After three nights and the consumption of countless empty calories at the very fine local pub next door to our campsite it was time to head off. We put this off as long as possible and it was not until well after lunch that we finally pushed our bikes back out onto the main street and pedalled off. We had by this time realised that although most of Australia is incredibly flat, it is also incredibly windy and this day was no exception. Unfortunately for us the wind was coming in off the Southern Ocean right into our face. This would not have been the case had we decided to continue along the Eyre Highway directly towards Port Augusta, but we had made the decision to head south out onto the Eyre Peninsula; one, to add to our kilometres (as we were now picturing passing 25,000km for the journey and to us that was important); two, we had a bit of time up our sleeves and knew it would be poorly spent if we just raced across to the South Australia wine region and spent it there; and third (and to us the most important reason), we were completely over having to share the roads with road-trains, bogans, and worst of all, Grey Nomads.

We had heard great things about the Eyre Peninsula and decided that a relatively leisurely seven days (and 700 odd kms) was just what the doctor had ordered. The first day, although into a head wind, was fantastic; the roads were devoid of heavy traffic, the ground only slightly rolling and we had great views of the sea for substantial periods. The plan was to make our way as far as Haslam, which, even by small-town-Australian standards is a very small town. Haslam has no shops, a barely operating Post Office, but it does have a campsite with a $5 honesty box (yes we paid). So we pulled in, set up our tent and then met the rudest person we were to meet in all of Australia (possibly on the whole journey). To be fair, we only met two rude people on the entire continent, which given the number of people we met I think this can be forgiven. I wont go into details, just to say that after taking an earful of Kiwi and Pom bashing, a quick mention of the latest Ashes result and the Rugby League was enough to send him scurrying in shame to his Winnebago.

The beach at Haslam

The rest of the evening in Haslam passed without incident and we woke to a remarkably fresh (read: bloody freezing) morning, sun shining and a tail wind. A great start to the day. The only thing that we had planned for the day was to visit the Mocean restaurant at Streaky Bay as it had been recommended to us by a number of people in Ceduna. We reached the restaurant without incident and in good time and I would be lying if I said it was anything other than sensational. The food was top-drawer, as was the coffee, but the real highlight was the location. The restaurant is nestled right on the shore of the sheltered Streaky Bay, with its jetty protruding out into the calm waters. There were pelicans gliding effortlessly through the water, before taking off with great effort and gusto, just avoiding the fishermen who were hauling in their daily catch. The place was perfect, and to this day I am still confused as to why we didn’t just call it a day and kick back in the local colonial era hotel that afforded, what must have been even more incredible views.

View from Mocean

It was with some disgruntlement, not to mention effort that we pushed off to find that our good friend the wind had returned to haunt us. The rest of the day passed by slowly, and after finding a secluded wild camping location near the road we smashed back the most absurd amount of food known to the human race and passed out with exhaustion. It was only in the morning when we awoke, tired, and broken that we realised we had hit the proverbial wall. Our guess is that it was a delayed reaction from pushing too hard across the Nullarbor and now we were in the middle of nowhere with no real option but to cycle on. Staying at the Streaky Bay hotel was, in hindsight looking more and more like the option we should have taken!

We cycled slowly, further down the Flinders Highway, which traverses the west coast of the Eyre Peninsula until we reached the settlement of Elliston. Elliston is a small town, much larger than Haslam, but nonetheless a small town and was the first of our goals on the Eyre Peninsula, for it is here that you can turn east onto the Birdseye Highway to traverse the Peninsula. Elliston is undoubtedly beautiful, but the two things that have lingered long in my memory are the fact that a giant snake came within a couple of feet of our bikes whilst we were cycling down into the town centre, passed across a finely groomed lawn and into a petrol station forecourt, which of course put me off the town forever; and second, the bakery is excellent. Had it not been for the snake we may still be hanging around this fine town rebuilding our strength on pies, sausage rolls, and burnt flat whites.

One of the great food stops!

After what I like to refer to as a near death experience, because lets face it, a snake in Australia that comes that close to you is definitely a near death experience; we turned east and headed out on the Birdseye Highway. We spent two wonderful days and nights traversing the peninsula along what turned out to be a very remote road. The towns of Lock and Cleve came and went, with Lock being a particularly depressing place. The town’s charm had been winnowed away by the ever-present wall of wind that tears at the environment with unforgiving tendrils. And aside from the sight of tumbleweed being tossed effortlessly down the main street, there was also a flapping iron sheet making an infuriating noise somewhere off in the distance, and a pub, that although open did not have the warm welcoming committee of most small town drinking establishments in Australia. I was shocked at how a town that had so clearly been the hub of a larger community in the not too distant past could come to resemble what it did on that hot and dry spring day. To its credit we were able to stock up on much needed calories; in the form of potato crisps, cans of coke, bottles of chocolate milk, and of course, the trusty reheated meat pie. As you can see, quality of calories was not our major concern at this point.

Don’t be fooled by this fine image of Lock, it was quite a depressing location.

The picture I have probably painted in your head does not do the rest of the Birdseye Highway justice. The countryside was incredibly nice, the road quiet, and the post boxes fantastically Australian (see our favourite below). We also met some wonderfully humble and kind locals who on more than one occasion asked us if we wanted to rest for the evening (even though it was always well before 10am when they asked). The highlight however was not the wonderful scenery or the kind locals but the places that we managed to find to wild camp. To my mind the first night on the Birdseye was without a doubt in the top 1 wild camping locations of the journey.

Surely the winner of the “best post box of all time” award?!?!

Okay, so it is important to realise that the wild camping location that I am referring to definitely was not as grand in terms of views, or as secluded as some others we had stayed at, however the all round experience was fantastic. Having pulled off the road and successfully pitched our tent in a location completely devoid of humans; concealed in such a way that no passing car, lost cyclist, or stumbling drunk would ever likely find us; and most important of all, a well-defined area around the tent where snakes could be easily seen and avoided at all costs; we cooked up a storm and settled in for the evening. It was only after the low hum of our new cooker and the business of putting away more calories was complete that we realised the sunset had turned the land a soft hue of red, coinciding with an absolute stillness and silence. As we peered out of our tent in awe of the spectacle that Mother Nature was putting on, we noticed a very small and exclusive party occurring. Two kangaroos had been joined by one emu, which to non-Australians is very, very exciting, particularly when they are basically within touching distance. The party then started cranking up with the sound of drums echoing through the silence; Katie and I were dumfounded and could not for the life of us work out where this sound was coming from. As the three moved in their separate directions (probably on the pull is our guess) the drum beat followed the emu and it didn’t take too much longer for us to register that this was in fact some sort of emu communication going down, not a drum beat at all. Well, we can confirm that it had the desired effect because it was not too long until one emu became two and then fortunately (or unfortunately depending on your point of view) the curtain came down as darkness enveloped us. If this epic scene was not enough, as we lay there waiting for sleep to take us we finally understood why the bad guys in Batman movies are terrified by the sound of him swooping down from the sky. Out of nowhere a very loud swooping sound shattered the once again silent night, came close enough to the roof of the tent to make us think we were this bird of prey’s dinner, and then without hesitation it was gone. Sleep finally took us, and in the morning, with the cold morning mist that had descended on our location we sat and pondered how incredibly lucky we had been the night before. We didn’t know it at the time, but sadly this was to be one of the last great wild camps of the journey, thankfully it is one we will remember long into the future.

The eastern end of the Birdseye brought us to the quaint little town of Cowell, nestled nicely on the Franklin Harbour. According to some, the town has some of the best fish and chips in Australia; sadly for us we arrived too late to indulge, so, after pitching the tent in one of the nicest campgrounds we had been to we instead headed for the Franklin Harbour Hotel. It appeared to us that the entire town was probably based around the Hotel and it didn’t take too long for us to realise a lot of the locals were over the moon with the result of the South Australia National Football League Grand Final (a victory for West Adelaide). It put my enthusiasm for the England/Wales result in the Rugby World Cup to shame, and we sat discreetly in a corner, celebrating not only the Rugby result, but being back on the bikes and pushing through what was a very tough week up against the wall.

The location of possibly the finest fish & chips in Australia.

The Franklin Harbour Hotel. The centre of Cowell’s universe; and rightly so!

Following a couple of quiet jars in the corner of the ever more raucous Hotel we snuck out a side door and headed for our tent; having hatched a plan that would require early mornings, late nights and a lot of luck. We were confident that we could easily reach the campsite of Spear Creek with three days cycling, so decided that we would do it in two longer days and spend a more leisurely time later on in the wine region. The days were mostly uneventful as we pushed through South Australia’s third largest city, Whyalla and onwards back towards the Eyre Highway. Believe me when I say it was absolutely no pleasure whatsoever re-joining this behemoth of a thoroughfare. After a couple of hours negotiating the ever increasing, impatient traffic we pushed through Port Augusta, stopping at McDonalds to use their wifi and load up on yet more terrible calories, came as close as one can come to being hit on a bicycle without being hit, and headed for the Flinders Ranges; in our opinion the delineation between the back of beyond, and not the back of beyond in Australia (apologies WA peeps).

Welcome back to the Eyre Highway!

We had heard of Spear Creek from a number of Grey Nomads, and given their proclivity for money saving and quality all wrapped in one; we thought we would join the undoubted throngs. Spear Creek is located roughly 20km from Port August up the Old Wilmington Road, through the settlement of Woolundunga near the base of the infamous Horrocks Pass and the mighty Flinders. As it turns out the throngs we were expecting did not eventuate, and the settlement of Woolundunga is not at really a settlement at all, it is more a collection of dilapidated farm buildings. So if you are heading this way and banking on Woolundunga for supplies, don’t! Pick them up in Port Augusta. This oversight was not detrimental to our dinner, but it did mean that we would have to climb over Horrocks Pass on two cereal bars and hope for a long sweeping downhill to Wilmington. This dilemma was soon forgotten as we set ourselves up for the night in the truly beautiful campsite, which is nestled in amongst a forest of lofty gum trees with a stunning vista out towards the back of beyond from the elevated position of the Flinders foothills. Yet another place we wish we could have spent more time.

The Old Wilmington Road up towards Spear Creek and the Flinders Range.

The sunset seat at Spear Creek.

Numerous people had told us; most notably the incredibly rotund owner of a bakery, that cycling up Horrocks Pass was impossible and we would definitely be pushing our bikes. We took this as a challenge and decided against following the main road down towards the Clare and Barossa Valleys. For all the chat of Horrocks Pass it was a bit of a non-event. Yes, it was certainly the toughest climb (to that point) in Australia, but it was by no means impossible and within a relatively short time we were coasting down towards Wilmington and an undeniable amount of food.

The first thing you notice once crossing the Flinders is how incredible lush and verdant the countryside is, relative of course to the back of beyond; we were astounded by the change and could hardly contain our excitement. Pointing out this and that as if we had never seen green grass, roadside shrubs, or fruit trees. On the first day we took it easy and made it only as far as the town of Laura, where we stayed at the municipal campsite and enjoyed what was to become a bit of regular treat… the Schnitzel Night at the local pub. This is basically a half price meal that I would recommend to anyone loitering around in these parts, particularly if you are a cycle tourist. The salad bars are large and endless and helped stave off the on-going issue of hunger that a cycle tourist endures.

Back in from the “back of beyond” the countryside turned a wonderful green.

Ignore the spelling, it is an epic meal.

Through reasonably bad planning on our behalf we had managed to reach the very popular tourist location of the Clare Valley just in time to coincide with some sort of public holiday in South Australia, so our options for accommodation were thin on the ground. We ended up getting a spot at the very nice Leasingham campsite, whose main attractions were the fact you could walk through a hole in the fence and be at a vineyard cellar door, and that it was a 200m cycle to the very handy Riesling Trail – a rail trail on which one can cycle from vineyard to vineyard. We booked in for three nights, and no sooner had we setup the tent and got nicely settled with a bottle of local wine and a very fine cheese board did the hordes start arriving. This of course can always go one of two ways, and when young children are involved it almost always goes the wrong way for the unwilling participants at a campground. Setting up right next to us were three couples and numerous children, both theirs and others that had gravitated towards our area. The delightful campsite experience on the Riesling Trail was resting on a knife-edge, and for all money it was going to be one that would require an awful lot of the local produce to get us through. Thankfully, and to the credit of the large group that turned up, they came over to our tent, apologised in advance, both for their children in the mornings and their noise at night and then welcomed us over to join in. Win-win.

We spent the next three evenings over at their campsite, around a fabulous fire that burnt inside the drum of an up-cycled old washing machine, chewing the fat and generally having a great time. Our days were mostly spent cycling up and down the Riesling Trail tasting the local produce and trying to stay in the shade as much as possible.

Cycling into one of the vineyards on the Riesling Trail.

Enjoying the local produce.

The Clare Valley Brewery at the end of the Riesling Trail is well worth a visit.

It was with much sadness that we had to roll up the tent and be on our way, but it was softened by the fact our next location was the Barossa Valley. We took our time getting there and enroute cycled through the Jacobs Creek vineyard, tasted the ice cream at the Heston Blumenthal recommended Maggie Beer’s Farm Shop and embraced the stunning countryside around the towns of Nuriootpa and Tanunda.

Sadly it was too early to stop and sample the goodness of this place.

In Ceduna we had contacted Ross and Betty who we had met at the Nullarbor Roadhouse, and who had welcomed us to stay in Adelaide. So it was their house we were making a beeline for from the Barossa Valley. For anyone cycling into Adelaide from this direction, a word of warning, don’t stay in Gawler, the campground there was like something out of The Wire. Our one evening there was spent hoping our tent would not blow away and that in fact we would not be blown away in a domestic violence scene or something equally sinister. The morning couldn’t arrive quickly enough, and once it did we cycled in towards one of the busiest roads of the journey. Rush hour from Gawler to Adelaide is something that should be avoided at all costs, at all times.

Gawler Warning

Having survived the outskirts of Adelaide we were pleasantly surprised that the ‘burbs and inner city are fully setup for cyclists, the like of which we had not seen since our first day in Rotterdam many moons before. The cycle along the River Torrens was exceptionally beautiful and we found the locals to be extra courteous towards cyclists. The highlight, no doubt though was seeing the Adelaide Oval appear on the banks of the river near the centre of town. It was not long before we had negotiated the perfectly planned city centre and were out the other side heading for Ross and Betty’s.

The four days we spent at Ross and Betty’s were absolutely fantastic. We were spoilt beyond belief. I could write an entire blog on what we got up to just in their company. We were chauffeured around the Adelaide Hills, taken to the German settlement of Hahdorf (where I consumed surely the world’s largest Wiener Schnitzel), given a driving commentary of exactly how to get out of Adelaide (something that we took note of, but still managed to screw up when we attempted it). BBQs were rife at all times, as was the consumption of numerous wines and beers, sport beamed directly into our minds on the big screen TV, dinner was taken at the Seacliff Beach Hotel (I really recommend the Flathead fish from this part of the world), a classic car show, and a night drive to the Adelaide Hills gave us a great view of Adelaide. All of this doesn’t even take into account the cycling that we got up to, and of course the walk into, and around the truly glorious arena that is the Adelaide Oval.

A 600g Wiener Schnitzel was probably a little ambitious!

Ross and Betty are big into cycling, and ordinarily if we stop somewhere for a break we would rather not see a bike, but this was different, very different. Ross and Betty have top-notch carbon fibre bikes, and a spare, so it seemed a little bit silly not to take them out for a spin. On one of the days, Ross took us on a leisurely 50km circuit (believe me when I say that cycling 50km on carbon is almost like not cycling at all after plodding along on our touring tanks) of Adelaide. We took in the edge of the city, had a chat with the Papua New Guinea cricket team who were warming up for a couple of matches, embraced world class coffee, checked out where Lleyton Hewitt lives, and the truly epic cycle along the Esplanade out near Glenelg. A special day! But the best was still to come…

Katie getting amongst the esplanade out towards Glenelg. A truly glorious day.

