One steppe at a time
Week 23 - Crossing the Kazakh steppes, following the Mountains of Heaven, Ellie and Mark hightail it from Tashkent to Bishkek, into country 13: Kyrgyzstan.
“How’re the bikes?” I asked Ellie as she returned into the truck-stop where we were getting some shade and sustenance.
“They’re fine. Still there, anyway,” she replied.
“Balls! I was hoping someone might have stolen them.”
Cycling uphill in high temperatures can impact one’s priorities somewhat.
Over the last few weeks we’ve only had to tackle a handful of categorised climbs. Some of those have been incredibly gradual, taking us over a peak at very gentle inclines, sometimes spread out over hundreds of kilometres. That changed this week.
To get to Shymkent, the third largest city in Kazakhstan, we crossed Kuyuk Pass, our first mountain pass in a very long time. The amount of water we were going through increased with the incline, but thankfully the temperature also started dropping towards the mid thirties as we ascended.
One small steppe for a man
Once over the pass we were treated to a breathtaking view of the expanse of the start of the Kazakh steppes, a vast region of open flat grassland spread off to the north and western horizon, while to the east, the majestic Tian Shan (Mountains of Heaven) rose enormous and snow-capped to the sky.
Sweating buckets under strong sunshine while looking at snow on a mountain is a strange experience. We could see ice-melt waterfalls cascading off cliffs below the snowy white peaks.
Down below the foothills we were puffing along, beads of sweat instantly evaporating as soon as they hit the baking road. What I wouldn’t have given to have stuck my head under one of those waterfalls for a few seconds.
No video, photos or words can capture the scale and beauty of what we’ve been cycling through this week. Herds of horses looked on as if they were posing for magazine photo shoots, their manes blowing in the breeze, statuesque against the mountain backdrop.
Trains blew their whistles as they wound around the foot of the mountain, tiny in the distance, the model railway sets of the gods. Cowboys waved to us from the saddle, when they weren’t glued to their smartphones.
Cowboy (digital) junkies
In Uzbekistan I noticed a trend of young lads on donkeys, transfixed by smartphones. They were obviously bored trotting down well worn paths, and the donkeys knew the way. But cowboys on smartphones messes with my romanticised boyhood fantasies of the freedom and adventure of a life in the saddle.
Before we started this journey we discussed whether we would bring smartphones at all, cognisant of their power to pull our focus away from our surroundings and our interactions with other people. The truth is that we’d be lost without them, literally. We’d manage, but things would take longer and they’d be a lot looser. It breaks my inner child’s heart a little, but I can relate to those cowboys.
We’re currently hatching plans for periods of pause in Vietnam and Western Canada. Some digital disconnection is being built into those plans. An opportunity to completely switch off for a spell would do us some good.
Chasing clouds
A wonderful and welcome addition to the landscape of the Kazakh steppes were the clouds. We were occasionally under them, but when we weren’t, we could see their shadows drifting across the plains. We strained to try keep pace with these fleeting shadows whenever we could, but in the series of cloud races that ensued we always lost.
Chasing clouds is a bit like trying to capture a sense of these places we’re cycling through. Moments of understanding drift over us fleetingly. We’ll never be able to grasp or control them. They’re oblivious to us, controlled by something much greater. Maybe we should stop chasing and just enjoy them any time we’re lucky enough to be briefly aligned.
Starting a day’s cycling on the cloudy steppes at 5am, with the snow-capped mountains cooling the breeze, meant that for the first time in months we were able to enjoy a blissful few hours where the temperature was below 20 degrees as we pushed the pedals. It made a huge difference. We clocked up 162km in one day, the longest distance we’ve ever managed on the bikes with our complete kit.
Like many days, that very long one was made more enjoyable by our interaction with people.
Early in the morning, a car pulled over to hand us a bottle of ice-cold Fanta out of the window. A family at a bus shelter where we were getting some shade offered us food and water. We had a great chat, some laughs, and they thought our rudimentary efforts at speaking Kazakh were unexpected and hilarious. There is something about laughing with people, rather than laughing at people, that nourishes the soul.
