littletinyplanet

UZBEKISTAN ! DAHHHHHHHHHHH !!!

I need to get to Tajikistan and over the Pamirs before the snows come . . . it was a dry spring and everyone is complaining that it’s unusually hot now and I can “feel” that the snows will come early. Cold, ok. Snow on two wheels. No.

But it will not be easy leaving the Uzbek people behind.

From Bukhara I took the road to Karshi (the first time I’ve actually had a choice since entering Uzbekistan). The ride was through dry desert, again, past queues at every benzin station. But today, it was HOT – 48C/112F. I stopped at a chaikanna in Karshi for some food and chai.

I visited Shakriszab, the birthplace of Timur and had intended to stop at a particular chaikana serving tandoor, tipped to me by my Uzbek brother.

After making a suspected wrong turn I stopped the bike and shut the engine off. A quick check of the GPS confirmed my error but when I tried to re-start there was a burnt electrical smell and the engine did not turn over. Buzzing sounds came from below, presumably from the starter motor. A quick check of the main fuses and the starter fuse revealed nothing amiss. I had power at the dash and lights but no starter motor.

A crowd quickly formed and then a kid with a passenger showed up on a two-cycle Jawa. I convinced them to try a push start and was soon off, albeit concerned. A few kilometers later I stopped to put on my jacket, helmet, gloves, etc and . . . the motor simply died. It would not restart. I was on a road with a mountain range in front of me, about 70km (45 miles) from Samarkand. And DIW (dead in the water).

The kid on the Jawa had apparently followed me and we tried several things but . . . this time I had intermittent power to the dash. People came and went. A dog was hit and killed by a car. The sun fell. The Jawa kid left with my original, clearly dead, battery and 80,000 Som (~$32) to get another battery.) Urus-Kishlak is a SMALL village and there are VERY few motorbikes in UZ probably because so many cars have been converted to LPG and benzin is so hard to manage securing.

The small children began to suggest that the Jawa kid had robbed me. And when adults formed they confirmed concerns. But the Jawa kid returned and when I connected his battery to the KTM she would start, albeit weakly due to his smaller capacity (though physically larger) battery.

It is not without a bit of irony that I mention the failure of my Chinese manufactured (designed in Japan) litihium-iron battery. I’ve used these quite successfully before . . . though always American-made (more expensive . . . ) ones. My “confidence” in Chinese manufactured goods is well-known (ONLY if there is onsight western supervision following western guidelines for QC). Did trashing the chinese quality lead to the failure of my chinese battery ? I don’t know but casual readers will observe that . . . this incident does not provide any counter evidence to my previous suspicions. I wanted to use an American-made version but the manufacturer was simply slow responding.

Without proper wires and with the sun having set it was time to make camp until morning. Except that an Uzbek woman simply grabbed me by the collar and said effectively, “you will sleep at my house”. A relative was “handed” to me on a mobile phone to speak to the “sayar” (tourist in Uzbek) and I was told that “my aunt is very difficult to say ‘no’ to. Do not try to be the first.” Da !

They directed me to their house, prepared a bed in the cool outside, fed me lovely food and made me drink alot of tea, which my parched body welcomed. Many phone calls to English-speaking relatives provided questions and answers to all sorts of things. And, one relative would take me in the morning to find a battery and other materials.

Amazing except, not in Uzbekistan, in my experience.

I slept quite well and in the morning Gallip took me to the market where a Russian battery was secured and some sadly thin (16g) multi-strand wire in insulation of decent thickness but unknown substance. The wire proprietor wanted to sell me wire wrapped in cloth insulation . . . One of the many problems in poor places or places that have done long without either proper materials or the education to know the difference is the “get by” mentality.

