Kellen Smetana
They blow in Tashkent.  The British are leaving… the Americans are coming?  And the British are coming!?

Yes, it is true.  Ben has decided to fly home to London from Tashkent.  He has pedaled from Malaysia to Uzbekistan but will now be returning to England to spend more time with his family before starting university this fall.  As you have undoubtedly read, we have had some wild times together in Asia and he will surely be missed from the Revolutions for Relief adventure.  He taught me everything I know about traveling by bicycle.  I learned the benefit of a hearty meal every three hours.  I learned to understand river valleys, mountain passes, maps, and Google Earth like never before.  I started seeing lovely campsites among piles of industrial waste.  And I found that I was always faster than Ben, except when we had to pedal.  It was an amazing three months; it’s sad to see him go, but I am very happy we got to spend it together.

Alas, do not fret; I will not be pointing my two wheels westward toward the Uzbek desert alone.  As I mentioned both Americans and British are joining the team and the number of wheels has augmented from four to six (plus any spares).

First, my little brother Cory has bought bicycle and gear, secured visas and plane tickets, convinced our parents to let him dart off to the other side of the world, and made arrangements to meet me in Tashkent, all in a matter of four weeks: impressive start to the trip.  He will be joining the adventure across the five countries and one sea that lie between Tashkent, Uzbekistan and Istanbul, Turkey – the true Eurasian amalgamation.  I am very excited as this experience should take me back to our family vacations of old, though probably with a lot less fort building and many more beers consumed.  He will be posting frequently to the blog to give some of his impressions and fresh views on our journey.  Two Smetanas is always better than one, and with a little work on his beard, I’m sure he’ll fit right in to the team.

Second, another British cyclist, Theo Brun, is pairing up for this section of the adventure.  I mentioned meeting him in Bishkek and was delighted to find him ready and waiting upon our arrival in Tashkent.  After leaving his position as a lawyer in Hong Kong, he has decided to cycle home to England, crossing many of the same roads Ben and I have thus far.  We discovered our paths coincided from Uzbekistan to Georgia, where he will head north into Russia and we will dip south into Turkey.  He will prove an excellent addition to the team as he speaks Russian and has quite the sense of humor.  Theo has his own website and blog to document his adventures: www.asfaraseastisfromwest.com.  Be sure to check it out whenever you get sick of mine.  Six wheels on the team should be an interesting dynamic that I am sure will lead to no fewer adventurous tales for everyone back home.

With all these changes the week in Tashkent was a flurry of activity.  Between the bike building, airport trips, and ubiquitous embassy visits (Kazakhstan and Azerbaijan), we did manage to get some rest and have some fun.  We saw the world’s oldest Qur’an, brushed up our Uzbek history at the National Museum, feasted at bazaars and street stalls, and even paid a visit to the self-professed “best bar in Tashkent.”  It was a welcome recovery as we prepare for this particularly difficult section of road that separates us from the Caspian Sea.

Change is good.  Ben will be missed, but I am excited to see what kind of exploits I will have with my two new riding partners as we head into the Uzbek desert.

Kellen Smetana
After a wondrous week in central Kyrgyzstan, we crossed south into the Fergana Valley region of Uzbekistan.  This eastern arm of Uzbekistan is almost completely enclosed by Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan and is incredibly fertile, home to some of the longest continual civilizations in Central Asia.  The cycling and especially the people here were remarkable.

We had previously thought the only border crossing open to foreigners was just beyond the major southern Kyrgyz city of Osh, but a day before reaching this city, we found ourselves a mere 3 kilometers from a backroads border crossing and decided to try our luck.  I would not be surprised if we were the first foreigners they have encountered this decade.

On the Kyrgyz side, I had to wake up the exit officer from a mid-afternoon nap.  While processing our passports, the two guards were amazed we did not have any souvenirs (they didn’t quite understand when I explained that all our souvenirs were in our head…).  These two joined us to the Uzbek side, where the twenty minute processing of our passports allowed us to have some fun with the three Uzbek guards there.  We helped ameliorate their abysmal pronunciation from their Key English Phrasebooks, showed them our maps of the region, and tried not to laugh too hard when one of them seriously wanted to trade his bulletproof camouflage infantry helmet for my bike helmet.  The circle of us was a perfect metaphor for duck, duck, goose: camo uniform/loaded M-16… camo uniform/loaded M-16… camo uniform/loaded M-16… spandex/sunglasses!  It was by far the most fun I’ve had at a border crossing and was perfectly capped when we successfully made it across.