First there was the visit to the Adelaide Oval, a place that has held an almost mythical appeal to me ever since watching (on TV) the Windies famous 1 run victory on Australia Day in 1993 and Paul Collingwood’s double century in vain in the Ashes whitewash of 06-07. We approached the ground and were considering looking for a tour when we saw Ross wandering over to a security guard. He mentioned to the security guard that we were a couple of crazy Poms who had cycled to Adelaide from London and would love to look around. The security man looked around, double checked, and then just opened the gates for us with a “good on ya, well done” as we snuck on through. We spent the next 30 minutes walking around and taking it all in. I think that the whole thing impressed even Katie!

Second, on the Saturday morning I was fortunate enough to be taken out for a peleton type cycle; it was a 50km out-and-back trip, with sprint finishes at both ends and an average speed of just a touch over 32km/h to be maintained. What a way to start your Saturday morning! Cycling on carbon certainly convinced both Katie and I that we needed new bikes as soon as the journey was over.

Preparing for a leisurely cycle around Adelaide

Massive shout out to Ross and Betty for looking after us so well, it was an absolute pleasure and we look forward to seeing you in the not too distant future at an edition of the Tour Down Under. Oh, I almost forgot… they also sorted me out a suit for the Melbourne Cup. A truly top-drawer couple that couldn’t have hosted us any better. Yet more evidence that the world is full of truly wonderful people!

The bikes were glistening so much they would probably have broken the camera, so a photo of the bike boxes will have to suffice!

Having had the pleasure of quite possibly the most miserable cabin crew known to man on our Qantas flight from Singapore, it was with some trepidation that we pushed our trolleys with precariously balanced bike boxes on them towards the airport staff. I was nervous about having to open the boxes anyway as I have a deep mistrust of anyone who handles “fragile” equipment and didn’t know if I would just break down sobbing if our beloved bikes had been damaged. As it was, the first person we actually spoke to in Australia was a South African…

“Howzit bru? Have you filled out your Ebola landing card? Lekker, lekker, head over there….” I honestly didn’t know if I should laugh or cry; it was like being back in the Biltong Triangle in South-West London…

On we walked, more confused than ever as to where we were and what we were doing, until we came to the young lad who clearly did not want to be at the airport on a Friday night (I can’t blame him at all); “What’s in the boxes?” was the first question…
Me: “Touring bikes”
YLWDNWTBT (Young Lad Who Did Not Want To Be There): “Are they clean?”
Me: “Yes, we spent hours cleaning them in Singapore.”
YLWDNWTBT: “Is there any dirt on the tyres?”
Me: “No.”
YLWDNWTBT: “Cool, have a good night!”

Katie and I walked through uncertainly and then looked at each other in absolute amazement, he had not even bothered to check inside the box or look at any of our camping gear. They have all the biosecurity in the world but we could have waltzed straight in with any one of about a hundred things that apparently will kill off the Australian agriculture industry overnight (according to all the brochures). It was a complete and utter joke; we of course couldn’t have cared less as it meant we were through and ready without having to try and unpack our (immaculately clean) bikes.

Just to add to this lunacy; when we took our bikes into a very good bike mechanic in South Perth for him to tune them before heading off towards the Nullarbor we heard an infinitely more ridiculous story…
A Kiwi cyclist had apparently paid some bike store in the middle of China to clean and pack his bike so that he could head off to Australia. When he arrived and took the bike into the bike shop to get it put back together it was still covered in a thick layer of mud as the bike shop in China had just taken his money, packed the bike and sent him on his way. He had also just waltzed* into Australia without his bike being checked and incidentally was apparently carrying a few kilograms of that wonderfully sticky Chinese mud that adorns the roads there. Australia, you really do need to sort this out!

* The use of the word “waltzed” twice in one blog is obviously in homage to Waltzing Matilda; just letting you know that it was not an accident!

Waiting for us at the airport were two of my old housemates from the good-ole-days in London Town – Partyboy and Samantha. It really was epic seeing them at the airport and being whisked back to their pad in South Perth for a couple of tasty post midnight beverages, a quick catch up and then the sensible option of getting some rest before what we all knew was going to be a massive weekend.

Given that we had just spent the best part of 10 months on the continent of Asia we were under no illusion that arriving in Australia would be an enormous culture shock to the system. This culture shock morphed its way into reality quickly enough when we visited a very fine Saturday farmers’ market to purchase the week’s groceries with Partyboy and Sam. First there was the quiet serenity that comes from a lack of car horns piercing your ears every time a queue forms, then there were the ludicrous number of well groomed and well fed dogs being led around on leads (as opposed to Asia where they are just leading themselves around), there were real coffee aromas wafting through the air, there were pork-belly buns on sale and most notably the locals were actually speaking a version of English that I could fully comprehend. It was abundantly clear that we had come so far east that we were now back in the west; and whilst we supped at our flat whites and tried not to spill pork-belly buns all over the place we realised that we had really missed these little comforts that you take for granted and were truly stoked to finally be in Australia!

Uber it seems has taken off everywhere in the world, but being on bicycles we had not needed to use it for a very long time; this started changing in Singapore and by the time we arrived in Perth it was understood that it is just how the world works these days. Uber has had plenty of controversy in the media, but I can tell you right now there will be no complaints from us given that the first time we used it a Hummer turned up with a lad driving who actually seemed to think he was on the set of a Hollywood blockbuster. The trip down to Freo (which as I found out later is not short for freeway but Australian slang for Fremantle) was excellent and set the tone for the rest of the weekend…

I think it is fair to say the day went downhill from here ;p

Little Creatures in Freo… this place rivals any place I have been to in London (obviously this excludes the late, great Wimbledon Walkabout). Top drawer!

Our last couple of days in Perth were spent putting the bikes back together, getting them professionally tuned, buying food supplies and hunting down reasonably priced camping equipment. The most important items that were required were sleeping bags; in the heat of SE Asia we had made the decision to send a lot of our winter equipment home (including the sleeping bags) as “Australia is surely always hot… it certainly is on Home and Away anyway”. We could not have been more wrong, it was absolutely freezing in Perth and was surely going to get colder in the desert so we sucked it up and purchased the cheapest, bulkiest, most uncomfortable sleeping bags from K-Mart for the princely sum of $40 (for two).

We hadn’t been this wrapped up since before Lanzhou in China.

With the goodbyes said, the bikes packed and the motivation at a fairly low level, we set off from Perth with the thought of the Australian continent stretching out for thousands of kilometres daunting us. We took it easy to start with and after about an hour believed we certainly deserved a second breakfast at McDonalds and sat there for the best part of two hours supping on their incredibly good hot chocolates and watching the world warm up from the comfort of their wifi zone (incidentally Australia has not yet grasped the Wifi revolution and the only place you seem to be able to get reliable, free Wifi is at McDonalds). Finally we decided that it was now-or-never, left the relative comfort and headed for the hills. Now for those of you who don’t know, Australia, or at least the road we were on was deceptively hilly and far too taxing for us. It had been months since we had seen hills like the ones out of Perth and by the end of the day we were well short of our goal of getting to 110km, so scary bush camp presumably surrounded by all sorts of crocodiles, snakes, spiders, and dingos ensued. As the days wore on we got our hill-legs back and found it increasingly less difficult to cycle the bigger days. It is amazing how the quickly the body can get its fitness back.

Perth from one of the many hills we climbed on the first day.

We absolutely loved the cycling from Perth to Esperance and this was in no small way due to the locals. Every town we stopped at, every coffee shop we visited, and every picnic table we ate at we were inundated with questions, helpful advice and really good-natured banter. “Locals” ranged from displaced Kiwis, to displaced Kiwis and everything in between and always offered great advice and were always super concerned about our well-being…

Do you have enough water love?
Do you have enough food? You both look too skinny, do you want some food, particularly you! (pointing at Katie and emphasising the obvious; I certainly do not look skinny);
How far do you cycle in a day?
Please watch out for those road train thingy’s, they’re really big?

Out of all the advice we were never once warned about snakes and had to make polite enquiries on what best to do to avoid them; we were given lots of great tips and after a time it became routine to look for certain things, stamp our feet and make lots of noise. It seems that folk that don’t live in the cities have an appreciation for what snakes do and how they behave; it really has been reassuring picking their brains. And the snakes… almost every snake we have seen has either been slithering away from us with great speed or laying dead on the road; the only exception was the one that we actually saw get hit by a car, which is a sight to behold; or at least a sound one will never forget (but this is not about relieving some horrible memories, so I’ll leave it at that).

We think this was warning us of the snakes… but not too sure!

The advice that we never asked about and were never given was that of the Grey Nomad. Grey Nomads are a distinct demographic in Australia and as the name suggests they are usually greying on the head, are nomadic, and like to speed past cyclists with the gay abandon of a racing car driver. The Grey Nomad is generally a kind and generous soul, but like so many on this continent has a real inability to drive, let alone notice that a caravan is in fact usually wider than the car they are driving along in. The Grey Nomad also likes to randomly stop in front of oncoming trucks to either look at (and photograph with iPhone) Wild Flowers, or discuss the merits of cars over bicycles to us; this undoubtedly infuriates the truck driver and puts us at risk.

We have had many, many great evenings sitting around campfires and bingo halls, and raffle draws with numerous Grey Nomads and they are always good fun. They are also full of really useful information on road conditions, camping locations, and the prices of food for a 1000km radius. This said, the most useful and uplifting information that we were ever given was in Esperance when speaking to another displaced Kiwi of the Grey Nomad demographic and that was that “he knew there were two idiots on bicycles 20km before he spotted us!”; how you ask is this possible… well it would appear that every truck driver (and some Nomads) talk to each other on the radio and discusses in great detail what a pack of f*$^n idiots we are for cycling, but to watch out for us… believe me, this is comforting to know because road trains are not small and if they know we are on the road and we know they are coming it is a win-win situation!

This is the first road train to pass us. We were very excite… this wore off fairly quickly!

One of the truly great things about Australia is the wildlife (snakes excluded). We were incredibly fortunate on this first stretch to see a lot of kangaroos – mostly dead on the side of the road, but also a reasonable number bouncing around. What a pleasure it is to see them up close in their natural environment. In fact, one night when we were sitting in our tent, tucked away on the edge of a bush we heard the sound of bouncing, then a halt and then a series of smaller, lighter bouncing sounds. As we peered out the door of our tent there was Skippy just taking in this strange rock formation looking thing (our tent). He stood and peered for a short time before bouncing off into the night. Now lets be honest, Australians probably couldn’t give a rats about this; but for Kiwis and Brits this is something truly awesome. We were in absolute travel bliss and were buzzing for days… in some respects it is sad that this has become the “norm”, but I will never forget the first encounter tucked away on the side of the road. Brilliant stuff!

On the flip side of seeing these truly epic marsupials there have been countless incidents with other wildlife, most notably the pesky magpie! The magpie is a creature we have both come to hate with an unabated passion. Cycling along we hear the shrill of chicks and then out the corner of our eye (or a shadow on the road) we see them coming… dive bombing directly on to our location… a number of times it felt as if we were in our own little Battle of Britain, or extras in Hitchcock’s Birds. This one particular day we could see the shadow of the inbound magpie approaching and just as it was getting really close I would raise my arm and scream out loud… and it would do a loop-the-loop and come back again, and again, and again. Failing to scare off the determined raider, I stopped and armed myself with a pathetic handful of stones… even though my throwing arm is “out of practice” (read… completely useless/directionally inept) it did the trick and the battle was won, however I am not too sure we will win this war! I guess it has to be said that without a doubt the funniest moment of this whole scene was when I was screaming and yelling profanities at the magpies (something along the lines of “show me your war face, magpie”) and out the corner of my eye I saw a lady leaning on a pitch fork shaking her head at these two idiots who not only appeared to be cycling across Australia but were having verbals with magpies. I had to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

Now we all know Australians are competitive; we all love to hate Australians on the sporting field, on the cycling track and mostly in the swimming pool; mainly due to the fact that they have been so successful! But what we started seeing on our first week out of Perth seemed to take this competitiveness to levels that I would call ridiculous – mostly in small towns. Town slogans are a great way to show ones competitiveness: Pioneered with spirit; Small town, big heart; Lake Grace – The Wave Shire… implying that they have more spirit, more heart, and a better waving ability… but our favourite has to be Corrigin; which if you are having a “yes, I know that name, it is on the tip of my tongue sort of moment” then I can tell you that it is because Corrigin is the centre of the universe when it comes to the “Dog in a Ute” competition (see photographic evidence below).

The explanation of the Dog in a Ute phenomenon… basically get as many dogs in as many utes as you can and drive from the dog cemetery to town?!?!

Dog in a ute on a petrol station?!

Poor effort in ’05 if we’re honest!

To be honest it is all good-natured fun and certainly gives us a smile when we are putting in the big kms day after day.

Note: if anything, Corrigin should be most famous for the Mallee Tree café, owned and operated by yet another displaced Kiwi (from Invercargill, so the accent was incredibly hard to pick… picture Sir Anthony Hopkins in The World’s Fastest Indian mixed with 26 years in the WA wilderness). This has without question the best pies in Australian that we have tasted (we have eaten a LOT of guilt free pies); and to top it all off offers free wifi for guests (this truly is a rare commodity in Australia).

Guilt free second breakfast.

We absolutely love Australia; yes there is a lot of good-natured Aussie/Kiwi/British banter… but that is what it is… good natured. We have found Australians to be incredibly humble, kind, generous people who would do anything for you and certainly love telling (and listening intently) to a bloody good yarn mate. The first two weeks many things were different to what we expected and also what we had experienced in Asia but the undoubted highlight was staying with friends-of-friends-of-friends in Esperance.

When we arrived in Perth, Partyboy and Samantha worked the Facebook magic and hooked us up with Sonya, Jeff, Matt, and Renee in Esperance. When we arrived we were made to feel right at home; we had huge home cooked meals each night (with lots and lots of vegetables that cyclists crave), we chewed the proverbial fat over a couple of quiet beers, and learnt a hell of a lot about Australia, Australians, and the goings on of small towns. We absolutely loved it and when we headed off up towards Norseman and the Nullarbor, Jeff hooked us up with a place to stay in Salmon Gums so that we didn’t have spend our wedding anniversary in a tent! Like I said, we are loving Australia, the hospitality is second to none and that fact we can communicate in English is too good to be true.

Bring on the Nullarbor!

Khao Sok accommodation… incredibly hard place to leave!

Having spent weeks getting used to (and then sick of) pancake flat roads it was both a welcome change and an unwanted challenge on what was turning out to be a ridiculously hot day. Thankfully the hill climb lasted under an hour and at the summit we rejoiced in a job well done by consuming enough water to sink the Titanic whilst taking in the mind twisting scenery. It was the type of scenery that you see in travel brochures of tropical rainforests. Countless karsts rose up through the sweltering haze caused by the humidity; enormous, ageless trees battled it out for lumen supremacy, and vines gripped at anything they could get their tentacles into. We felt incredibly lucky not to be zipping past this majestic scene in the back of an air-conditioned bus, even though the climb felt as though it had actually consumed some of our soul. Aside from the scenery the other great thing about climbing hills en-route to the coast is that you are guaranteed a downhill, and this was one of the great ones… sweeping corners, minimal traffic, newly laid seal… it was the finest downhill we had had in almost a year and the sort of place that you feel more like a child with a wide grin racing down a driveway on a new trike than an adult trying to behave in a manner fitting for a road. We loved it!

On reaching the coast, and the tourist hot spot of Khao Lak we made a beeline for the hotel we had booked the previous night; but one thing had changed, one thing we had not seen on our journey to date, one thing that brought the mind back from the joyful morning to the harsh reality of living in such a dreamlike place. We started seeing numerous tsunami evacuation signs, when we looked closer we also noticed that the buildings were relatively new. We stopped to take a closer look at our iPhone map and noticed we were still someway from the coast and in a reasonably elevated position; we looked at each other and both asked the question almost in-synch… “surely THE tsunami didn’t reach here?” We pushed off again, but this time far more aware of our surroundings, and as we passed by the small tsunami museum we took note, as that was a place we definitely had to visit.