I fashioned a solution by using the wire to connect the battery, now under my seat, not near the bottom of the engine, and using some fuel line as additional insulation for the hot wire. Incredibly, a battery charger was found for this wet-cell, unsealed battery (that came with it’s own water), and I was taken to lunch at the local chaikana where ONLY my reluctance to have more than one shot of vodka was troubling. . . . So I’ve fashioned a very “chinese” solution for the meantime, actually using fuel line to insulate the ridiculously long, thing “hot” wire running from the battery under my seat to the front of the bike. (What no photos ? Am I ashamed of the “solution” ? No. It’s all that’s available. But do I feel the look of my grandfather who used to let us play with his oscilloscope when we were kids baring down on me. YEAH.)

Gallip was a teacher at the local college of language and after lunch we proceeded there for the students to meet me, ask me question, etc. This was a bit strange and represents the first time where my comments will have to be SIGNIFICANTLY edited to avoid getting anyone in difficulty. The college served about 800 students with about 35 in the language class (Uzbek language & literature, and English). There was NO running water in the building but there was a/c. The room where I spoke was large and the senior member of staff had excellent facilities with English (easily bettering George Bush, Jr in grammar, vocabulary and pronunciation).

But there was something strange going on. Entrance to the building was definitely uneasy for the administration by a “foreigner”. And plans to photograph me with the students were deemed “forbidden”. Then, when asked “what do we need to do to succeed”, the discussion was effectively stopped.

I can write no more about this, now.

We returned to the bike, tried a push start successfully. I then packed the bike for a final push start and . . . drove to Samarkand. The ride over the mountains was quite nice, a bit bumpy with some truly 3-point turn switchbacks. But as I neared the 1800 meter/5300′ pass it was nice and COOL.

I drifted into Samarkand via alot of road re-construction (as it’s known here) and on the next to last turn was confronted with Timur’s rather impressive mausoleum.

Now to attempt a real diagnosis (is the starter motor alright), and prognosis for the remainder of the trip (“fine, but I can only stop at the top of hills with good road surface to push start on . . . “). The Russian battery is a wet-cell, unsealed model that weighs approximately 4x as much as the current/new technology one that failed. It encapsulates somewhere between 1/2 and 1/4 the power. How can the range be so great ? Good question. The box says “5-10Ah” which is usually the range of 3 sizes of batteries (5, 7.5 & 10Ah). The power is much more of an issue for a big twin than the weight. There are two further suspicions regarding the Russian battery – it’s a technology and manufacture SO OLD, that it might be made in a govt subsidized factory in Siberia and ONLY meant for export to countries like (as poor) as UZ. Or, given it’s name ‘LikeLong’ – it’s a Chinese copy of an outdated Russian battery. Neither option thrills, only chills me.

But first: is the starter motor alright ?; can I secure larger cables to connect the battery to the bike’s harness ? (currently, they ONLY support running, not starting), and; will the battery turn over a big twin even with proper/better cables ?

At 10,000km I’ve just 6,000 more to go in about 30 days . . .

Khiva is small, very manageable to visit and see the sights. From the watchtower above the Ark you overlook nearly everything of interest. This encourages lounging a bit and reflecting on a number of things like . . . my God, the desert (Kara Kum) is RIGHT THERE. If the geography one grows up with informs their world view . . . here you grew up in an oasis and the sands are just small fractions of a mile away. All communication and trade came FROM the desert. Riding across the huge nothingness is a bit intimidating. I have a water filter but there’s no water to filter. In many places there’s NOTHING of note alive – even finding shelter from the sun would mean crouching under the bike or setting up the tent. And the winds blow constantly and often in great gusts, not uncommonly across roadway which is partially or wholly inundated by sand. It occurred to me regularly that an invader would arrive at an oasis sapped and require quick success or perish. But no matter, even “normal” trade would require planning, preparation and a bit of courage. 200 miles at camel speed is a LONG way.

Entering the Ark and approaching the covered stairs to the watchtower a woman asked to see my ticket. “American ? Really ?”

“Yes. California.”

“You know why the others don’t come ? You must tell them.”

“That it’s safe ? Yes, I AM telling them. And that the people are good, the food is good and the sights wonderful.”

She began to weep. She quickly spoke in Tajik to a jewelry seller, very hurriedly and with great animation. Then began the excited approval and plans for marrying me to several daughters, honorary ‘Mayor of Khiva for Life’ – the normal threatening behavior I’ve become accustomed to during this trip in Central Asia.