Even after the jovial border guards, Uzbekistan delivered us by far the warmest welcome of any country yet.  The first street corner we passed had about 30 people out at the market and nearly every one waved excitedly and directed us to Andijon as we rolled by.  Then, the first car to pass us on the road pulled over to give us bread and take some photos.  “Welcome to Uzbekistan,” they all said; we thanked them many times and told them how happy we were to be here.

Late in the day we arrived in the Fergana Valley city of Andijon and quickly discovered the absurdity of the Uzbek currency.  ATMs are difficult to find and often of little use to foreigners, so most travelers bring US dollars to change to Uzbek som on the black market.  As this market is technically illegal, it consists of young men prowling the bazaars and large markets with huge Santa-like sacks of money, looking for foreigners to trade with.  The good news is that they give you a rate nearly double the official bank rate, and the ones we have dealt with have been very fair about the whole process.  As we arrived so late the first night, the hotel offered to exchange currency for me with our change from paying for the room.  The manager took out two drug-dealer sized stacks of cash and pulled aside a few bills to count.  When he finished, I waited for him to hand me the few bills, but instead he simply pushed the two stacks my way.  Whoa, when I really exchange money I’m going to need a backpack!  To give you a sense of scale, the largest Uzbek bill is worth about 40 cents.  People here get really good at counting…

The next day was a flat, pleasant day of riding through the lush Fergana valley.  We agreed to start looking for a campsite at about 7:30pm.  At 7:15 I came to a small village a few minutes ahead of Ben, who had stopped to take some photos, and decided I was in the mood to stir up a story.  I pulled over amidst a large group of men out drinking beer and hawking watermelons.  After fielding the standard questions (where am I from, where am I going, etc.), I posed to the group, “Mozshna… polatka toot?” (Is it possible… tent here?).  “Oh, no, no, no!  No tent necessary, you can stay in our home.”  (Not in English of course, but I got the gist of it).  Yet another instant act of kindness from the people here.

Ben arrived and as we walked with the group into the village, I soon discovered they had offered us a room of man who wasn’t even there.  Fortunately, when we met Huday, he was more than welcoming and immediately invited us in for plov dinner with his family.  After dinner we were set up in the room, a spare room in the center of the village used for eating and playing cards.  For the next three hours we held court with every man and boy in the town, answering questions about everything from Eminem to what we thought of Uzbek girls.  It was a riot: plenty of laughter to go around.

The next morning people began peeking their heads in the window at 4:30 to shout, “Good morning.”  Just after 5:00, Huday’s young son Alliot burst in the room to ask if we wanted any tea.  “Umm, yes that would be great… guess we’ll get an earlier start today than planned.”  After a wonderful breakfast and plenty of rounds of thanking the family for their hospitality, we were back on the bikes.  It was such an unbelievable experience and a great example of the hospitality people take such pride in in this part of the world.

One aspect worth noting is that it was easy to tell we were in a much more devoutly Muslim country than any previously.  Aside from Huday’s wife and daughter, who we met briefly inside his home, the dozens of people we met and spoke with, and pretty much anybody out hanging around town, were male.  It was an interesting dynamic and something you very quickly notice as different from the West.

Two days later we found ourselves atop another mountain pass.  It was much lower than those of Kyrgyzstan, but it was actually sunny!  I wanted to take a photo to show everyone back home, but we had just crossed our sixth police checkpoint of Uzbekistan and they made it very clear there were no photos allowed on the mountain.  Ahhh, being back in a police state again just makes me all warm and fuzzy inside.  Most officers just check our passports kindly and let us pass, but some have clearly tried to extort small sums of money; I just tell them I have nothing but a tent and clothes and they’re usually annoyed enough to send us through.

Much of this paranoia stems from an incident that happened Andijon (the city I mentioned earlier) in May 2005.  The Uzbek president Karimov was cracking down against political rivals and had 25 prominent businessmen arrested in the city.  Many of their allies marched on the prison in a largely peaceful demonstration to have them released.  The local authorities overreacted and a few hundred civilians were killed in what has been called the Andijon Massacre.  Because the Uzbek government refused any investigation into the matter, this led to the exodus of many international companies and NGOs from the country, and is also probably the genesis of the dozens of police checkpoints in the Fergana region.  The repercussions of this are still being felt in the business community and in Uzbekistan’s general relations with the West.