Tsunami evacuation signs were visible everywhere.

The time in Khao Lak was wonderful, we managed to relax in front of the full fury of our air conditioning unit when we weren’t out looking around. It is very easy to see why thousands of tourists flock to such an area. The sea really is that perfect type of sea that you see in the adverts and as per usual the Thai people are some of the most joyful people you will ever have the pleasure of meeting, nothing is ever too much trouble and nothing is ever done without a lot of banter and a huge smile. Another great thing about the town was it had a fully stocked western supermarket, and after weeks of eating local cuisine it was a pleasure just to sit down with a bowl of corn flakes, drowned in fresh milk and topped off with fruit; this of course was chased down by freshly baked baguette after freshly baked baguette and topped off with very tasty croissants (have I ever mentioned how much cycle tourists eat?!?!?!).

Katie enjoying the gloriously warm Indian Ocean.

On our second day, after consuming our body weight in food we made our way back down to the excellent tsunami museum and spent the next hour or so talking to the local lady who runs it, and watching some of the footage again; but this time with the context of having spent time at one of the beaches where it occurred. We were told some truly harrowing stories of the day it hit, but also some truly remarkable stories; we were transfixed in an almost daze like stupor as she reeled off her experiences and how it had impacted the local community.

Thai navy boat 813. This has been made the centre of a tsunami memorial. The boat is basically positioned where it was washed up… some 2km inland and up quite a steep hill!

There were three things that really took me aback about the whole thing; first it was just the sheer size of the wave, standing on the beach and picturing how high 14 metres is was quite terrifying; second, was how far inland the wave wrecked a path, it really was a long way and up quite a steep incline; and thirdly, we read a very interesting piece written by a German man living in Khao Lak at the time of the disaster and it ended with the words “don’t be a victim of circumstance”. This final message was so spot on. You hear too often people blaming this or blaming that for their “predicament”. We’ve all heard it, we’ve probably all done it at one time or another and it seems absurd when you compare it to what happens in some parts of the world. Everyone remembers where he or she was when they first saw the images of the tsunami, everyone remembers how they felt, and then everyone (to a certain extent) forgets as something else is beamed into the living room and onto the TV. For the people living the nightmare it was either become a victim or crack on. And crack on they have, all the time with that winning Thai smile and gentle personality. I think it is fair to say that our time in Khao Lak was genuinely eye opening and certainly made us realise how incredibly lucky most of us are.

A few days south of Khao Lak we found ourselves having one of those days when you just can’t find any proper food, nothing to sustain energy levels that drop to unimaginable depths in the tropical heat. Now I know I bang on about food quite a bit, but to be honest, to a certain extent cycle touring is basically eat, sleep, cycle, repeat; so it is bound to happen from time to time. When we got to Thailand everyone went on about how good the food would be, how you would be eating like royalty everyday, how you would just pull up anywhere and get amazing food (even those who had never been to Thailand). This generally happens, but from time to time on our journey (mostly in Central Asia) the food stars have misaligned so much that there never seems to be any food of any quality and you really appreciate the saying “you are what you eat”. This particular day we consumed the following between us: two banana cakes, two iced mochas, two chocolate brownies, eight small boxes of cornflakes, six tins of sterilized milk, one kilogram of rambutans (a delicious local fruit which was a welcome respite from the processed rubbish), four pot noodles, and to cap it all off four bags of crisps. We felt horrendous, which I guess was quite apt given we were staying in one of those roadside motels that doubles as a brothel; this one being particularly quirky; not only was the entire room coated in mirrors, it also came with a back door/hatch for a quick escape. It must have been a popular setup because this particular location was perpetually frequented during our stay by numerous couples, who would arrive in 4x4s with tinted windows, pull into the private car park, draw the curtain behind the car, disappear for a short time and then leave… the joys of cycle touring, being off the beaten path and seeing how a country actually is.

The “escape hatch”?!?!

The private car park for motel residents. Pull in, pull the curtain and get down to business seemed to be the order of the day here.

As we pushed further south the heat and humidity started to take a toll on our motivation levels. Although the scenery continued to inspire, the constant battle with our minds exhausted us day in and day out. Due to this we set about a routine that enabled us to spend a couple of hours each day sampling the very fine iced coffees on offer at a chain of petrol station coffee shops called Amazon; not exactly cultural, but certainly well needed… the fact they almost always had plenty of chocolate cake and wifi on offer were just added bonuses.

About 100km north of the Malay border we started to detect another change and this time it was of the religious kind. All through SE Asia, Buddhism had been the most easily recognisable religion; with stunning Wats lining the streets of tiny villages, monks walking here and there, and the fragrant smell of incense wafting around wherever we went. This gave way to the return of Islam, and Wats were replaced (or neighboured) by elegant mosques and the staple of pork on the menu was replaced with delicious lamb specialties. Our final day in Thailand was a Friday and as we passed through the border and over a ridiculously steep hill and down into Malaysia we noticed that the roads were basically devoid of traffic. After stopping for an incredible Chinese style lunch we pushed on and all of a sudden the roads were heaving with scooters, booming cars, and pimped out 4x4s… Friday prayers had just finished and the safest place to be was anywhere but on the road. We pulled over and watched the hustle and bustle as all in sundry went back to work or off to feast. It was quite eye opening that within the space of about 150km the beliefs of an entire people had changed. After so long without the call to prayer it was nice to be back amongst it as we settled in to our first night in Malaysia.

Return of Islam.

As we pushed on down the coast and further into Malaysia it became quickly apparent that all is not what it seems to the outside world. The roads were a shadow of the quality in Thailand, and with the favoured mode of transport changing from mopeds to lowered out boom cars it was sometimes quite uncomfortable. The towns we passed through were often run down and in dire need of a facelift and there was obvious segregation between the predominant races of Malaysia. We later heard that certain people in government had been accused of epic levels of corruption, all of which has never been proved and may just be a political move by opposition, but there certainly was evidence in the provinces of a lack of funds and rising levels of ethnic tensions, all of which is incredibly sad because, as in Thailand, the people of Malaysia were incredibly friendly and often went out of their way to help and support us.

Malaysia, being a former colony of Britain meant that the English language was back on the menu (sort of), which made our lives a little easier and after a couple of nights heading down the coast we were closing in on our first major stop of the penultimate country in Asia… George Town, on the island of Penang. The morning that we approached the island we stopped in at a typical roadside eatery where everything from Chinese, Indian, Malay, and western was on the menu. In typical fashion we ordered (in English… amazing) a bit from many of the vendors and as I was standing to collect the incredible offerings a random man came up, started talking to me and then insisted on paying for our entire breakfast. At about $USD10 it was not really a trivial amount to a local (or a cycle tourist)… I suggested that we were okay, but he insisted, and yet again we had come across more kindness from strangers.

The voyage across to George Town from Butterworth was the first time since Azerbaijan that we had rolled onto a proper ferry (crossing the Mekong by long boat does not really count), and it was the first time that we were off the actual continental landmass of Eurasia since leaving Blighty almost one year previously. Our first afternoon was spent at the (in)famous Australian armed forces pub The Hong Kong Bar which was handily situated a mere two minute stroll from our excellent hostel. It was good fun talking to a lot of the older guys who had retired and hearing what the place was like back-in-the-day. It was also a great location to get up to the minute information on exactly where to find the best street food in George Town (something that it is famous for), and also some local knowledge on where to find excellent street art, something else George Town is apparently famous for that we were completely unaware of.

The Hong Kong Bar. Good times. Great advice!

George Town street art.

After a couple of days exploring the city inside out, it finally rolled around to our one year anniversary of setting out on our journey; we had managed to book ourselves into the top rated restaurant in the city and indulged like cycle tourists have unlikely ever done before. It was a great evening and one that made us look back at where we had come from, what we had achieved, what we had learned, the unimaginable highs, the equally unimaginable lows, the great friends we had met, the people who had helped us out and most importantly all the support we had received in getting us to George Town. Living the dream had never really felt more real until we were able to sit back and reflect. Planning for the final push to Singapore and the immensity of Australia could wait a while whilst we soaked it all up.

Some of the food that we sampled on our one year anniversary.

Our first port of call in Stung Treng was the truly wonderful Le Tonlé guesthouse, housed in a traditional Khmer wooden residence and acting as a tourism-training centre for at-risk Cambodian youths. It was uplifting and incredibly humbling to meet these young adults and see the passion they had for life, even though they had almost certainly come from unimaginable painful backgrounds.

With our accommodation sorted and the debacle at the border behind us we headed off into town to find dinner, a celebratory beer (for passing 17,000km) and supplies for what we anticipated would be an absolutely horrendous day in the saddle the following day. Earlier, when cycling into the city we had passed by what looked like a bustling market, so we made a beeline for that and were certainly not disappointed.

Having experienced many markets in our travels all over Africa we thought we had just about seen it all, but we were gravely mistaken; the market in central Stung Treng was truly something to behold. The first thing to hit us was the unavoidable smell of fermenting, rotten fruit; mixed with the deeply raw smell of animal parts baking in the unnaturally hot and humid main street adjoining the market proper. With our gag reflexes fully warmed up we pushed aside a curtain and ventured down the dark corridors of stalls that seemed to press in on our senses from all directions like a suffocating blanket. The light that filtered through allowed for just enough detail to be displayed to our wide-eyes taking in the surroundings. Of everything we saw the one image that sticks out in my mind is the juxtaposition of a kind looking lady wearing pyjamas (seemed to be the fashion here) expertly wielding a meat cleaver, hacking what looked like a small deer (or possibly a large dog; can’t be entirely sure) into pieces; blood was splattering everywhere, but mostly on her pyjamas. From that moment on, it was very easy to be a vegetarian in Cambodia… as for the supplies we were in search of… we went for the very vegetarian French baguettes located in a bakery opposite the market!

Pyjamas seem to be the height of fashion in a lot of places in Cambodia; even in the fish market when gutting and selling fish?!?!

The next day out on the bike we spent a lot of time reliving the horrors of the Stung Treng market, which was actually preferable to the cycling. For a flat country we found the cycling in Cambodia to be particularly difficult. The heat and humidity at this time of year are incredibly uncomfortable, the wind seemed to be howling into our faces no matter which direction we cycled, and the scenery is very, very dull (and somewhat depressing). The villages we passed through were some of the poorest we have seen anywhere in the world (certainly to the untrained eye anyway) and it is hard not to feel for these people. The almost apocalyptic site of semi burnt and smouldering forest that enveloped the area did nothing to help the situation either; so it was no small joy when we finally reached Preah Vihear after 140km of torturous slog, and more importantly the air-conditioning of a hotel.

With the day to Preah Vihear behind us we knew it was two relatively short days to Siem Reap, two nights there and then we would be on holiday. Yes, holiday! Contrary to popular opinion we do not believe that cycling day in and day out represents a holiday and had decided a month or so previously to book ourselves onto a retreat in the Cambodian countryside (more on that later). What we had not banked on was that the holiday was not starting in four nights, but in fact would be starting the moment we reached Siem Reap; it was like a child being told that not only is Santa coming on the 25th, but he will also be popping in to say hello on the 23rd as well… we could barely contain our excitement!

Back on Don Det in Laos we had been contacted by our very good friends Zach and Staci and asked what dates we would be in Siem Reap; it was a bit out of the blue, but given that we regard their opinions as second to none we were truly excited to hear what recommendations they had for us there. To say we were blown away by what happened next would be an understatement…

On checking our emails at a less than salubrious eating establishment in Preah Vihear (using the next door neighbours wifi) we were informed by Zach and Staci that they had booked us into a hotel, and not any old hotel, it looked like a really, really nice hotel… paraphrasing their rationale behind this incredible act of kindness was that “they were loving our journey and our stories, but having embarked on their own epic travel journeys were well aware that sometimes you just need to lock out the world and recharge your batteries”; people who have never travelled will say “spoilt brats”, people who have travelled will say “well said, well played”! To be honest we didn’t really know what to think, it was all a bit surreal, people as kind as this don’t grow on trees, so what happened next was probably understandable. We sat in the less than salubrious eating establishment and shed more than a few tears; mostly tears of joy, but there were some tears there that showed just how exhausted we had become (without even really knowing it).

As you can imagine we didn’t sleep particularly well; what with all the upcoming excitement and when the alarm went off at 0530 we were already up and ready to roll on out of Preah Vihear. Thankfully we had a short day and by lunchtime we had reached Koh Ker, completed the daily kilometres, and checked into a guesthouse; exhaustion overcome us and we had passed out on the beds. After a few hours hiding out of the heat we were feeling good enough to get back on our bikes and take in a scenic 15km loop from our guesthouse. What we saw that afternoon was incredible!

Koh Ker is located roughly 120km from Angkor Wat, and as such does not get anywhere near the number of tourists as its more famous big brother; which was great for us. In fact, the entire time we were there we only saw four other tourists (across five sites that we visited). This was the first time in my life that I actually felt a little like Indiana Jones. We were able to explore incredible temples, some of which have been taken back by the jungle, at our own pace with no one else in sight. Walking up to partially dilapidated temples, pushing aside tree roots (or vines) that had made their home as sentinels guarding over the doorways, and peering inside evoked the beginning sequence of Raiders of the Lost Ark (excluding the boulder) and I found myself (much to Katie’s annoyance) humming the theme tune, very loudly and almost certainly out of tune!

Playing Indiana Jones at Koh Ker.

Only part of Koh Ker is open to the public because of land mines. A genuine threat in this part of the world. Very, very sad!

The final push into Siem Reap can be broken down into three sections; a busy main road, a very quiet back road, and a very busy main road. It was somewhere along the busy main road that I realised that my back tyre had bulged out the side and was threatening to explode. We took the calculated risk that if it did in fact explode it would cause little damage and we could fix it if and when it occurred. What we absolutely did not want to do was miss a single minute at the resort that we had been booked into; so on we pushed… arriving roughly 30 minutes before check-in.

The resort was like nothing we had experienced on this, or any other journey and to some extent I don’t think the staff had experienced anything quite like us either. On walking into the main lobby I had the distinctly uneasy feeling that I was being watched, scrutinised almost; what I came to realise quite quickly was that I was not only being watched but I was also filling the nostrils of all and sundry with disgusting cycle touring odours. You realise quickly how bad you smell when surrounded by people who are living in a normal world and have access to normal ablution practices. Our clothes for one had not been washed in a washing machine for the best part of four months (hand washing in sinks, toilets, and rubbish bins is not quite the same), the dust from the mornings back road had baked onto the sun cream I had applied to my face in a motley pattern, for the first time on the journey I could actually smell my sandals, and I suspect the less I say about the trail of dirt that accompanied me the better… to their immense credit the staff could not have been more helpful; out came the cold, immaculate white towels, which I quickly painted a dirty brownish-red colour; out came the freshly squeezed orange juice, which I gulped down as if it were a university boat race, and then came our porter to carry our 12 bags up to our room. Perfect!

Resort front desk staff. So, so super helpful. Amazing time.

We knew we only had 41 hours at the resort, and we were determined to do as little as possible. Our time was spent either in the pool, basking in the sun next to the pool, looking out of our window at the pool (when it was raining), sleeping, or eating. We did not have a shred of guilt that we did not want to go out and visit Siem Reap. It was actually with much annoyance that we had to venture out to get some USD from a cash machine, thankfully we also found a barber willing to fix my attempted haircut (on myself). In total we spent 39.5 of the allotted 41 hours holed up in the resort, and it was bliss. We were beyond sad to leave, but thought that if we spent anymore time there, November would roll around and our planned journey of London to NZ would end up being London to Siem Reap (and we would not have seen a single thing in Siem Reap). Thankfully we had our second (original) holiday to look forward too.