“How have you come ?”

“By motorbike from Frankfurt.”

“Oh you are so brave ! Thank you for telling the Americans it’s not a problem. But your motorbike trip is very dangerous. I will pray for your safety. As salaam alaikum.” (Mothers are mothers, the world over . . . )

At my hotel in Khiva a man from Luxembourg and his Czech girlfriend stayed. They were driving a Land Rover Discovery from Almaty, KZ back to . . . Luxembourg. Edouard and Hanna were very interesting and nice to chat with. We exchanged information regarding what was ahead for each of us. The Discovery looked great. All aluminum body without a mark or ding and a 120L (~45 US gallon) tank. And it had a/c !

The hotel staff was comprised of nearly entirely of family, at least in the customer facing positions. If one speaks Russian in these 9 timezones it’s quite a doorway to experience. A HUGE expanse of earth and Russian language will carry you through. Even phrasebook Russian is massively helpful. But the younger generation is learning English. When I’ve asked about learning Mandarin, my question has been met with indignant scoffs. That said, alot of the roads I ride are being re-built with Chinese money and alot of the consumer electronics are chinese. In the Savitsky Museum the only a/c unit to call attention to itself (whistling and howling) was a chinese model.

Khiva does suffer a bit from a “museum quality” in that it’s not really a “living city”. For many Americans, this might not be noticeable as . . . they’re aren’t alot of those in America. But the difference between Khiva and Bukara will bring it into sharp focus.

“Bukhara’s ‘old town’ feels like it hasn’t changed in 200 years . . .” Really ? Well, some things have changed. Mostly Uzbek families sat around the giant reflecting pool in front of Lyabi-Hauz eating shashlik, laghman, plov and drinking Coke while ducks and cats roamed between your legs and feet and geese hounded the ducks and little boys who teased them. The background music was the Uzbek version of The Backstreet Boys until someone asked them to change it to the soothing Sato Ali. (Easily the best plov I’ve had . . . dried cherries. Yum.) A gym with weightlifting equipment is well attended near Lyabi-Hauz. Uzbek boys play video games at an Internet cafe. But Bukhara is a living city that’s also a Holy City filled with relics. It’s not a town that has grown up around interesting ruins.

Right against the pool is the oldest structural area in Bukhara, it’s holiest place in the holiest city in Central Asia. Currently a mosque sits above a Zoroastrian (worshippers of the Sun and the faith of the very successful Tata family in India – who had to leave Iran due to persecution and came to India almost a 1,000 years ago. India is the original “give me your poor, tired, huddled masses . . .”) destroyed by the Arabs in the 5th century. The Zoroastrian temple rests upon a Buddhist temple that predates Christ. In Asia, building a temple on the site of the previous one isn’t entirely about extirpation, though there is some of that, but about a shared idea regarding a special or holy place.

Near the former Buddhist/Zoroastrian/Mosque is a beautiful Medressa (Nivan Begi) that has a statue of a man Hoja, riding upon a donkey. He could be Don Quixote’s assistant, Sancho Panza. The donkey is forlorn, the man is postured like an un-threatening village idiot. It’s a VERY popular place for children to be placed and photographed. (I did photograph several last nite and their parents asked me for my photos.) Both the mosque’s site and the statute illustrate something about Asia I’ve always admired and cherished. “Power places” are independent of the “faith”. In India, it’s common for Sikh’s, Christians, Buddhist, Jains and Muslims to visit a Sufi shrine or another’s. The statue is a symbol of the legend about a Sufi wiseman appearing as a “fool”, threatening no one and dispensing kindness and generosity and yes, even wisdom, for those who are capable of listening, not just hearing. Sufi’s are commonly known as the “whirling Dervish’s” of legend and historical fact. Spinning in a trance with one hand pointed to the ground, and truth, and the other to the heaven’s, and celestial guidance. Sufi’s now live in just two places on earth without fear of attack by conservative or ultra-orthodox Muslims – Turkey and India.)

