping container next to it looks (slightly) less terrifying. The main compartment is locked but there is a small side door, which I crawl into with some reluctance. I grab my bags, hide my bike behind the box and hope fervently that no one would show up in the night to disembowel me.

As I peel off soaked clothing and try to dry off, I survey my surroundings. For a start, there isn’t much of them. My living quarters measure about 2m long and only half a meter wide. I’m not complaining – it’s enough room to lay out my sleeping mat and cook some noodles, which is all I care about. And that’s what I do. I cook, hang up my wet gear and pass out early for a solid 10 hours. The day had been… tiring.

I awake in the relative warmth of my box, but a glance through the tiny window tells me that conditions haven’t improved. It is snowing outside, and the drifts on the ground tell me that it has been for some time. Visibility is limited to a hundred meters or so thanks to the thick fog everywhere. I consider whether I should get up and go, but the more I consider it, the less I want to. I go back to bed.

Two hours later I finally build up the will to move. The snow hasn’t eased and my gear is still frigid and wet but I have thoughts of Sary Tash in my head. The town at the end of the Pamir highway (at the end of my route, at least) is less than a day’s ride from me. 25km – a mere stone’s throw. And so I set out for one last day on the highway. Teeth chattering despite my exertions, road icy and conditions generally appalling – but I’m driven by thoughts of hot food, a warm shower and soft linen (none of which I actually find in Sary Tash).

This is what my last day on the Pamir Highway looked like.

The discomfort is intense, but I’m cranking along like a man possessed. I AM going to make town tonight, and the sooner the better. I crash and thump along the slushy, potholed road until eventually Sary Tash comes into view. When I did finally ease up on the pedals, it’s to ask for directions to the nearest hotel from the first tourists I’ve seen since Jurgen. Justine and Gerry, a french Canadian couple who are touring central Asia on a pair of folding bikes. Never have I been so glad of company, or made such fast friends! We spend the afternoon and much of the night hanging out in front of a small heater, with piles of blankets and several bottles of cheap vodka. It’s a weird celebration to mark the end of a crazy journey, but it’s sort of fitting in it’s randomness. The next afternoon we share a mini van to Osh, where the delights of civilization are more readily available.

My solo ride across the Pamirs has come to an end.

After a few lazy days in Osh, my thirst for adventure has returned, but sadly I am out of time. A small plane takes me to Bishkek and then I travel on to Hong Kong en route to home in Australia.

It seems a bit trite to talk about what a life changing experience it was, or how humbling, or how everyone should experience the wonders of travel etc etc. So I won’t. The journey speaks for itself, and my words speak for the journey. And that’s the end of the story.

To see my adventure in all it’s Lo-Def glory – check out the video!

A few miles outside Karakol, enjoying my epic surroundings.

Looking for more cycling inspiration? Take a look at my interview with Joff Summerfield about his Penny Farthing world tours!

For detailed route information, see this post on Caravanistan – the best resource for traveling in Central Asia.