The barber sorting out my very bad attempt at a hair cut. You will notice manual clippers, what you can’t see is him freestyling with the scissors. Apparently all bad hair cuts grow good. I am not convinced!

Amazing!

For many years now, both Katie and I had been interested in getting into yoga, however as with most things in London it seemed to be extraordinarily expensive for what you actually got so it was always put on the back burner. This all changed when we were looking at how to fill our time in SE Asia. We came across a website for a yoga retreat by the name of Hariharalaya and it sounded perfect. What the hell we thought, what have we got to lose, so off we cycled from our Siem Reap resort and out into the Cambodian countryside to our yoga retreat.

Hariharalaya grounds.

It would not be stretching the truth to say that the six days, and five nights we spent there were some of the best days of this journey. We absolutely loved the experience; we met some truly wonderful and inspirational people from all walks of life, we were taught the basics of yoga, and something that I never thought I would try… meditation. Both of which are infinitely harder than they look or sound. It was not only the yoga and meditation that were great; it was the entire environment. The setting in the Cambodian countryside allowed us to completely disconnect, step back and relax. We gave up using electronic gadgets for the duration of our time there, which was remarkably refreshing; we spent a lot of time lying in hammocks reading books (or by the small pool, reading). If we weren’t being taught yoga, or practicing meditation, or lazing in a hammock with a book we could be found supping delicious chocolate/coconut juices at the juice bar, playing around in the outdoor gymnasium, participating in a traditional fire ceremony, or having fairly mind twisting dharma discussions with Joel, the founder of Hariharalaya.

We spent a lot of time at the juice bar, some might even say an unhealthy amount of time. Chocolate/Coconut juice is amazing!

The outdoor gymnasium; I eventually managed to master the tight rope. Good times!

The one thing that I was most concerned about when entering the retreat was the food. You see, the diet is completely vegan, which to be honest, having been a vegan for a month (as a challenge from a co worker) many years back did not really float my boat. Well, the food at Hariharalaya was the absolute highlight for me; there was not a single meal when I did not go back for seconds, and often thirds.

As part of the service at Hariharalaya we were able to get tutored on correct alignment whilst practicing yoga, which for obvious reasons is incredibly important; especially for someone like me who is the unwelcome owner of a “glass” back. But the real win was having our own yoga practice designed, discussed, and practiced in one-to-one sessions with the head instructor, Mary. Katie and I both took this opportunity, and the two hours we each spent with Mary have proved to be some of the best-spent hours ever. Each and every day since we run through our yoga practice (before or after cycling it does not matter), and we can feel an enormous difference in our day-to-day well-being and also our cycling, particularly the ability to focus more acutely for longer periods of time.

The Hariharalaya yoga hall. We loved this place!

Leaving Hariharalaya was just as hard as leaving the Siem Reap resort that Zach and Staci had sorted for us earlier in the week. What was incredibly interesting to both of us was the cycle ride back into Siem Reap, you see this cycle ride was on the exact same very busy road that we cycled when rushing towards our resort on our first visit to Siem Reap; but we could not have felt any different. When we first approached Siem Reap we were exhausted, fatigued, probably pining ever so slightly for home; when we returned we were completely and utterly rejuvenated, almost like new people and it felt great. The joy of cycling, smelling the countryside, embracing the kind natured local smiles was back!

Our second visit to Siem Reap was set aside for one thing, and one thing only; that Angkor Wat thingy! Angkor Wat is quite simply incredible; there is no point even trying to find superlatives to paint a picture, it is a quantum leap from where my wordsmith skills lay. What I will go into is how we went about taking in this immense collection of unbelievable temples…

Angkor Wat. Epic!

The general consensus for those that visit Angkor Wat is to go for sunrise at the main temple and then follow the thousands of tourists in a clockwise direction around the other main temples. Well, we are sick to death of crowds of annoying tourists carrying selfie sticks, talking loudly, pushing into photos and basically making complete arses of themselves; so we decided, some would say foolishly, to go in the opposite direction and sacrifice seeing Angkor Wat at sunrise; what we got was something truly remarkable… what we got for all intents and purposes was a whole host of empty temples, yes that is right, a whole host of empty temples at Angkor Wat!!!

Sunrise at Sras Sang. Not bad at all!

We started the morning by heading to Sras Sang, which admittedly is nothing on the main Angkor Wat temple, but there were only four other tourists there, the sunrise was mesmerising and at no time did we regret being there. From there we headed to Ta Prohm (of Tomb Raider fame) and essentially had the entire place to ourselves, which again made me feel like Indiana Jones (I was under strict instructions not to hum the theme tune ever again though, so that was disappointing). We are not ones for traipsing around temples all day, the fact it was almost 0900 by the time we made it to Bayon said something for how mesmerised we were. At Bayon, famous for all of the amazing faces that are carved everywhere, we started to run into some tourists, but thankfully we had finished by the time the bus loads started piling out wielding their f*$&n selfie sticks. From here it was over the road and into Angkor Thom, again we lost track of time just wandering and staring in wonderment at the enormity and grandeur of it all; finally, around 1130 we made our way to a now sparsely populated Angkor Wat, where we could sit and relax and really soak in the whole experience. An epic day!

Ta Prohm temple. AKA Tomb Raider temple.

Bayon, the “faces” temple. Bayon looked a lot like a video game; you could almost see the faces moving around in your imagination. Epic place!

We basically had Angkor Thom to ourselves as well!

From the moment we arrived in Stung Treng, to the moment we crossed the border into Thailand I think it is fair to say we loved everything about this wonderful country. Yes, the cycling was a bit of a drag and the wind did its best to break our souls, but through it all the Cambodian people and culture shined like a beacon. This is a country that is still stigmatised for something that happened almost 40 years ago, but it should be a country that is seen for what it is today… a young, vibrant, artistic melting pot that is immensely proud of its ancient history and is making the most of the savage hand it was dealt. For us it felt very much like Rwanda, which is not really surprising given their similar recent histories.

Zach and Staci, Team Hariharalaya, and everyone we met in Cambodia (excluding the disgusting border guards) we thank you very much for helping make Cambodia what it was for us; an absolutely incredible experience. We are so happy we cycled out of the way to explore this wonderful country and have no doubt that we will be back, hopefully sooner, rather than later.

Arriving in Laos burst that mirage almost immediately. We didn’t realise it at the time but we were completely and utterly exhausted from our China Challenge; adrenaline, stubbornness, and a desire not to be beaten by the sheer size of China had kept us going, but the very moment we did not need to be anywhere or do anything our bodies just stopped and said enough is enough. Unfortunately this occurred in the border town of Boten, which is not a place anyone in their right mind would ever want to stop. It is a purpose built border town, which in itself should have told us to keep going, but we couldn’t, we were broken. The town had had a huge amount of money poured into it from China, and just as quickly the money had been pulled out; what you are left with is a border town that has even less soul than normal. The hotel we stayed in looked as though it had close to 300 rooms, of which we think 5 were occupied; the “casinos” looked more like the gaming areas you see in a local pub in Britain, there were a number of building sites left abandoned when the money had dried up, and the people working and visiting the town (yes people actually visit Boten from China for the “casinos”) were quite clearly there to hide from something. This was certainly not the Southeast Asia we had been envisaging, the only positive being we were finally able to get our hands on some fabled Beer Lao, which we believed was thoroughly deserved after China.

Boten; you can see the enormous hotel that we stayed in (not the pink one) and also the abandoned building site. Surely the most soulless town we have ever been…

The next morning we could not wait to leave and set out to reach Luang Namtha as quickly as possible. The 60km we cycled that day genuinely felt like some of the hardest of our journey. Our bodies were incredibly sore and refused to cooperate, and mentally we were on a beach somewhere in Thailand (ridiculous I know, but the mind is a strange thing). Thankfully for us the cycling was mainly downhill and on arriving in Luang Namtha we checked into a popular backpacker guesthouse and spent the rest of the day either looking in wonderment at the Internet (China has the Internet, but not really), sleeping, or dragging ourselves to the guesthouse restaurant for calories.

Initially we were booked in for three nights; this ended up being five and could easily have been 30. The guesthouse was brilliant, the rooms were cheap, slightly too dark, and perfectly cool in the tropical heat; all in all an excellent combination for a lot of sleeping. The staff were mostly fine, but had a tendency to scowl at everything and everyone but with all the sleeping we were doing it did not bother us.

For most people Luang Namtha is all about the exciting jungle excursions, kayaking trips, and “authentic” home stays you can do when based there. For us it was all about eating, sleeping, and doing nothing; so much so that we made a pact not to walk more than 200m from our guesthouse at any point in time. This did not seem to impact on our experience though; directly opposite our guesthouse was the famous night market, serving up all sorts of wonderful Laotian food; our favourite being a combination of roast duck, pork belly and papaya salad. When we were sick of that we could opt for an incredible restaurant at the entrance to our guesthouse, which served up both Laotian and western food, most exciting of all was the simple pleasure in having a fruit salad and muesli for breakfast, something we take for granted normally.

Epic breakfast in Luang Namtha; the simple things in life like muesli were a welcome change… the chocolate muffin chaser wasn’t too bad either.

Luang Namtha was also the perfect place to make a plan for the Southeast Asia section of the journey, something that we had not had time to think about in the previous months. All we knew was that we wanted to see Angkor Wat, we needed to be in Kuala Lumpur on a certain date to meet some heroes who are flying out from London to holiday with us (not on the bikes), and I wanted to be somewhere guaranteed to be screening the first All Blacks test of the year (not cultural in the slightest, but important nonetheless).

So, after five days of over indulging in food, sleeping, and staying out of the sun as much as possible it was time to leave; as with China, Laos was not getting any smaller and our 30 day visa would not last forever, so with almost zero motivation we started down the long road to Singapore having made absolutely no progress on our plan for Southeast Asia, aside from the fact Bangkok might be a good place to try and catch the All Blacks, but we didn’t know.

The road south from Luang Namtha is a daunting one; there is no avoiding the mountains that make themselves at home in northern Laos and we had also inadvertently chosen the most uncomfortable month of the year for cycling weather-wise. Our first goal was reaching the famed UNESCO World Heritage town of Luang Prabang situated on the mighty Mekong, about 320km south of Luang Namtha. For this we decided on a four day approach, which in China would have amounted to the proverbial walk in the park, but here, in this heat, with the mountains for company and our bodies still believing they should be relaxing in a cool room it made for impossibly difficult cycling. The first day out resulted in a painfully slow 70km and the second day was even more of a struggle at a little over 50km. Admittedly there were a lot of mountains to pass, but still it was slow going.

At this speed it is very easy to truly immerse oneself in the culture of the country and for better or worse that is what we got. The children of Laos are some of the friendliest, cutest, most excitable we have ever had the pleasure of seeing and meeting. They do not seem to have a care in the world, and given that they live in one of the poorest countries on earth it is great to see. They have an unbridled joy for life; we would be cycling (very slowly) up hills and you would hear screams of “Sa-bai-Dee!” (hello in Laotian), or our favourite “Sa-bai-Dee Falang!” (hello French person – every person who looks foreign in Laos is referred to as Falang) coming from every waterhole, tree, window, rice field, or buffalo’s back. Wherever there were children, we would hear their enthusiastic screams. In some instances they would come hurtling along behind us, pushing us up the hills (occasionally naked), some times they would come rushing to the road side just in time to high five us before scurrying back to hide in the shade; no matter what they were doing their infectious happiness brought a smile to our faces that after a while made our faces ache (that is no exaggeration).

This little lad chased Katie for about 200 metres all the time yelling sa-bai-dee and helping to push.

Unfortunately the same cannot be said for everyone that we encountered, in fact we started to get the distinct impression that all was not as rosy in Laos as the tourist authorities would have you believe. For every smiling child there was a scolding adult, often scolding a child for interacting with us; for every Sa-bai-Dee there was an adult who wanted nothing to do with us and let us know with a look of disapproval, and then there were the angry young boys… with the exception of China, where people were so polite to us it was almost embarrassing we have seen that boys everywhere east of western Europe have often held a grudge against us. I’m not saying all boys, that would be ridiculous, but enough to identify it as a problem and something to be wary of. In Laos it started to become a little bit of a concern; we don’t know if this is through boredom, lack of education, or genuine animosity towards foreigners but I can assure you that on bicycles you are very very vulnerable and the throwing of rocks and overly aggressive behaviour is not acceptable. I wish these were isolated incidents, sadly they were not. Dealing with this is difficult at the speed in which we travel and hard to comprehend after the brilliant interactions with children.

It was with some relief that we finally made it to Luang Prabang on the fourth day out of Luang Namtha, relief that we had survived the heat and humidity, relief that we had negotiated the rock throwing, aggressive local lads, and relief that we could again relax and rebuild our strength that was truly being sapped by the environment we found ourselves in.

Luang Prabang is arguably one of the finest looking towns we have ever had the pleasure of visiting. The colonial architecture, numerous Buddhist sites, location on the Mekong and the sight of so many monks is something to behold. One morning we ventured up to the top of Chomsy Hill to take in the stunning vista and had the temple that sits atop all to ourselves; a special moment, made even more special and particularly memorable by the conversation we had whilst there. When taking a look at one of the giant footprints of Buddha I caught a glimpse of bright orange out of the corner of my eye as a shy, young monk appeared and shuffled quietly over to us. “I allowed to speak with you?” he asked in his basic English; “of course” we replied. What followed was a truly remarkable conversation with this young man (and his friend who had now come out of the shadows to join him). We spoke about our home countries; they spoke about going to school, what it was like to be a monk in training, what their opportunities were like, if they would stay on to become a monk, what enlightenment might entail, etc., etc. … When we finally parted ways they thanked us for taking the time to help them with their English and we thanked them for giving us an insight into this remarkable way of living. It was one of those experiences that you felt was genuine, almost humbling.

Fairly typical scene in Luang Prabang.

It is these interactions with people across the world that makes this form of travelling particularly rewarding; a random meeting with a random trainee monk can have a profound effect on your day, on your week, and to some extent even the way you see the world. We got a small insight into their struggles, their dreams, their way of life. It was definitely a very small insight but it was marvellous.

Food plays an enormous part of any travelling experience, but even more so when you are a constantly ravenous cyclist. The food in Luang Prabang is outstanding (Falang/Laotian fusion we have heard it called), and if you get to the night market you can find some really amazing treats. Visiting the market every evening became ritual and a lot of the people we met were extremely nice and welcoming, particularly the lovely lady and her wonderful family who always provided us with unbelievably great fruit shakes and baguettes (did I mention the Falang influence?!?!). The market was also an excellent place to people watch, but more importantly sit back and watch the interaction between local and tourist play out. Following the rock throwing, remembering back to the lack of smiles from our hosts in Luang Namtha, and some of the general rudeness we had experienced since arriving from China we were intrigued to see if this was happening to other people. Believe me when I say we were beyond thankful that it was not limited only to us; as for a while there we thought we might have been offending the locals or their culture. This was interesting to us mainly because it appeared to be widespread, but equally because a number of people whose travel judgement we trust implicitly have raved about how good visiting Laos was and how they would love to go back.

In any case, with many thoughts running through our minds as to what had possibly changed over the past few years in Laos the main thought was of the mountains we still had to get across on our way south. So, after four nights we felt as though we could not put this off any longer, bit the bullet and headed off at 0530 on the fifth morning to tackle the mountains.

We knew that the first day would be the toughest and we were not disappointed. The day started with a slight incline and then a slight decline for the first 25km and then a 15km uphill stretch that took us up 700 vertical metres. This in itself is not too difficult, even on a touring bike, but with the humidity through the roof and the temperature knocking around the 30 degree mark before 0900 it was brutal; if only the sun could have hidden away more often it may have been bearable. By the time we reached the summit of the first climb we were exhausted and even more anxious about the day than when we started. It certainly didn’t help that snakes were out in force and we had seen more than our fair share of scorpions, including one very impressive specimen that narrowly avoided Katie’s tyre as it hurried across the road. I am not exaggerating when I say it would easily have filled the palm of my hand.