At a restaurant I watched an Uzbek family, women of three generations and their children. Grandmom (maybe early 50’s) dressed in typical colorful headscarve and otherwise covered. Daughter (also a mom) late 20’s, early 30’s dressed in shrink wrap jeans, tight black top with some sort of former Soviet scientist “lift, squish, inflate” bra (boy, those cold war peace dividends . . .), pulled back hair and granddaughter dressed like any little girl anywhere in the world. Medressa’s have become vendor areas, hotels and B&B’s, night(clubs) (!), and even places where men congregate to drink alcohol. The vendor areas I’ve found somewhere between annoying and a little sad. But so was the “selling of the faith” in the Medrassas and Eastern Orthodox temples in eastern Europe and Russia.

Uzbekistan has been STUFFED with great people and fine experiences on a human level. The sights are excellent and the food very good. But . . . I’ll come back for the people. And of the many fine choices, Bahodir (whose name means ‘brave’ in several languages – Bahadur in Sanskrit) of the Amelia Hotel in Bukhara would have to be my first choice. This is also Burma-like, the people simply keep exceeding previous experience when just maintaining the high level of kindness, generosity, and execution would be surpassing enough. Whether its shashlik at a chaikana on the road, the Swiss-level of tidiness and organization at a barber shop, or help finding fuel, sharing tea and food (when asking for directions) they have been the single best reason for coming and returning.

For lunch one day I went to a “local place” tipped to me by my Uzbek brother. 🙂 Wow. There were two tourists – Russians. But otherwise it was Uzbek’s, primarily men but some families, too. The plov was as advertised – it’s a bit of a religion in Uzbekistan. The shashlik melted in your mouth and the lamb fat surrounding the beef was so sweet and rich tasting.

Genghis Khan and the Mongols are painted as bloodthirsty small men on ponies (“The Devil’s Horsemen”). The truth is decidedly more complex. But a man who is charged fairly with destroying alot of “things” fairly came to Bukhara and when confronted with the Kalon Minaret simply stopped in awe and ordered it spared.

Off to Samarkand . . . and a side trip past through Shakshrisab, the birthplace of Timur (the Magnificent), aka ‘Tamerlane’, who claimed often (falsely) that he was a descendant of Genghis Khan (to terrorize his victims).

Trip Updates/Milestones:
8700km ~ 5500 miles, not including the entirely unnecessary 1800 miles in the US . . .
Three (3) front flats – tire casing hole, 2 (same) tube failures
Slow leakage of radiator overflow tank – suspect faulty cap
Largest Technical Riding Challenges:
* plum-sized gravel for 50′ exiting Astrakhan LOOSE !
* two pontoon bridges, slippery, sharp metal
* confidence a bit shaken after two hi-speed rapid loss of pressure incidents

At Beyneu I’d went looking for a man known to me as Lokhya. Leonid was a former USSR Enduro champion and had, I understood, a bit of a KZ junkyard where I could effect checks on the KTM, replace the front tire, etc.

Well, he waited very little time to ask me if I “drank”. Frankly, this question is always a bit worrying anytime in eastern Europe or . . . eastwards . . . When I tried to give the cashier the money to pay for the liter of vodka he closed his hands on mine in a way that said, “i can break these, but then how would you drink with me.” So . . . I didn’t pay.

As we drank (alot), ate meat products, the usual assortment of Russian/KZ diary products in gulping quantities, pork fat (fantastic), tomato salad, flat bread and . . . cherry juice he showed me photos of his glory days, travels in central Asia and spoke about his two “squaws” – two Uzbek women, one who normally shared his bed.

I asked him how it was that he was born in Tajikistan, lived in Kazakhstan and was married (3rd time or 5th, not sure) to an Uzbek. “i am PURE Soviet.” That could be the response of a Californian or many, many Americans. After a huge bite of an onion, another swallow of a glass of vodka and “DAAAAH !” he asks me all sorts of questions about America, my trip, etc. Somehow, I manage to keep my stomach’s innards installed.