After the pass it was down the easy road to the Uzbek capital, Tashkent.  Change is afloat and all kinds of surprises are in store, but I’ll save those for the next post…

Kellen Smetana
I should have put 2 and 2 together sooner.  Every single traveller we met in Bishkek was in Kyrgyzstan to do high-altitude mountain trekking, long horse treks, or crisscross the country on some kind of ‘cycle (bi- or motor-).  Nobody was simply passing through on a backpacker route.  I can now see why: this country is intense and simply oozing natural beauty.

Leaving the guesthouse, the owner’s wife came out to bid us adieu as she said “it is always very moving to see the cyclists ride off…”  Small heartwarming actions such as that can almost make you feel like you have a mother watching over you even in these distant parts of the world; a wonderful start to the day from an amazing guesthouse (Sakurna’s if you ever find yourself in the Kyrgyz capital).  We used the remainder of the day to put us at the base of the green hulking mountains sitting ready to swallow us up for the next week.

The next day was truly epic: 50km straight of very difficult climbing, the last 20 of which were almost entirely at a 12% grade.  In seven hours we gained over 2,200 meters in elevation to put us at the top of the 3,264 meter (10,710 feet) Too-Ashuu pass.  How do you say… “that was exhausting,” in Kyrgyz?

The ascent began simply enough; we followed a cobalt-colored, rapid-full river for a while.  As soon as we left this, the road went nuts: switchback after switchback clinging to the side of lovely green mountains.  About 10 kilometers from the top of the pass, a summer storm moved in (what would these high passes be without crazy weather…).  Early in the climb we had been dripping in sweat, now we were drenched in rain and very cold.  Finally, legs duly fatigued and body shivering, we reached the tunnel at the top.  We found a weather station just off the road in which we were able to dry (somewhat) and layer on all our clothes, hoping to spare our hands and feet a repeat of the snowstorm descent in Qinghai.  The workers manning the station were even nice enough to bring us some hot water to warm with.

Ready to rock, we hit the tunnel.  At 3 km, it was our longest of the trip, and we burst out on the other side into a beautiful green, open glacial valley filled with sun!

We spent the next day in this stunning valley and found an excellent campsite there as well.  These high glacial valleys are known as jailoos in Kyrgyz and the country takes great pride in them.  Many Kyrgyz still live in yurts in these jailoos and keep to a rather nomadic lifestyle.  Not a bad place to call your home.

A second pass got us out of the valley, and we went downhill… fast.  It was basically the inverse of our climb the previous day, and this again we attacked in full rainstorm (though by now you could have assumed that…).  The views, somewhat marred by the rain and clouds, were still incredible; it was quite possibly the greenest place I have ever been.  Simply fantastic.

On the descent I had my ninth through eleventh dog chases of the day.  I feel I should write about these as you will see this statistic has skyrocketed since we left China (now I realize why Ben thought the dogs there were such wimps).  Most dogs are just enticed by the excitement of a healthy chase, so the best remedy when I see – or hear – a hot pursuit starting is to slam on the brakes and hop off the bike.  Within four seconds, either they have gotten bored or feel they have somehow won the battle (either one is fine with me) and retreat to their previous musings.  In certain aggressive cases, like a couple on this descent, I’m happy to have my bike as a blocker between me and the canine’s set of pearly whites, but most of the time these encounters are only a minor annoyance.  The fun chases – those that really get my heart pumping – are those where I have calculated my speed, the dogs’ distance, and, of course, their stature, and decide to outrun them.  Later in the day I had three dogs howl away behind me for nearly a half-mile (my algorithm missed a slight uphill) before I sped away out of reach; it was just enough to get them riled up and ready for Ben, who was following close behind.

The rest of the week we skirted two alpine reservoirs, put in one more tough climb, and advanced through the rolling hills and deep red valleys of central Kyrgyzstan.  The country is absolutely full of natural splendor; great campsites abound in a canvas of green mountains, azure reservoirs, bubbling rivers, and brilliant red rocks.

Sometimes it’s tough to truly appreciate the beauty of these places when I am spoiled with so much of it at once, but looking back through my photos I can see just how fortunate I am.  Kyrgyzstan is a magnificent country tucked away in Central Asia and one that I will not soon forget.