Farming in northern Laos (since the production of opium has been outlawed) is a bit like this; burn the mountain, plant the mountain, harvest the mountain; repeat.

We stopped at the bottom of the 15km decent that followed the torturous 15km acent, made sure that the surrounding was clear of anything likely to bother us and enjoyed a roast duck and baguette lunch (cycle touring is not all bad). We lingered over lunch, which was a sure fire indication of how nervous we were of the impending section, but with the sun starting to do some real damage we had to push on. The final climb of the day started at 1030 and took the best part of 6 hours to complete. In terms of numbers it is nothing special; a 25km climb of around 1,200 vertical metres. But the sun, the heat, and the humidity were all taking their toll. I remember thinking more than once that we might not make it in a single day. It was brutally tough. Strangely, I found it infinitely tougher than Katie, who almost seems to thrive in the heat and handles this environment with aplomb. I recall at least 6 times I had to get off the bike for fear of collapse, lay down and pour water over myself. On one of these occasions I got lucky and had the use of a cascading waterfall on the side of the road to cool me down. Another time when we decided that the best course of action was to take a break from the sun at an abandoned roadside shelter, a man turned up (remember this is the middle of nowhere) on his motorbike selling ice creams! True story; we have photos to prove it. The man could see we were hurting and we could sense his sympathy, but you could also see him asking himself what the hell we were doing; to be fair he wasn’t the only one asking that question.

Heat stroke, exhaustion, broken, whatever you want to call it; I was in a world of pain at this point.

Never in the history of mankind has a man been more welcome than this man. What a flippn hero!

Finally, after 6 hours of slog we made it to a small rural town, found a guesthouse oft frequented by cycle tourists, consumed two dinners each and passed out. What a day; it was by far and away the hardest I have had on a bike and looking back now from the comfort of an air conditioned room I find it remarkable that we made it. It is one of those days we will remember forever!

The second day out of Luang Prabang proved to be difficult, but nothing on the first day. What the second day did have that the first day lacked to some extent were spectacular views; I don’t mean just spectacular views, I mean the crème de la crème of views. My ability as both a photographer and wordsmith could never do the scenery justice, but the following gives you some idea of what I mean…

Lost for words…

… hopefully you get the idea; luckily for us this was not even the highlight of the day and again reinforces why this mode of travelling is hard to beat. As we rounded a corner passing right next to the rocky outcrop you can see in the above photo we came across a set of bungalows we had heard of from other cycle tourists. The very special thing about these bungalows is that they are situated almost in the middle of nowhere next to a thermal stream, which you are able to bathe in. I mean, seriously, how often do you get to sit in a thermal stream in the middle of a tropical jungle and wash away the day’s troubles whilst relaxing with a Beer Lao? Amazing times.

Not a bad place for a bath.

The last day into Vang Vieng was again spectacular, maybe not as spectacular as the previous, but still spectacular in its own right. It also marked the end of the large mountains, which we were incredibly grateful for. After a couple of days doing as little as possible in this backpacker haven, where we met a number of truly wonderful people we decided that we had to either push on to the border, or ask the proprietor of the local Irish bar for a job. Given we have deadlines it seemed logical to keep on keeping on.

Even after crossing the final pass in northern Laos we were lucky to continue to enjoy epic scenery.

Thankfully the final days were relatively uneventful and the cycling was decidedly dull. To us Laos was a country of contrasts; on the one hand we had many great experiences, some of which I have tried to paint above; on the other hand we had many, many unpleasant experiences and often felt as though we were incredibly unwelcome. This was most evident around the tourist hotspots and in the extremely poor areas that we travelled. Travelling by bicycle is great, but from time to time you really do feel vulnerable and it is not pleasant; this rarely happens on a frequent basis, but seemed to in Laos. As we approached the Friendship Bridge linking Laos and Thailand, I was more apprehensive about the journey that I had been on Day 1. What if Thailand is the same as Laos? What if Cambodia is the same as Laos? Are we going to experience more elevated levels of hostility in other areas? This all washed away as soon as we passed through customs on the Laos side and cycled on to the Friendship Bridge; you see the best thing about this bridge is that people drive on the correct side of the road, and after almost 16,000km in a strange kind of way it felt a little like home; almost like a home comfort telling us everything would be alright.

Unfortunately this sums up Laos for me; hopefully when we return to the south of Laos it is a different story.

As we were welcomed into Thailand we could not believe what a difference a width of river makes to the people. Smiles, smiles, and more smiles! I had a funny feeling we would really, really enjoy Thailand!

We arrived into Lanzhou on a Saturday evening; spent the Sunday moving from one awfully rude (and expensive) hotel to a fantastic one, drinking our fill of coffee and consuming more dumplings than most would consider humanly possible. First thing Monday morning we walked down to the PSB office to discuss the renewal of our visa. This process could not have been simpler, in fact it was so simple and so efficient that the man said the visas would be ready at lunchtime on the Wednesday… but the 30-day extension would start on the Tuesday as that was the day that he had to process them. Great we thought, on the one hand we had our visas which meant that there would be no mad rush to the border via all means of transport (if you know your Chinese geography you’ll be aware that Lanzhou is almost in the middle of China so any border dash would likely be incredibly taxing and highly stressful); but we were essentially being given 28.5 days to cycle the best part of 3,000km over increasingly difficult terrain. What we eventually came up with was this…

1. 9 days cycling from Lanzhou to Chengdu (roughly 1,100km)
2. 1 day off to see the giant pandas (we are of the opinion that there was no point cycling through panda country and not paying them a quick visit)
3. 8 days cycling from Chengdu to Songming (a city just north of Kunming; roughly 900km)
4. 9 days from Songming to the border with Laos (roughly 850km)

When Wednesday rolled around we packed up our bikes, negotiated the lift (not as easy as you would imagine with laden bikes and a crowd of onlookers) and made our way back to the PSB office, picked up our passports and proceeded to get lost leaving the city… not the best start to part two of our China Challenge.

Every single morning in Lanzhou this was our first breakfast before getting stuck into dumplings. Brilliant!

When we finally managed to locate the road heading south, push through the throng of traffic blocking our every move and purchase some much needed bread it was straight into the hills we had been promised. The first couple of hours were virtually straight up a rather steep valley, and in the heat of the midday sun our eyes were stinging from the salty sweat we were producing more than the inevitable burn in our legs. The flip side to this immediate realisation of how hard the second half of China was going to be, was the spectacular scenery (when we could see through the salty tears). We were awed by the steep slopes terraced with crops in seemingly impossible to reach locations, perfectly formed as far as we could see. Given we had spent months in Central Asia and weeks in the Chinese desert it was a welcome sight.

Valley out of Lanzhou; hot, steep, and incredible!

The top of the first climb was thankfully cut short with the aid of a tunnel, which we negotiated with the typical sense of fear that comes with entering a tunnel on a bicycle (but on this day was preferable to the continued cycling we would have had to do to summit over the top of the pass) and were rewarded with a truly stunning valley. Unlike the valley we had been in, the one we entered was comparatively wide and once reaching the valley floor after a great descent we were rewarded with even more wonderful scenery. There were numerous villages dotted all the way along the road (something we had largely missed in the first section of China as we were racing along the Expressway), all surrounded by fruit trees coming into bloom, vegetables sprouting in long perfectly straight lines that looked as though they stretched from one side of the valley to the other, and some even had old classical Chinese architected buildings. It was glorious! The day continued like this until about 10km from our destination where we were hit with unimaginably bad road works, but the fact we were now heading south and had managed to hit our first target meant even these could not dampen our spirits.

Cultivation as far as the eye can see. The Chinese make the Dutch look like gardening amateurs.

Old school Chinese architecture.

The second day south the road works continued, and I don’t mean they continued for a few kilometres, I mean they continued for virtually the 100km we managed to cycle. We had read on another blog that roughly 10% of your days cycling in this truly epic country would be impacted significantly by major road works and this day was our first. At the time of cycling the road works were incredibly frustrating, but in hindsight it was a good day to endure them as we could only really cycle 100km to find accommodation and it was mostly uphill anyway (we climbed to 2951 metres). Road works on uphill sections are preferable for us because we are so painfully slow anyway we don’t lose a lot of speed, whereas on a downhill where the weight of our bikes makes us reasonably fast the loss of speed can be somewhat frustrating and the concentration is incredibly tiring.

Fairly typical scene in China.

Finding accommodation was once again very easy thanks to our priceless piece of paper with unintelligible Chinese phrases on it. We showed it to the first local we saw who laughed and pointed behind us. We thanked the ladies (“thank-you” is one of three words we have mastered; the others being “hello” and “England”; “New Zealand” is too difficult to pronounce), thanked our lucky stars that we had the piece of paper, and pushed our bikes over to where the door to a shop was slightly ajar. It was my turn to go and find out about the rooms, so after locating the lovely owner of the establishment I was taken upstairs to be shown a very fine (very basic) room, which was exactly what we were after. With the price seemingly fixed at a reasonable £6 I set off excitedly to inform Katie about our great result. Katie on the other hand walked straight into the room and pointed out that there was no toilet, which I had clearly overlooked. Given that our Chinese vocabulary is non-existent it was a case of rather embarrassing charades that developed when “discussing” with the owner where the toilet was situated. After establishing that #1’s were in a bucket, she picked up the bucket and motioned for me to follow her, presumably to see where #2’s should take place.

THE (now empty) bucket.

First things first though… after negotiating the steps back to road level she promptly deposited the contents of the bucket (presumably other guests #1’s) all over the road, which took me aback to be honest. To her it was clearly nothing unusual as she went straight into playing another equally embarrassing game of charades indicating that… up the road, past the pile of burning rubbish, and somewhere down the side of a building was where #2’s had to take place. At that very moment I made up my mind that I would absolutely, under no circumstances ever want to go and view the undoubted horrors of what lay up the road, past the pile of burning rubbish, and somewhere down the side of a building! With the ablution situation sorted it was off to enjoy the comforts of our room with a hot cup of tea and a very early night.

The night passed without incident and another early morning resulted in yet another monster climb (thankfully no road works to speak of), another nerve-racking tunnel, and another immensely stunning valley to dive down into. With the sun out and the purchase of ice cream complete we could not have been in a happier place and the next 48 hours provided some of the most scenic cycling of the journey to date and certainly the easiest. For the best part of 240km we followed a river in the downward direction, passing through stunning gorges, interesting riverside villages and relatively new cities, but the undoubted highlight was meeting and then having dinner with the Longnan Cycling Club (for want of using an acronym… the LCC).

Roughly 240km downhill with this scenery… YES PLEASE!

Since we left London we have regretted the fact that we cycle with MAGURA brakes; yes, they are excellent brakes, but outside of major cities in the “western” world they are virtually unknown. Even if they are known it is virtually impossible to get hold of any (i.e. whenever we get somewhere where we could use the postal service we check Wiggle or the like and they are sold out… Always!). This has meant that at every bicycle shop we pass we stop, walk in and ask the question. We know it is a waste of time, but sometimes it is just something to do…

In any case, as we were cycling into Longnan we decided to stop at the first bike shop we saw on the off chance that they had a set of these brake pads lying around. Unsurprisingly they didn’t, but what they did have was a group of young cycling enthusiasts sitting around, including a number who made up the aforementioned LCC. Within 5 minutes of entering the shop and excitement levels going through the roof we had accommodation organised for us, the LCC members at the shop had phoned the rest of their crew and dinner had been organised. Now you have to understand that the sight of random foreigners in this part of China is rare and the sight of random foreigners on bikes turning up to a shop that just happened to be full of cycling nuts is even less heard of. In a bit of a killjoy way we suggested that we could not have a BIG night as we had a enormously challenging week of cycling and did not want to be under the weather. This seemed to be no problem, no problem at all. Another round of phone calls followed and dinner (or as they liked to call it “THE party”) had been rescheduled and instead of happening in a couple of hours it was happening right now, that way we could enjoy “THE party” and get to bed in time so that we did not have “sore heads”. There was no escaping it, we had inadvertently walked into a trap and had to live with the consequences…

Prior to “THE party” we witnessed the most elaborate tea-making ceremony the world has ever known. The tea was very good!

We were immediately whisked away in a taxi (still in our quite disgusting cycling clothes… no time to change you see, party to be had) and taken to a fantastic restaurant. There was beautiful teak woodwork everywhere we looked, water features, bridges integrating the water features, brilliant red lanterns adding a wonderful ambience with soft hues. The waiters looked smart, the cliental looked smarter (aside from the cycling party that had just arrived), and the smells emanating from the kitchen will stay with me for the rest of my days.

This early evening dinner was absolutely incredible, a real highlight of our entire journey. The company could not have been any better; the food, which we cooked right in front of us in the ever-popular Chinese hot pot was outstanding, and thankfully the alcohol was not as potent as I expected (and was also consumed in thimble sized measures). Katie and I almost certainly broke dinner protocol all of the time, but no one seemed to mind. We were actively applauded when we successfully negotiated tricky manoeuvres with the chopsticks, we had shot glasses raised to us and we responded in kind. At one point we were asked to make a toast, which I gladly indulged in and when it was confirmed we were full one of the men said he would take us home, very respectful of the fact that we needed an early night. Even now as I sit on the banks of the Mekong in northern Thailand reviewing my notes and finishing this blog I am still in awe of the immense generosity and kindness of everyone we had the pleasure of dining with. We have been incredibly lucky in our journey to date with the people we have met, and these guys are no exception. Incredible human beings that emphasise to me everything that is good in the world!

Chinese hotpot. Removing items from this with chop sticks required patience and good humour!

Our epic hosts!

The fact that our hosts had been so accommodating meant that we were in bed by 9pm so it was up early and back on the road just after 6am in an effort to make it from Longnan to Wenxian. When we had quizzed the LCC the night before they had said in no uncertain terms that it was impossible to cycle the distance we were attempting… so like a red rag to a bull we decided to take up the challenge and prove to ourselves, more than anything that we were capable of beating China. The first 70km were a continuation of a downhill that we had been enjoying for sometime; it was then a turn away from the river and a gentle uphill until we finally reached the mountain that we had been waiting for. The first 10 km were incredible. The road reminded us of the Alpe d’Huez with switch back after switch back and as we gained altitude the rugged peaks seemed to go on forever. At the top of the switch backs we summited what turned out to be the false summit patted ourselves on the back and wondered what the locals had been talking about. This jubilation lasted all of about 5 minutes when we realised that we were in a bit of trouble. The road completely deteriorated and we were faced with 20km of uphill slog in a heat that was becoming more intense. Finally, after the best part of 9 hours in the saddle (not including the numerous water stops, food stops, CYA – choose your attitude – stops, look at the paint drying stops) we eventually summited and found that the road before us was almost 30km of perfectly paved downhill switchbacks almost all the way to Wenxian. We made our destination with plenty of daylight to spare, we had passed 13,000km and it was in that moment when we had pushed ourselves beyond our own expectations and beyond those of the locals that we knew we would not be beaten by China and barring any mechanical disaster we were mentally and physically strong enough to cycle the whole way. It was a great day!

Switch backs to the false summit.

The next few days we followed a number of rivers that twisted and turned through more epic scenery, but unlike the 240km easy ride downstream we had had on the other side of the mountains, here the road undulated quite dramatically; at some points we were no more than 10m from the surface of the water and other times we were well over 200m above the water. The climbing felt never ending and as we pushed further south the temperature began to soar almost exponentially, which meant increasingly early starts to try and beat the heat. With the kilometres that we were punishing ourselves with it did not take long until we entered Sichuan, our third province in China and home of their national treasure… the giant panda.

Sichuan really is very nice to cycle in.