In the morning his English skills have evaporated, replaced by his evident hangover. He speaks almost entirely in Russian to me the rest of the day while I work on the bike.

His “pure Soviet” part probably also reflects his ideas about dealing with shortage – work around it. And his prodigious appetite . . . for many things. Leonid has never met a dairy product that he didn’t like in ever increasing quantities starting at “immediately induces heart arrest”. Truly, a bear of a human, with the (literal) heart of two horses and a cholesterol number somewhere in the low millions.

Khara-show ! (Very good in Russian.)

Leonid, bolshaya spasebo. (BIG thank you.) When I come back, I’ll have your boots. 🙂

The Mother of all Potemkin Village “happy lands”. (Disclaimer: N. Korea often faces mass starvation so it was not a “contestant”.) Giant highway construction projects like southern California in the 60s/70s with . . . no cars. Lots of benzin (gas for the Amerikanski) stations with . . . often no fuel and much fuel purchased from plastic bottles of “unknown varietal (octane)”. The “great & glorious, maximum leader’s” visage is everywhere, often embracing a smiling child of one ethnic group or another on billboards. Almost no road signs and rarely with distance information.

Great boulevards separating empty parks & huge government office buildings that look dormant at best, abandoned at worst. Decorative street lights and police at every corner with . . . no traffic aside from the rare bicycle. I was warned not to photo a statue. I was forbidden from observing an Independence Day rehearsal with a snappily waved nightstick. Hotels have been converted to empty police brigs – they actually SHOWED me one, proudly ! A smattering of billboards with only local brands and salutes to industrial production and ethnic harmony and the two pillars – Islam and Socialism.

It’s a mini-Burma.

Really, you don’t want to miss Uzbekistan. This mini-Burma is far less hostile to it’s own people. The English left Burma 50 years ago with mediocre infrastructure and technology and the most beautifully layed out city in at least southeast Asia. The Russians left 20 years ago an Orwellian street plan and architecture with decent infrastructure and technology. The Burmese junta has created a pauper-state from riches and in 20 years, UZ has improved somewhat, though very unevenly. Here mud-brick single room homes with wooden framed windows are the backdrop to a 21st century 4-lane bridge. There was better internet access in Burma 15 years ago !

And like Burma, though it remains my benchmark for extraordinary people, the Uzbeks (who take their name from one of Genghis Khan’s grandsons – Ozbek) are fantastic – friendly, helpful, generous. Impressive even more that there is declining levels of Russian and virtually no English. One custom they share with KZ is the bringing of the right hand to the heart in a gesture of warmth, greeting and respect. (KZ and UZ are separate due to an OLD family quarrel – though now they speak quite different languages.) The other is an immediate and necessary handshake, even with a stranger, between men & women, too, when meeting. Even the police have done it to me when stopping me at a checkpoint or when I’ve asked for directions.

Lovely people, good food, great sights – far from nothing and a dolt government.

The KZ border crossing was so straightforward from Russia that it left me completely unprepared for the UZ crossing. But that whole day was a bit strange.

As I left Beyneu a . . . scooter with a westerner aboard came from the opposite direction. He was the first westerner I’d seen in 3 days and we stopped to exchange glances. Leave it to a German to mock successfully Teutonic preparedness with self-deprecation. “It’s more like riding a donkey than a horse.” What would take me 1-day had taken him three. But he’d ridden all the way to Kyrgyzstan ! “I need to rest. How is the road ?” My guess is that what had taken me 3 days would require at least five of his donkey. Awesome.

Too many people worry incessantly about the right gear – see ADVRider. A few others – see the HUBB – get out and “go”, and sometimes forego “fun”. (It IS a holiday, afterall. None of us is Wilfred Thesiger.)

Know what you have. Know what you can do with it and to (repair) it. The best gear without knowledge is akin to a “lifetime” warranty in the . . . middle of nowhere.