As the day wore on and we were getting very tired, another car flagged us down. We didn’t really want to break our momentum by stopping or to stand around in the heat of the sun, but we’re glad we did. The entire family of six got out of the car for a chat and to wish us well.
As with so many of the Kazakh folk we’ve met, they were beautiful people. The surroundings, culture and adventure might draw you to a country, but it’s the people that will work a place into your heart.
Eat, Sleep, Cycle, Repeat
There is a temptation for us to get the cycling done, feed ourselves, and then sleep for as long as possible: the “Eat, Sleep, Cycle, Repeat” approach. We have to work at making time to engage with and talk to people from the places we are visiting. Is there any point to traveling otherwise?
It feels like the best way to get a feel for the places we’re passing through is by talking to the folks who make their lives there. We need to consistently remind ourselves to get in under those clouds of understanding whenever they arrive.
When we reached the oasis town of Taraz, which boasted 20 caravanserai in the days of Marco Polo, the sky completed covered over, the afternoon darkened, the air filled with the rumble of thunder, and the heavens opened. We’d been asking folks at home to send us some rain. Thank you. It finally arrived.
As other people were dashing out of the downpour, like a pair of grinning fools, we stood out in it, arms outstretched, and our smiling faces pointing towards the sky. We were happily getting drenched. The desert was being flushed from our system.
After a few moments we noticed that some of the rain drops were stinging our cheeks. There were huge hailstones in there too. So powerful is the cooling effect of the Tian Shan mountain range that even when there is sweltering heat below, it can still freeze clouds.
It’s not surprising that for millennia these magnificent mountains have held a spiritual significance for the people who have lived in their shadow.
We’ve borrowed an icy tactic from the truckers who drive the Silk Road. They freeze their plastic bottles of water the night before hitting the road, and as the day progresses, the water slowly melts, providing them with ice cold drinks long into the working day. If we bury a frozen bottle deep in our bags, it can still have some ice in it after a few hours on the road.
Beating The Bonk
We’ve also added another weapon to our artillery of road refreshment tactics. Homemade ice tea. Actually, frozen homemade ice tea when there’s a freezer we can access.
Leaning into the sugary drinks available from roadside kiosks is a quick fix when energy levels are low, but the spike in sugar can lead to an equivalent drop when the effects wear off. Professional cyclists call this sudden drop in energy, accentuated by sugar dependency, “The Bonk.”
The Bonk is a low feeling that you have absolutely zero energy left. You just want to stop pedalling, and lie in the road. It impairs your coordination and ability to make decisions. It’s unpleasant. You can feed The Bonk sugar to make it go away for a little while, but slow and steady food intake that avoids sugar spikes is more sustainable.
After we saw some really good ice tea for sale in a hostel in Taraz, we decided to try make a healthier version, in an effort to stop leaning into the commercial soft drinks. Ellie has nailed a recipe using Kazakh tea, lemons, and local honey we bought from a lady at a roadside stall.
When I went out to source some lemons for our brew in Taraz, I thought I’d hit another language barrier. I was handed a clutch of small oranges. There was some back and forth, but the lad was reassuring me that these lemons were in fact very ripe and very orange. It’s taken me fifty years on this planet to discover that lemons aren’t always lemon coloured. Every day is a school day!
At the stall where we bought the honey something happened that I’ve been looking forward to for a long time. The lady asked us where we were going. We explained that we were on the road to China. She nodded casually. She has a stall on the Silk Road, and she sees a lot of traffic going to and from China. Later that day we would see a whole convoy of Chinese-plated vehicle trucks, all empty, making their way back to China for another load.
When the honey lady asked us where we had come from, and we replied Ireland, she stopped and looked up at us, nodding appreciatively, her eyes wide with amazement. She does not see much traffic that has come all the way from Ireland.
That was the moment I’d been anticipating. The place we have cycled from is now much more remarkable than the place we are cycling to.
I flashed back to the Doctor John character from the Lidl carpark in France who was incredulous when we told him we were cycling to China. The tide is turning.
This week we have crossed another border and entered our 13th country of this journey, Kyrgyzstan. We approached the crossing at Andasbatyr on beautiful tree-lined country roads not long after dawn.