Our entry into Sichuan resulted in an immediate change in almost everything. The sides of the roads were mainly devoid of rubbish, the houses looked as though they belonged to slightly more affluent people, the roads were in better condition, and the number of tourists went from zero to unimaginable numbers. Sichuan is stunning so it is easy to see why the tourists (almost exclusively Chinese) are there in their hordes and aside from about a 10km stretch of road that was overly busy and incredibly intimidating the cycling was very pleasant.

Chengdu, the capital of Sichuan had been our aim for the previous week or so – we managed to get there on time and stay on target with our China Challenge. We both loved Chengdu and with the confidence that our day to Wenxian and subsequent days in the heat had given us we ended up having 2 days rest knowing we could make days up later on.

The pandas were not just a highlight of this journey but also a genuine lifetime highlight. I cannot put into words how incredible these creatures are and how fantastic the park in Chengdu is. We arrived very early in the morning and there would have been more pandas than people at the park when we first entered, so we were fortunate to experience uninterrupted, peaceful views before the tourist busses turned up (literally thousands of people). I am not too sure I would want to be there when they turned up, and I am not too sure if the pandas like that many people either. The only word of advice (aside from arrive early) is that if you get a chance to see them in Chengdu (or China), just do it, life is far too short. Amazing stuff!

AMAZING

Based on what we had already cycled, how many days had already been consumed (including the three days in Urumqi), and the fact we had to average 100km per day to reach Lanzhou in time to renew our visas we were feeling a little apprehensive. We were only 680km into China and already found ourselves two days behind schedule. We decided on 125km per day for ten days and then a day off to see The Wall; this would get us almost back on track and we could reassess in Jiayuguan.

The first morning did not start so well; even though the snow had mostly been cleared off the streets by the enormous army of workers, the traffic was still thick and slightly intimidating. We decided that the best course of action was to push the bikes until we felt comfortable. This lasted well over an hour, but by the time we hopped on the bikes and started pedalling the sun was beaming down on us, and the traffic had thinned. The glorious G30, which we had been cycling on was off limits for the time being as it looked backed up with trucks and the hard shoulder was non-existent (it is technically always off limits based on the no cycling signs, but given there is no other road all cycle tourists tend to turn a blind eye, as do the police). This meant we had to head for the G312, an old national road, which in some places has fallen into a horrible state. It just so happened that the road out of Urumqi was one of these stretches that had fallen into a horrible state, akin to cycling in Central Asia really, not at all conducive to completing our China Challenge.

Cycling out of Urumqi

Progress was slow, but at least most of the traffic had headed for the G30; in fact, the only traffic that seemed to be on the G312 were the countless driving school drivers and their students. This seems to be the norm here in China. Innumerable cars, packed with up to four students ply the same stretch of road on the outskirts of cities with the students rotating through the driving seat. Students are taught not only to drive, but other essential skills such as honking their horns at anything that moves, slowing down to take photos of camels, helping the driving instructor out with his cigarette, and the most important of all… hitting each and every pot hole at full speed in order to try and drown foreign cycle tourists in mud. The attire is spot on as well… more often than not a high riding mini with accompanying stilettos is the order of the day.

Driving school. Slowing down to take the essential photos of camels!

After two hours of this madness it was deemed safer to try our luck with the numerous trucks and the non-existent hard shoulder of the G30, so we pulled off into a petrol station, put even more clothes on (it was -10 out of the wind by this point), cleaned off the icicles hanging from our bicycle frames and took stock of our current situation. Less than a fleeting moment of relaxation following the glory of putting on more warm clothes and basking out of the biting wind and we were hurriedly escorted off the premises by armed guards and pointed on our way. This part of China being akin to Afghanistan or Iraq (according to more than one paranoid local, and numerous foreigners) we could definitely see the logic… two near frozen cycle tourists sheltering out of the wind roughly 100m from the forecourt are definitely a security threat?!?! We did as we were directed and headed straight for the G30, ignoring the no-cycling sign by simply looking the other way and sheltering from the now ghastly wind by cowering as far inside our jackets as humanly possible. We must have looked a most ridiculous sight. As luck would have it the hard shoulder was not only devoid of any remnants of snow but it had actually been swept clean. The day was getting better!

Icicles hanging off the bikes. It was bitterly cold!

With the wind now reaching ferocious speeds we hurtled along. The plan had always been to reach Turpan on the second day, resupply and crack on; but by 15:30 it was evident that if we continued to get lucky with the wind and the descent (Urumqi is at roughly 1100m and Turpan is at roughly sea-level) we had a real chance of making Turpan in a day. This was unthinkable even at noon when we had pulled into the petrol station, but we weren’t complaining. High-speed tail winds and a relentless down hill were perfect and we ate away the kilometres; even a nasty puncture could not deter us. With our stubborn minds made up we were going to get to Turpan that day no matter what. Well, no matter what happened at around 60km from our destination. We turned at right angles to the wind, entered the largest wind farm we had ever seen and what had been our friend became our enemy. We were literally being blown off the road (in Katie’s words “that was the scariest thing I have done on this journey”)! Our speed had to drop to account for this and when trucks came thundering towards us we jumped off and braced ourselves with all our strength. The trucks would create a pocket of air that was like a vacuum; enticing us, and our bikes to be acquainted with their wheels. As with everything in life, perseverance pays off and eventually we turned again, caught the tail wind and sailed effortlessly into Turpan. 185.7km in the bag, temperatures soaring in the high teens, and BBQs cranking everywhere… a great day!

Entering the wind farm for what turned out to be “the scariest thing I have done on this journey”.

After a dreamless sleep we awoke as refreshed as we possibly could be after such a long ride the day before and made our way into the deserted streets of early morning Turpan in search of dumplings. A sure fire way to identify the location of dumplings is to look for the associated steam rising in the cool(ish) morning air; it did not take long! When I say cool(ish) morning air I mean not really cool at all, certainly compared to Urumqi. There we were sitting out in the sunshine on the roadside consuming our staple breakfast, something that would have been unthinkable less than 24 hours previously in Urumqi. We were very pleased with our current situation and happy beyond words to have left Urumqi (according to the Guinness Book of Records – the furthest city from any coast in the world) behind us.

Having reached Turpan in break neck speed we set about readjusting our goal of reaching Hami, a city/area notorious in cycle touring circles for its unparalleled wind; wind that can be so strong it is impossible to walk, let alone cycle. We decided that we would attempt the 400 odd kms in three days. The only problem (aside from potentially debilitating wind) lay in the fact that Turpan sits almost at sea level in the second deepest depression on earth, which meant climbing out. This started almost immediately! Thankfully the scenery was stunning as we passed up through the Flaming Mountains and the kms melted away in the midday sun. At the top of the first climb we were rewarded with fruit sellers showing off their wares. It was wonderful; we just pulled up, pointed at a melon and it was carved for our consumption right there and then.

Entering The Flaming Mountains. Epic scenery!

As with most days in the saddle there are ups and downs and after the joy of consuming the tastiest melon either of us had ever had the pleasure of eating it was back to the grind, but this time with a hell of a lot less motivation. The scenery became same-same, the wind picked up just enough to annoy us and the thought of having to find somewhere to camp was not at all appealing. Eventually as the day drew to a close we found a gap in the fence separating the G30 expressway from the immense emptiness of the desert, clambered through and set up the tent. We had only managed just over 100km and to make matters worse, when I went to light the MSR Multi-fuel stove it did not work. This had been an on-going problem for sometime; sometimes it would work, sometimes it would not and no matter how much love and attention we gave it, it was always a game of roulette. So the day ended with us lying in bed consuming one shrink wrapped, overly spicy, fat congealing chicken leg each and 12 biscuits (each). It must be noted that the biscuits were excellent, but the sugar rush probably did not do wonders for our sleep.

Over the next two days our fortunes ebbed and flowed, but there is no denying how stunning this part of the journey was. Following on from a sugar induced restless evening we spent the best part of 80km grinding through the gears up hill, down dale… mostly up hill to find ourselves completely and utterly overwhelmed by the sheer size of the desert. We were also acutely aware that our food supplies were running very very low. Actually they weren’t too low, but given that the MSR had basically raised the proverbial finger at us our pasta was rendered useless… more ballast for Katie’s bike than anything else.

Typical mountain scenery in the desert en route to Hami.

Again, as is the case every evening on the G30 we were forced to play the “find the hole in the fence” game. Not only are we not really meant to be on the G30; but also there is no definitive rule (to our knowledge) about camping in China either. It is best (in our opinion) to stay completely invisible to all and sundry as the last thing we want in the middle of the night is a shaking of our tent by a police officer and a completely useless conversation in Mandarin-English resulting in being escorted to hotel to be registered. Anyway, with the hole in the fence game a success and that night’s invisible camping location established we again found ourselves in a truly spectacular location. The location however did not disguise the stark realisation that it was going to be cold water soaked oats drenched in honey for dinner… this was, in hindsight, a watershed moment for us. The dinner was really flippn EXCELLENT! Who would have known?!?! We delved in for seconds all the time praising the MSR Multi-fuel stove for behaving so badly. Another great day!

With our plan of reaching Hami hanging by a thread it was with some joy that we awoke to a slight tail wind and a reasonable descent. Within 10km of leaving our campsite we also passed by a expressway services, where we drew quite a crowd in the petrol station when we sat down to consume the instant noodles for breakfast… followed of course by an ice-cream (only when cycle touring is this sort of behaviour even remotely acceptable). By the end of the day we had made it to Hami with relative ease, passed 11,000km for the journey and checked into a nice hotel where we spent the rest of the night checking, and double checking the weather forecast, and more accurately, the forecast for the wind. We knew we had been lucky up until this point and it was surely only a matter of time until our luck ran out.

Our next milestone was passing out of the province of Xinjiang and into Gansu, en-route to the end of the desert proper and the beginning of the Middle Kingdom at the city of Jiayuguan. With Jiayuguan being a nudge over 600km from Hami we decided on a five-day strategy, hoped for favourable wind and terrain and got to work at chipping away at the kms early on the first day. Unfortunately our tyres had other ideas. Within 20km of leaving the relative comfort and false security of our hotel we were both sporting flat front tyres (thankfully the only “double-whammy” of the journey to date). This was to become an all too familiar routine for us on our way to Jiayuguan. Six punctures in 620km was, if I am honest, one of the most demoralising ways to spend time on the road. We would wake every morning with the nagging feeling that a patch was leaking or we had picked up a puncture in the evening.

Repairing the “double whammy”.

With the constant threat of punctures looming over us at all times it was with some joy that we finally passed out of Xinjiang and into Gansu. We had cycled just over 1450km across this enormous province, and although there was a small sense of relief, the realisation that China is a very very large country dominated our thoughts.

The first thing that we noticed when passing into Gansu was that the road signs were now devoid of Uighur and sported English translations, even if at times they did not make a lot of sense. The second thing that we noticed was that we were absolutely smashing through the kms; so much so that we decided very early on after passing into Gansu that we would push for Jiayuguan in four days from Hami, not the originally mooted five. It was going to be a monumental effort (made infinitely harder by the demoralising punctures) but if we were again lucky with the wind we knew we had a chance.

English road signs (sort of).

The first night in Gansu we passed the sign for the crescent lake of Dunhuang (a mere 100km to the south). This had always been on my list of things I really wanted to see in China, but given the time constraints and the snow in Urumqi it was with a heavy heart we cycled past the turn-off and into one of the most horrible looking towns the world has ever known. Liuyuan was truly a depressing looking town, the fact it was located 5km up a more than gentle hill directly into a head wind did not help. The town is situated amongst mountains of coal that seem to blow in every direction, coating it in a fine dust and giving weary cycle tourists a very bad case of the black-lung. To accompany the black-lung is also the constant buzzing of innumerable pylons carrying China’s ever increasing renewable wind energy to the masses as well as more aggressive dogs that we have seen in the rest of China (On the whole I love the dogs in China; they are absolutely, 100% petrified of cycle tourists). On the plus side, we were a real novelty to almost everyone in the town and were treated like royalty. The locals were super nice and once the morning arrived and our tired bodies had had time to rest the town looked more appealing; the local market was buzzing, dumplings were being consumed everywhere we looked, and we had been given a kind message of support and cookies from the girl at the hotel reception. It is these sorts of experiences that really make cycle touring a fantastic way to see the world. Almost every single tourist would bypass this depressing looking town, and had it not been for desperation we would certainly have as well; but we didn’t, and we were rewarded with some truly wonderful memories.

Kind messages for us.

With our fill of dumplings, cookies and deep fried dough sticks we headed off with the knowledge that in two days, all going well we would be waking in Jiayuguan, stepping outside our hotel, hailing a taxi and heading off to see the Great Wall. There was the small matter of 330km in two days and the very real chance that we would be blown off the road by gale force winds; but it was now or never because in three days time our weather app on the iPhone was predicting 40km/h head winds (gusts of 70km/h).

Leaving Liuyuan was much easier than entering; a downhill took us all the way back to the G30 where we again looked the other way when passing the no cycling sign and cycled on to the expressway. The day was strange and for a long time we could not really work out what it was that made it strange. We were coasting along at 20km/h, eating up the tarmac and feeling good and then it occurred to me. I asked Katie a simple (yet very random) question… “How many wind turbines, ball-park, do you think you have seen in your life before cycle touring?” We both concluded that it was probably around 200 give or take (like I mentioned, it was a very random question). Well on this day, we cycled for well over 100km and all we could see out to our left, genuinely as far as the eye could see (at least before the desert blurred into the mountains) was wind turbines. For occasional stretches of this 100km there was also a mirror image to our right as well. It would not be an exaggeration to say the number was in the thousands, probably south of 10,000; but you get my point. Aside from the sea of wind turbines already installed there were also wind turbine components being transported to and fro along the G30, and these things are enormous (see below image). China really has taken this renewable energy to a new level, and coming from an engineering background it is impossible not to be impressed by what they are achieving. I was mesmerised all day by this project on a truly mind-blowing scale.

Katie holding her nerve as yet another wind turbine trundles past on the G30. It is hard to over state how big and intimidating these things are!

As the day passed we realised that there would be no hotel bed for the evening and with the fence accompanying the G30 in Gansu proving almost impregnable (we think the folk in Xinjiang are a bit lax with their fence maintenance) the options for sleeping were fast becoming very slim indeed. Eventually as the sun was dipping behind the mountains we conceded that we would be spending a night sleeping under the expressway in a tunnel. We are completely comfortable with sleeping almost anywhere in the wild these days, but there was something slightly sinister about bedding down in a tunnel. It is fair to say with the classic Nirvana song Something in the Way going around and around in my head, and the thought of a desert hobo waking us to use the tunnel as a toilet I did not sleep at all well. Katie on the other hand was out like a light and could not have cared less. What pushing on and sleeping in the tunnel meant though was that we were on the cusp of the Middle Kingdom two days ahead of our schedule when we set out from Urumqi.

View from the tunnel.

In an ideal world I would finish this blog by saying that we cycled into Jiayuguan through gates in the Great Wall to a super chilled bottle of beer. This however could not be further from the truth. In truth we limped across the line happy in the knowledge that our sanity was still mostly in tact after what can only be described as a very testing day in the desert. We had made it to Jiayuguan in phenomenal time (phenomenal for us), but the multiple punctures, heavy traffic and blinding dust storm brought us back to earth plus the reality that we still had the best part of 3,500km to negotiate in China. The thought of that challenge could wait though because this was THE town we had been gunning for since Urumqi and we knew that in a few short hours we would be walking a top of one of man’s greatest engineering feats…The Great Wall of China. Amazing!