Know yourself – you’re the weakest link ! Know what you don’t know. Do not subscribe to the “I’ll figure it out during the trip mantra.” Listen to yourself – it’s especially challenging during stressful or unfamiliar moments – are you tired, hungry , thirsty, frustrated, anxious ? Don’t push – it’s a campaign. Sprinters lose. Be flexible and accommodate change. Embrace serendipity. Smile at “this never happened before/at home/in my previous experience” – that’s at least part of what should be motivation for the trip – new experiences. The best plans are not followed . The best plans can change.

After more than a 100km (65 miles) of furiously undulating broken pavement, gusty winds, sandy track that was as wide as it was non-uniform the KZ border appeared. At first it seemed what I expected. A few trucks in a queue. The KZ controls require you to enter the front (standard), have paperwork processed and . . . exit the front, then drive to the back and enter the exit and stand in a queue that ended at a kiosk facing . . . the front of the building. Sure. Hell, out here in the middle of nothing, why stick to silly common protocols. This all took about 40 minutes.

The UZ queue was anxiety inducing. I was 100km from an available food, lodging or water in the middle of scrub desert. There were at least 40 trucks and maybe 200 cars and vans. I followed my guidance from India – I jumped the queue all the way to the nearly front.

Now things got interesting. Here, at least 300 people, overwhelming UZ nationals, pressed against a huge, barred gate (in the middle of the desert . . .), while on the other side stood two young UZ military casually waving their Kallishnakov’s. There was lots of shouting, to the guards and within the crowd, nearly all in Russian. A man I’d seen at Leonid’s 40 hours ago was there.

The shouting rose and fell. The guards un-shouldered and shouldered their AK’s. This went on for about 90 minutes. An Uzbek walked to the gate with a thick wad of Som (UZ currency, of which the largest note is worth about 40 US cents) clearly interested in advertising his desire for expediting things. A guard said something to him and he scurried to the back and I never saw him again.

Then something happened. They decided to permit some pedestrians through (in the middle of the desert . . . almost 200km from a decent-sized village) and then some vehicles (“machinen”). I started the bike and was miraculously waved through.

Now began a scrum at “Border Control” (the only English I saw and above an empty kiosk). Quick inspection of Passports was performed – mine was also scanned. Customs forms were then required. Near riot #2 began. An official pointed me to a room for my motorbike “import” and now the final 2.5 hour odyssey started, but it did pull me from the scrum.

Only in a police state, where a people fear “their” government do you see such cultivated indifference if not indeed contempt (uncaring, uncaring). A young uzbek kept repeating “you must go another way”. When I showed him my Passport stamps indicating I’d exited KZ and entered UZ he said, “yes, you have a problem. You must go another way.” When I asked for the other way, he was silent.

Finally the original scrum manager pointed me to another room which had foiled windows and a closed door. “Go there.”

An Uzbek with a speech impediment was the next hurdle. He labored slowly to fill out a computer form for my temporary import document for the KTM. Now we re-played oft-repeated questions: marque/brand/make – suzuki being the most common suggestion, though I’d never seen one – they’d never heard of ‘KTM’; color – why did/does “the new black” cause so much consternation ? Must be because it’s the spy-bike color of choice. Anyway, he nearly self-induced an epileptic fit trying to be clear in his pronunciation of ‘orange’ in either Russian or Uzbek, I’m not sure, nor why he was so bent on making this clear for me. For a brief moment, I was afraid he might actually fail to produce the required document and be wriggling on the floor like a beached fish. In any case, a good time was had by all.

By 3PM my ride across a featureless, seemingly lifeless, slightly intimidating desert began. At 6:30 I stopped at Kungrad (the next town was 140km away) and washed, ate and slept at a chaikana (tea house). The fuel tank had maybe 2 liters left.

The chaikana owner and his wife were wonderful. We communicated with any English. He helped me secure 20 liters of benzin (out of a jug) and I made for Maynot, a former fishing village on the Aral Sea. Due to Soviet central planning, the village is now a ghost town with the Aral Sea more than 100 miles away.

The scene was even more depressing than I feared. Hotter summers and colder winters due to the receding sea and a lack of an economy have driven away the bulk of the population. My visit was punctuated by a sandstorm and a local festival (!) which culminated with the remaining locals congregating at the Aral Sea Memorial and viewing the rusted hulks of their former fishing fleet.