“It’s like cycling into Graiguenamanagh,” I remarked, the greenery reminding me of the riverside route into the Co. Kilkenny village. The trees provided shade, there were crops in the fields, and bales of hay waiting to be loaded onto trailers and trucks. If it wasn’t for the birdsong, a new type that we’ve never heard before, we could have been at home.
We’ve developed several theories about the approach to borders. One is that national identity gets more concentrated as you approach an international land border. Whatever trait makes that country unique will be on display and accentuated on either side of the border, in an effort for people to assert their identity and display their pride, but also to make sure that bumbling idiots on bicycles know where they are.
Another theory is that the best of a country can also reveal itself to you just as you are about to leave. It could be psychological, as you list things in your head that you enjoyed about your visit to a place, as Ellie described so well last week. It could actually be physical, a purposeful show of the best a country has to offer, laying out a country’s stall as people either enter or leave the place.
Whether or not our theories hold any water, this Kazakh country road leading to the border was magnificent in the morning sunshine, but it was eerily quiet. We both commented on it. This did not feel like any border approach we’d made before: it was far too sedate. We feared we may have taken a wrong turn.
Thankfully we eventually saw a long line of trucks and cars. We were ushered past them. The crossing at Andasbatyr is on a secondary road. Most of the trucks and buses coming from the direction we were taking cross via the motorway at Kordai, not far north of Bishkek. As a result there is very little foot traffic at Andasbatyr.
We were through the checkpoint in a matter of minutes. Just the customary few “Ah, Conor McGregor!” comments and smiles from the border officials when they saw our Irish passports, and we were done. It was all very civilised and streamlined. I felt a bit hard done by. Where were all my border monkeys!?
It’s a very small crossing. They only allow a few trucks and cars through at a time, so the motorised traffic was moving very slowly. I wouldn’t like to have to queue up with a camper or on a bus, but for bicycles and foot passengers, it’s a breeze.
As if to compensate for the ease of transition from Kazakhstan to Kyrgyzstan, we were only a hundred metres out the gate of border control, when Ellie’s tyre gave way, and the tube punctured.
In fairness to that tyre, a bicycle mechanic sewed a slit in it together when it blew out in Turkey. As we watched him sew the rubber, we both thought we’d be lucky if it got us to the next town that evening. It got us through four more countries.
Punctures and flats
This was just one in a series of punctures and flats we had this week. We’d been relying on four spare tubes that were all already patched.
A mix of the intense heat messing with the patches, some below par workmanship on my part, the combined weight of us and the kit, and not knowing exactly how much pressure I was inflating the tyres to with the hand pump, meant that some of the patched spares weren’t lasting long.
The day before, I had a four inch nail go through my tyre and straight through both sides of the tube.
We replaced Ellie’s tyre completely with a spare we’d been carrying in anticipation of the Turkish stitches giving way. We had to replace the tube once more later that day. We had two dodgy well-patched spare tubes left with about 40km to go to Bishkek, where we knew we could pick up more. Thankfully the patched tubes held out in the heat.
I’d been mostly joking about wanting the bicycles to be stolen, but the truth of it is that they are incredible machines, our trusty steeds. Through a combination of their strength and our leg movement we have cycled part way across the world.
I’d rather live without my smartphone than without my bicycle. I love my bike. I’m pretty sure those cowboys we encountered feel the same about their horses.
We’re going to spend two days and three nights here in Bishkek. Our bikes and our bodies need a break and a little care and attention before we tackle the hills on the next part of our journey to Lake Issyk Kul, another landmark we have been anticipating for years, ever since we started truly planning this trip.
In Bishkek, the capital of Kyrgyzstan, a predominantly Muslim country, we have just managed to find something in a Kyrgyz Spar that we haven’t seen for a very very long time…rashers!
Excuse me while I sign off to go and construct a bacon sandwich of magnificance. I haven’t had one since St. Patrick’s Day in Budapest. As the old Irish saying goes “An rud is annamh is iontach” - what is seldom is wonderful.
Hold her steady and keep it between the ditches!
Fanta and rashers, not bad!! Also, can’t wait to try that ice tea recipe when ye’re home😍
many thanks for that sharing ; It's areal pleasure for me to travel with you while I'm staying home because a femur fracture ...
good luck annick