The border was passed with relative ease; being on bicycles and having picked up a few tricks at the last few Central Asian border crossings (i.e. being well mannered towards anyone other than the actual guards doesn’t get you anywhere) we chose the vehicle lane (as the pedestrian lane was chaos), sneakily crept in front of the waiting cars, waved and smiled at the tooting aggression and proceeded to charm the border guards with the age old conversation about Manchester United and Wayne Rooney. With that behind us, and Kazakhstan again stretching out in front of us (being the largest land-locked country it tends to stretch out quite a way) it was time to turn our attention to the 1,200m pass that we had to get over before dusk if we wanted to have a reasonably warm night. Unlike the border, the pass was not relatively easy! I would go as far to say that it was incredibly difficult.

With almost four weeks off the bike, including a rather indulgent trip to Hong Kong, our bodies were not at all used to the punishment and it took a mighty effort to reach the plateau before beginning the decent down towards a warmer evening. At one point near the plateau, with our blood sugar crashing quicker than our motivation and our minds digging at our sub-conscious to find remnants of our beloved Bishkek home from home, we came across two ladies posing for ridiculous photos in front of giant wind turbines. This lifted our spirits no end. What on earth were they doing that for… were they mad? As we came closer they moved aside and then started giving us giant “WOOP WOOP”s, fist pumping, and yelling “good luck!” ABSOLUTLEY AMAZING! There we were thinking how ridiculous they looked, and there they were giving us all sorts of encouragement. We felt a little bad for our initial thoughts, but there is no doubt that their encouragement lit the fire and we cycled on stronger than we had been all day.

Still buzzing, we crested the edge of the plateau and began plummeting down the other side at dizzying speeds. This caused toes, fingers, nose and ears to freeze; but for that moment in our space-time continuum we didn’t care. We were back on the bikes and we were happy beyond words!

Finding a campsite in Kazakhstan could not be easier. Having descended for what seemed like an age, we pulled off the road, followed a cross country track for a short while and found ourselves completely isolated on a beautiful moor with majestic mountains playing the role of the perfect backdrop. Moments earlier, when flying down the hill in a state of euphoria we definitely felt as if we were back; well it took just five minutes of trying to put the tent up on the blustery moor to realise that although we were back on the bike, we had a long way to go to be back to where we were before we got off the bike. Eventually the tent went up and we were able to cook up a “meal” and sit with the doors open to enjoy the epic scenery, which improved dramatically as the darkness enveloped the land and the stars began to twinkle in this vast landscape devoid of light pollution. Truly epic memories!

First night back in Kazakhstan.

When the sun broke over the top of the mountains and beamed down on us in the morning it was a wonderful feeling; wonderful to be back on track with the chance of completing our journey, wonderful to be out in the wild enjoying life, but most of all it was wonderful (and astonishing) to realise how incredibly resilient the body is. After weeks off the bike and quite an abusive day in the saddle the previous day the bodies did not ache one bit (save for a sore tooth that I had). We felt strong for the challenge of cycling across Kazakhstan and meeting our self imposed deadline with the Chinese border.

The next day and a half into Almaty flew by as we enjoyed the mountain scenery, the random camels on the side of the road and yet another breathtakingly beautiful camping location. What we did not enjoy was the pain that was emanating from a sore tooth in my mouth. I did not enjoy the pain. Katie did not enjoy the complaining! The original plan was to cycle straight through Almaty and head out onto the endless steppe, but the pain put a halt to that. We checked ourselves into the same hotel (not wanting to burden anyone with a grumpy, sick patient) that we had visited on our bicycle repair dash in January and waited for the time when we could go to the dentist. It was not a complete waste of time as we got to watch Guptill tear into the once proud Windies bowling attack and plunder 237 glorious runs to put New Zealand in the semi-final of the Cricket World Cup.

Camels chilling by the side of the road.

Surely the best visit to the dentist ever.

I would be lying if I said I did not enjoy the trip to the dentist, but all good things must come to an end and with the sun still shining on our travels we breezed out of Almaty early on a Sunday morning when the traffic was thin. The traffic did not stay thin for long as our departure coincided with the Nauryz celebrations, which was not a good thing. The driving in Central Asia (although nothing on Georgia) has been pretty bad, made worse by the state of the roads. It is in stark contrast to the people. Sane, generous, kind people become monsters on the road here… suffice to say, the day was long and slow as we spent a lot of time bailing off onto the non-existent hard shoulder to let the maniacs have their way. Thankfully, as has always been the case on our third stay in Kazakhstan the camping was easy and stunning.

The following day took us off the steppe we had been cycling on, through the Kokpek gorge and up onto a desert plateau; I know it is getting a bit repetitive, but… once again the scenery in Kazakhstan was genuinely breath taking. I think that this small corner of Kazakhstan is the most picturesque area we have been in; possibly on the entire journey. Unfortunately the mad drivers were still out in force, presumably returning from their Nauryz celebrations. It is strange, because the thing I remember the most of this particular day is not the scenery, or the drivers but how the gorge played tricks on our minds and our perception; so much so it makes me feel slightly nauseous just thinking of it now. To be honest, the same thing happened on our first day out in the Uzbekistan desert, but I didn’t want to write about it because I actually thought I had lost my mind. However, having read other cycling blogs since those dark days in the cold desert I have come to accept that this is just a phenomenon, perhaps only associated with the turtle like progress of a cycle tourist on a slightly inclining gradient.

As we entered the Kokpek gorge we were expecting to start a long slow descent off the peak we had been caressed up all morning by a mighty tail wind. But our speed dropped to a painstakingly slow 7km/h and for the life of us we could not work it out. All our perceptions were telling us that we were indeed heading down hill, our memory of Google maps had told us we should expect a downhill, yet we were still doing 7km/h. To make matters worse the wind had died away completely and we were now being slow cooked by the midday sun. At one point I actually got off the bike and checked the metal studs of our winter tyres to make sure they weren’t getting bogged down in melting tar. Finally, after the best part of two hours struggling with the slowness of cycling, and struggling with our brains perception of what was going on Katie pointed out that a stream that had joined us next to the road was indeed flowing (quite aggressively) in the opposite direction to our travel. This prompted me to check the GPS and we had in fact climbed a ludicrous amount through the gorge. At least it was comforting to know that we weren’t heading down hill at 7km/h (and the tyres weren’t sticking in the tar). To this day we still don’t know why our brains were processing the uphill as a downhill, but at least we are not alone in this madness.

The day ended with yet another ridiculously epic campsite; stars, silhouetted mountains, not a person within 30km, and shooting stars… it can be a tough life this cycle touring.

Words fail me…

Waking in a desert usually occurs when the sun hits the tent, but on this occasion I was jolted awake by the side of the tent being thrust into my head. How strange I thought. Not so strange when I peered outside to be blasted by a howling gale. Thankfully, it was from the correct direction for cycling, so up we got and off we went, knowing that if we were lucky it would push us the final 140km to Zharkent and a hotel for the evening, before heading on towards China, and the real unknown. Zharkent appeared on the horizon in record time thanks to our good friend the tail wind and after turning our nose up at one establishment we settled on a nice hotel for our penultimate night in Central Asia. We arrived just in time to see the Hairy Javelin throw his bat at a good length delivery, choking off the South African Cricket World Cup dream and keeping the Kiwi dream alive (albeit for only a few days). I think it would be safe to say that I consumed exactly one too many celebratory beers that evening and thanked my lucky stars that the last cycling day in Central Asia did not have to start until the late afternoon and was only 40km.

Dust storm enroute to Zharkent made the cycling even more exciting than it should have been!

Our final night in Central Asia was spent in our beloved tent, opposite a petrol station, consuming Kit Kat ice creams, chatting to the many truck drivers waiting patiently at the border, replacing worn drive-chains, gazing out at super imposing mountains, and wondering if the flight to Hong Kong had been a waste of time. It was completely possible that the border would be “closed to cyclists” and that China was not “open for business”. A restless night calculating many permutations ensued and when the sun finally arrived we were ready at the border (with what seemed like the rest of Kazakhstan).

Trucks waiting for the border to open.

The border on the Kazakhstan side was a complete and utter shambles and highlighted all of the good and bad things we now associate with Central Asia.

On the bad side… queues do not exist in this part of the world, it is more of an unordered scrum of burly, overly aggressive loud men (and very, very grumpy women) pushing, shoving and fighting for position. We have learnt the hard way that the loudest, most aggressive always wins the scrum battle. We very rarely lose this battle anymore. The final border of Central Asia is testament to what we have learnt. We were let through the first three sets of gates first, much to the displeasure of all concerned (except us). They couldn’t really fathom how someone as small as Katie could keep winning the fight, which I found incredibly amusing.

On the good side… everyone, once the scrum battle had been decided could not have been more helpful; often offering to push or lift Katie’s bike, pointing us in the right direction, and when it came to the fourth and final gate (two hours after entering the first gate) they moved aside letting the strange foreigners through… possibly in recognition of our undefeated record at the previous three gates.

Being stamped out of Kazakhstan was a relief; finally we had made it across Central Asia. We were still none the wiser if we would be let into China, but we were out of Kazakhstan and had the infamous 7km loop in “no mans land” to traverse before (hopefully) starting The China Challenge*.

* The China Challenge…

When we first planned our journey we were expecting to get a 90-day visa for China. This however has changed in the past couple of years and getting a 90 day visa from anywhere outside of your own country is basically impossible. What you do get is a 30-day tourist visa, which you can renew once for another 30 days. The renewing of this visa can take up to four days, so in essence you get a 26-day visa and a 30-day visa to cross what is an absolutely massive country.

We have set the following priorities:

1. Cycle the entire way with no public transport;
2. See the Great Wall;
3. See the Pandas;
4. Avoid the cold (we now hate cycling in the cold with an unabated passion), which basically means we need to try to avoid the Tibetan plateau;
5. Everything else is a bonus.

With the above priorities in mind, our plan of attack is to cycle (on average) 100km every day we cycle. We want to take a day off to see the Great Wall and a day off to see the Pandas. The Great Wall is in the first stretch, which we are hoping will be from Khorgas (border with Kazakhstan) to Lanzhou; the Pandas will probably be in Chengdu in the second stretch from Lanzhou to Laos. Every day we do over 100km we can bank the kms and earn extra days off, and obviously every day we don’t reach our target means we use banked kms. We think the first stretch is further in terms of kms but the second stretch will be far more mountainous so this is likely to be the tougher of the two sections.

We know of a small number of people who have managed the feat of cycling the whole way on two 30-day tourist visas and we are hoping to join this elite group of cycling heroes (in our minds anyway!).

The first day cycling out of the city was astonishing; the sun was shining, revealing extraordinary mountains that had remained shrouded in mist for most of our time in Samarkand; the roads were good, we were making excellent time, and we had our first hills since Azerbaijan. It felt good to be pushing up the hills, probably more for the change of scenery than the physical exertion, but nonetheless it felt good. As the kilometres ticked by at a rather alarming speed we realised that wild camping was going to be virtually impossible. Unlike the north west of Uzbekistan where you could in theory camp almost anywhere, the south east is heavily cultivated and populated, which makes it almost impossible to find a suitable camping location. As the day was drawing in we were starting to fret a little about our situation, when on the horizon a building resembling a very posh çayhana came into view… Not only was it the most upmarket çayhana in the world, it also sported three very fine yurts in the front garden and after much negotiating we eventually managed to secure a spot in one of the yurts for the evening. Result!

Our yurt for the evening

Aside from the excellent accommodation, the people who ran the çayhana were fantastic. As with every çayhana in Uzbekistan the first thing we enquired about was plov; Plov is possibly the best thing ever to come out of Central Asia and we both get quite upset when it is not available. The English-speaking son of the owner pointed out that their plov was not of high quality and we should consider something else. Thinking this was a ploy to buy more expensive food I asked to see the plov being prepared. What I experienced was the best part of an hour in the huge kitchen servicing the çayhana “chatting” with the owner (who speaks fluent Spanish, which strangely enough, given that I speak no Spanish, made it slightly easier to communicate), listening to him crank out some tunes on his guitar and converting the staunchly vodka consuming Uzbeks to beer (even if only for one evening). By the end of our beer drinking session it was confirmed that the plov was indeed not fit for consumption. Free beer, free plov advice, numerous kms under the belt, excellent company and a supremely warm and cosy place to sleep… the day had been a raging success and we were really happy to be back on the bikes pushing towards Bishkek.

Beer drinking session with the chefs

We broke the journey from Samarkand to Bishkek up by spending time in the Uzbek capital of Tashkent at an excellent hostel. As Katie proclaimed on leaving Tashkent it was a nice, inoffensive city; aside from that there is not much to say about it. What our time in Tashkent did allow for was to reflect on a successful crossing of Uzbekistan, which up until now has been by far and away the toughest thing we have ever done. Aside from the physical and mental challenges of cycling across a frozen desert there were a number of country specific idiosyncrasies:

Registration – by law you are (apparently) required to be registered every third night in the country (depends entirely on who you talk to). This is not outlined in any official documentation that we found, but is outlined on almost every cycling blog ever written (thankfully). Not wanting to cause any trouble when leaving the country we religiously went about collecting the registrations, just to have them completely ignored by the border guards on exiting…

Our pile of Uzbekistan registration slips.

Currency – for some strange, unknown reason (certainly unknown to us) there is an official rate for the Uzbekistan Som and an unofficial rate for the Uzbekistan Som. The official rate is somewhere in the region of 2480:1USD, the unofficial rate is anywhere between 2500:1USD and 3800:1USD; this made the country either expensive or cheap depending on the rate we were able to obtain from a money fixer. Not only does the currency fluctuate by as much as 50% it generally comes in denominations of 500 (or 1000) Som, meaning that when changing money you are left with large piles representing very little. Once, when changing $200USD we received no fewer than 1552 notes… talk about feeling like a gangster when going to buy anything!

Uzbekistan money!

Based on our previous experiences in Kazakhstan it was with some trepidation that we finally left the relative comfort of Tashkent and headed for the border; which at 30km from the city centre did not take long at all. Fortunately the same could be said for the border crossing as well. On the Uzbekistan side the vehicle lane was closed, thus meaning us (and our beloved bicycles) had to join the throngs trying to force their way to the exit counter. More than once a pedal or pannier would unexpectedly surge forward in the human scrum and attack a poor unsuspecting local. This did not make us at all popular with the local population, in fact, you could say it made us particularly unpopular. Thankfully the border guards could see that we were upsetting the proverbial apple cart and eventually we were ushered forward to help alleviate the unnecessary stress our presence was creating. With Uzbekistan cleared we made our way to the Kazakhstan border where the border guard immediately set about hitting on Katie… this was an excellent result and it did not take long until we were again ushered to the front of a queue, issued with our 15 day visa and sent on our way. Brilliant!

On entering Kazakhstan it was immediately obvious that it was not the same desolate, almost apocalyptic Kazakhstan that we had entered into at the beginning of January. Dramatic mountains to our right and endless grasslands to our left had replaced the desert of Aktau; the grey drabness we associate with Caspian Kazakhstan gave way to the sun glistening in pre-spring crispness and most importantly the temperature was above zero.

The epic mountains!

This new version of Kazakhstan gave us the confidence that camping was the only option, so camp we did. Due to immense cold and our love of a warm bed we had not camped since the early days in Azerbaijan, but it did not take long to get back into the rhythm; with the tent set up, terrible dinner and a warm cup of tea in our bellies we were able to really appreciate the beauty of this country. The stars were shining, the mountains were majestically silhouetted in the moonlight and the sound of dogs barking was nowhere to be heard. This version of paradise lasted exactly half the night! The second half of the night was spent hoping the tent would not blow (or float) away. Thankfully neither happened and we awoke to a very fine stream meandering past the end of our tent and yet another flat tyre. This flat tyre game that the bike was playing was not appreciated at all, particularly with the rain returning and still 60km to cycle before we could find somewhere completely dry to stay.

To put the bike’s flat tyre game into perspective, it was the third flat I had had since arriving in Uzbekistan from the same tyre. Before leaving Britain I had openly proclaimed that the only thing I could really fix on a bike was a flat tyre, but this made a complete mockery of that! Eventually, and entirely by accident I found the nasty little piece of metal that was the cause of much frustration (and unnecessary stress in the desert). It should be said that the first flat tyre appeared to be caused by a deterioration of an existing patch (just coincidence I thought… Sherlock Holmes would not have been happy with me about deducing that); the second flat tyre, which was a very slow leak appeared to be due to a leaky valve (probably because I accidentally leant on it or something equally stupid); and the third flat tyre, well that was found on a cold, wet morning where my jovial mood was nowhere to be found. They apparently call this sort of thing character building?!?!

Trying to find the culprit for all of the unwelcome flat tyres

If the day started badly, it quickly descended into one of those days that people say you look back on fondly. I don’t look back on it fondly yet, and I can almost guarantee I never will! Quickly following the flat tyre was the burnt porridge, the realisation that most of our gear was now wet (due to condensation and the rain), and to make matters worse the road we started cycling on was diverted onto what is essentially a country lane. This meant that four lanes of traffic became two, and in some cases there was only enough room for one lane and no bicycles. We spent a lot of time in the mud, which also had the added pleasure of bringing us into contact with the huge local dogs. At one stage I genuinely thought at least one of us was going to be eaten alive by a group of dogs, so I unleashed the pepper spray (the first and hopefully only time we use it). This just added to the all-round hilarity of how bad a day could get and to top it all off the tail wind that had been caressing us along turned into the number one enemy…
Note-to-self: when spraying pepper spray, make sure of a strong head wind! The pepper spray did not in anyway, shape or form get close to one of the dogs chasing us. The dogs, as per usual stopped at their invisible boundary and I was left immersed in a very fine cloud of pepper spray that blew all over my face the moment I unleashed its fury. I can confirm that pepper spraying oneself is not recommended! We limped into Shymkent; wet, (partially blind), and ready for a warm shower. After looking at the weather forecast we decided that the best course of action was at least three nights in a warm, dry hotel room.

Something incredibly odd has also started to become a common daily occurrence in Kazakhstan; hopefully it stops soon. We have had a number of cars slowing right down to a crawl and then someone (often the driver) leaning out the window to “interview” us on their mobile phones. I guess the “interview” would be fine if it were in a language we understood, and the driver was keeping an eye on the road, sadly neither ever happens. More often than not if I get out a camera and start videoing them back they pull off quite quickly, annoyed at why someone would ever do this.

Standard experience in Kazakhstan; people slowing down to interview us whilst driving on the incredibly busy road!

A car undertaking us to make sure they can get their interview in. Madness!

On the penultimate day in Kazakhstan we had set ourselves the arduous task of cycling about 140km so that we could make the final two days into Bishkek as relaxing as possible (relaxing is good when approaching any city). Not only did we pass our 9000km mark we were also reminded at just how great cycle touring is. We arrived in the city of Merke on dusk and went about asking people for directions to the nearest guesthouse when out of the corner of my eye a car approached going the wrong way and stopped next to us. My gut reaction was “great, someone else to video us”; I could not have been more wrong, and felt completely ashamed of my thoughts. Two very kind people got out of the car, stated they were both teachers (one an English teacher) and offered to take us in for the evening. What ensued was one of the most memorable nights of our journey. This was not one of those (often) cringe “homestays” that have so regularly been a low point in a holiday (everything seems kind of fake, false and put on for the foreigners who are paying); this was a genuine “act of kindness”. We were fed until bursting, and then fed some more; we got to listen to traditional Kazakh music being strummed out by the father of the house; and most importantly we got to interact with the family around the dinner table. It truly was a wonderful way of breaking down barriers and seeing just how a local family lives. When sleep took me that evening I can remember thinking how incredibly lucky we were to be cycling around the world and meeting truly wonderful, genuine and kind hearted people.

Chlling at the table with the family

Epic family, epic day, this is why we cycle tour!

The next day, as planned, was rather relaxing. The Kazakh/Kyrgyz border was the easiest so far, and pushing the bike across into Kyrgyzstan felt as if we were back in Africa. The cold hard efficiency of the Kazakh border gave way to a ramshackle of buildings flanking a rather rutted, baked mud road. The smells of shashliq were thick on the air, moneychangers were aplenty and all of this under the watchful gaze of more incredible mountain scenery. It probably also helped that I had just received news (cheers Robbie) of Southee and McCullum giving the English a good old fashioned hiding in the cricket ☺ Life was good!

Katie belting along next to truly epic scenery.

The day went much the same way, the people in Kyrgyzstan are more interested in waving or talking than interviewing from a moving vehicle and the scenery is just ridiculous. The fairly large town of Kara Balta had our names written all over it as somewhere where we could spend the evening. Little did we know that there was virtually no accommodation, and the accommodation that we eventually found had not been recommended by locals; in fact it is fair to say they had warned us about staying there.

How bad cold it be?… Well it was pretty bad; it felt like a disused mental institution, and I had the disturbing feeling that bad things had certainly happened there. But it was a roof over our heads and was super cheap. It was also the sort of place that you just knew something interesting would happen. Later that night I was woken from a surprisingly deep sleep by the sound of knocking down the hallway, I thought to myself that if someone knocks on our door I would probably just hide behind Katie (preferably under the bed) armed with the pepper spray (of course my eyes would be closed after the last use of it) and hope they just go away. Thankfully I did not have to be mortified by hiding behind my wife as the knocking stopped, a door opened and the lady of the night (we later deduced this from the unsavoury drunk sounds) was welcomed in to someone’s room. The next morning I had the pleasure of bumping into the lady of the night as she kindly held the door open to allow me to push my bike out into the beaming sun (the world always seems better in the light of day). Not only did she open the door, flash a rather interesting gold plated smile at me and intoxicate me with alcohol fumes; she offered her services for the princely sum of 200 Som (just north of 2 quid). I was taken aback and could only think of shaking my head, moving away slowly, and pointing to my wedding ring. This had the exact opposite intended effect, so I indicated that I would go inside and be back in a short while. Thankfully Katie appeared at the door and the lady of the night skulked off into the day.

The final push to Bishkek passed without incident or excitement, which is exactly what we needed!

Leaving Beyneu for the Uzbekistan border requires cycling in the direct opposite direction of intended travel for a handful of kilometres before turning 180 degrees, crossing the train tracks and heading off into the desert. I think it is fair to say that the handful of kilometres that we cycled in the opposite direction were the most joyous of the entire desert crossing. The sun was shining, the tail wind was strong enough to push us along at 30km/h, and the road was paved. The about-turn into the desert immediately resulted in a fierce headwind lashing painfully at any exposed skin with increasing ferocity; and a road deteriorating into something usually associated with the Dakar Rally. The two redeeming factors were that the sun was still shining, keeping our spirits up, and the temperature was cold enough to keep the mud frozen as we battled at 8km/h for the entire day.

Road out of Beyneu

Given that this was our first proper day in the desert we were quite excited about most things; look, look, camels! Look, look, wild horses! Look, look, a desert rodent. Suffice to say, this lunacy wore off quickly as the scenery became mundane; same, same; and incredibly boring. The real highlight of the day was that at exactly the same moment we were discovering that our bread was virtually inedible due to freezing, a kind man pulled over in his hardly road legal battered car and offered us hot bread, which we accepted with grace and politeness… that is until he had driven off when we lost all semblance of politeness and devoured it like vultures fighting over the last scraps. At the end of the day, who can see us in the desert anyway?!

The man has barely left the scene and Katie has already devoured most of her portion.

As the day drew to a close we finally reached our desired destination. Now it should be noted that destination is used in the very loosest of terms here. It is not like destination Zanzibar, or destination RWC Final; it is more like destination survival. Turning off the highway into the tiny desert town we pushed our bikes along the sidewalk, as the mud on the main street was a foot thick and not conducive to cycling in, and stopped outside the first two shops we came to. We had read on other blogs that we could ask in a shop for somewhere to stay (ask; meaning play charades as our Russian does not cover such things). It was decided that I should go first, so I chose the blue door of the second shop and walked in with a big smile… I figured that if I looked happy to be in the most remote, wind swept, depressing place of all time I might have pity taken on me and a magic hotel would appear. Clearly every customer and worker did not see it this way! They must have thought with the smile I was wearing that I was about to tell some sort of joke, or perhaps I was the joke. Laughter erupted as soon as I started playing charades to the audience. I don’t mean sympathetic laughter; I mean full on wet-your-pants laughter. I was a crushed man! I smiled again, which brought more laughter and then quietly left to contemplate my life.

The main street with the shop across the road.

Thankfully Katie had significantly more luck than I did; for one, she chose the correct door to walk through, second, she probably didn’t look like a walking joke, and third, she was given a phone with someone on the other end that spoke English (to be fair I think they spoke English like I speak Russian, but nonetheless we got a result). We found ourselves being rescued by a teenage lad who directed us back to his family house, where we were given the run of their very charming “spare” cottage for the evening. The first day in the desert was over, it was a learning curve, but was considered a success; we relaxed and enjoyed the warmth, knowing that the next four days would possibly be the most challenging of the entire journey.

The guest house.

Rising early on the second morning we were greeted with the god awful sound of the wind howling outside, which immediately raised the question “in which direction was it blowing?” Thankfully it had turned completely around from the previous day and was in favour of pushing us all the way to the border. With most things when cycle touring, particularly in the extreme cold we were facing, everything is a compromise. With the wind literally pushing us to the border we found that we barely had to cycle, which on any normal day would be great, but in sub zero temperatures without generating heat through working the body you become very cold, very quickly. Stopping and donning our down jackets resolved this; the first, and hopefully only time we have to cycle in them.

Stopping, unpacking, dressing, repacking, starting again… changing layers whilst on the move is a complete pain; but a necessary evil in such conditions.

The border was a paltry 25km from where we spent the night and having heard some horror stories from other cycle tourists we were fully prepared to be spending a significant amount of time there, and would not have minded at all given that it meant we would be inside. As luck would have it (or not, depending on your point of view) we cleared Kazakhstan in less than 10 minutes and were being ushered over to the Uzbekistan border. Immediately we were on edge as the guards ushered us forward, whilst their Kalashnikovs hung idly over their shoulders. In hindsight it was ridiculous to be intimidated by the sight of the rifles, as the border guards were the most jovial we have met. The four-hour queues, the rummaging through all bags, and the checking of hard drives were non-existent for us.

The Kazakhstan border post.

As Katie set about the task of filling out our customs forms, numerous guards were jostling for position around me, then started uttering the two words you always rejoice in hearing… “David Beckham, David Beckham”. I pointed out that although I am clearly not David Beckham, I think the man is a hero to all, and should be put on a gold pedestal; this sudden connection brought a landslide of banter about all things football, which meant that all things official were put on the back-burner. This lasted for a significant amount of time, and when they were sick of talking about football they asked if they could see the videos on my iPhone. This was even more of a coup than David Beckham, for my iPhone videos are almost exclusively of my perfect little godson Lennox. These videos transfixed even the most stern looking men in the room and brought a joy to the proceedings that I have never seen at a border.

When it was finally my turn for being quizzed in an official capacity I was asked one question…
Border Guard: Do you have a gun?
Me: No, definitely not!
Border Guard: Why not?
Me: Um, um, um, why would I carry a gun?
Border Guard: Looks bemused
Me: Um, um, um, do I need a gun?
Border Guard… shakes his head in disappointment.
To this day I think he was being serious, and I am still none the wiser if it is even legal, but all of the initiative I had gained with banter about Beckham, and videos of Lennox seemed to be wiped away with the one question; I was now on the back foot…
He then pointed at our first-aid kit, which I duly opened and went through the medicines we carry (Paracetemol, Imodium, anti-histamine). Believe me when I say that describing why one carries Imodium via random sounds, facial expressions, and charades is guaranteed to bring a nervous smile to a border guard and all other questions to cease immediately.

Without a doubt the best border crossing of the journey and a great way to enter a country. With that behind us the arduous task of cycling 430km across a barren, desolate, apocalyptic landscape became a striking reality.

The first of presumably 1203 kilometre markers. As you can see I am very excited to be in Uzbekistan.

We knew from a number of blogs that there is a cayhana (tea house) situated roughly 20km from the Uzbekistan border which has hosted a number of cycle tourists, it was this cayhana that we had firmly in our sights as we left the border. With the wind pushing us along we were there ridiculously early, but decided that it would be better to stay put in the warmth than cycle off and camp at a random location in the desert. After it was made clear that we wanted to stay we were ushered in to a private room away from the local punters where we duly made ourselves at home around the table and settled in for the long afternoon/evening.

The first cayhana; a welcome sight for cycle tourists who do not want to sleep out in the freezing desert.

At most establishments in this part of the world, the toilet (generally of the hole in the ground variety) is situated some distance from the warm building that you are located in and it becomes an arduous journey to relive oneself. This cayhana was no exception. The toilet was situated across the road, past a treacherous lake covered in ice, and next to an old rusty railway carriage doubling as someone’s home. Every time I ventured out into the cold and the wind I was unbelievably (and shamelessly) happy that I did not call this place my home. Without a doubt this location is the bleakest I have ever encountered and I really felt (and still feel) for the hardy souls that live there. To cap it all off there was the distinct smell of gas on the breeze, hissing from some unseen pipe. I think it is fair to say that leaving in the dark, before breakfast (i.e. as soon as possible) the next morning was our only option.

Cycling off into the desert with the anticipation of a great sunrise was a good way to start the day, unfortunately the sunrise never really materialised and the desert grew more grim by the minute. The first few hours following the break of dawn were incredibly tough; not physically, but mentally and I am sure we both asked ourselves on more than one occasion what the hell we were doing. We climbed the most gradual hill the world has ever known for the best part of three hours and at times it felt as though we could see the curvature of the earth, the horizon was that enormous. As we crested the hill we were greeted with a flat expanse that went on forever; the only thing breaking it up were the power poles accompanying the train track about 2km to our right, which after a while start breaking your brain. The only thing that really changed were the kilometre markers counting down from 1203; each and every kilometre.

Typical desert scenery

It was somewhere on that flat expanse that we felt the first real pangs of hunger and suddenly realised that skipping breakfast had been a bad, bad idea! Even my unabated love of chocolate was stretched to breaking point as we consumed Kit Kat after Kit Kat to try and rejuvenate ourselves and with an almost desperate desire we pushed on towards Jasliq and the second cayhana in Uzbekistan.

We knew next to nothing about the Jasliq cayhana, except it was rougly 140km from the first cayhana (and that Jasliq has a notorious past). What we got was the equivalent of a palace. There were private rooms (with showers), there was a shop to stock up our depleted Kit Kat supply, there was a variety of excellent food, we could pay in dollars, we could register, there were the obligatory truck driver drunks knocking back the cheap vodka, and to top it all of there was a resident prostitute who spent a lot of time propping up the bar dressed in her very fetching leopard skin print, fluffy polyester dressing gown (unfortunately no photo opportunity presented itself). We spent the next hour devouring enough food to feed a small army, avoiding eye contact with the lady of the night, and making excuse after excuse not to consume the vodka being thrust in our faces by the drunkest drunk there. Travelling experiences at their finest!

The next two days to Nukus were much the same as the first day to Jasliq, aside from the fact we made sure we had breakfast. The desert scenery was giving my eyes RSI and at times we thought we must have misbehaved badly because the wind just would not leave us alone; then finally after almost 430km we rolled into Nukus. The main feeling on arriving in Nukus was probably one of relief as by this point we were both suffering badly from colds we had picked up and just wanted to be somewhere warm to relax.

Ice forming on Katie on the final day into Nukus.

Although for the most part the first desert section was horrendous, it did teach us a number of valuable lessons; both about cycling and about ourselves. We feel we are mentally much stronger than when we started out in Beyneu, and with that comes a confidence and belief we might not have had previously. For that we have a lot to thank the first stage of the Uzbekistan desert for, particularly given the number of deserts we still have to negotiate on this journey.