Nukos was 200km (125 miles) away and had one draw – the Savitsky Museum. The FSU (Former Soviet Union) can be at least partially defined by the places which are oddly located. Few could match the Savitsky Museum. Igor Savitsky arrived in Karakalpakstan (literally, “the black hat wearers”) in the 50’s and apparently fell in love with the area and already harbored fondness for modern art.

This museum is HUGE (over 90,000 items) of art and archaeological remains that if situated closer to Moscow would have meant banishment to Siberia or death. From the perspective of the Kremlin he built a museum that Hitler would have called, and did, “degenerate art” (entarte kunst, auf Deutsch) and that now, as he claimed would happen, Parisians now travel to visit, rightfully. Somehow I doubt he’d enjoy the irony that it resides in a police state less draconian that the FSU but still a very authoritarian.

From Nukos, Khiva was a short drive of 250km (150 miles).

September 1 is Uzbekistan’s Independence Day and 2011 is the 20th anniversary of independence.

Ok, no photos this time – it’s Uzbekistan and the internet bandwidth, isn’t.

Speaking of isn’t . . . fuel prices have DROPPED to $2.45 / gallon. So has the octane. The last two “tanks” have been 80 Octane. It’s a different measure than the US but . . . it’s LOW. I’ve never heard the motor make noises like that when I twisted the grip hard. So I don’t do that, now.

Near riot at the UZ/KZ border crossing. And then a drive across 300 miles of nothing.

If you see lots of cows, horses and camels (bactrian (double humper), of course) and there are fantastic sunsets and HUGE quantities of dairy products are served with every PORTION (which is served in a spoon much more appropriate for gardening than eating . . .) and “DA !” is used often . . . you must be in Kazakhstan.

The visit to the Aral Sea fishing port of Maynaut was almost TOO depressing. The port is now 115 miles from a “sea” which is too salty too support fish. Add the major dust storm of today and . . . bleak. The greatest man-made disaster, so far.

Tomorrow is Khiva, something I’ve been waiting for since I was about 10.

Kurt

Apologies for this rather obnoxiously long post. Life’s exigencies have intruded and . . . . this is a mashup ! Sorry.

Since I got “wobbly” at the Anatolia Civilizations museum here’s something to make the north American readers wobbly – my fuel costs have varied between $8 and $9.34 per gallon, until Russia. That’s $2.33 per QUART. In Russia fuel is about $.90 per quart or a good bit less than it is in the US.

Loved the Anatolia Museum. Could spend alot of time there and return often. You might not know, that Ataturk, the father of “modern” Turkey was clearly involved with that museum because he’s credited with breaking from Turkey’s (overly) Islamic past/traditions and moving it into the modern age. That museum clearly demonstrates that well before Islam there were an array of astonishing civilizations . . . that believed many things and all did well. But clearly, their religion did not GET IN THE WAY of their progress. (That message has been lost on MANY Abrahamic traditions today, IMHO. Opinion and faith are wonderful but try them against a bacteriological infection. The “way” is multi-faceted and concurrent. Just ask the Buddha. 🙂 )

Saw two unexpected things on the final drive in Turkey – a 1950-ish Willys Overland 4-wheel drive pickup. I learned to drive on a ’51 Willys. As I neared Samsun, I saw a year-old puppy playing with a calf. He leaped up to grab its’ horns and it gently shook him off. Hysterical ! I stopped to capture the nonsense but he heard the bike from a distance and then ran to me, all wagging tongue and tail.

It has to be said that traffic on this ride has been a bit of a drag. On the autobahn you feel like you’re being strafed by aircraft with the landing gear down. The Germans drive exceptionally professionally but it’s hardly stress free. When you see headlights in your rear view you need to take action IMMEDIATELY. In other countries, there certainly is an appetite for teutonic-styled driving but little of the discipline. It’s a slope – the Austrians are very good, the northern Italians have their good days, the Slovenes are wonderful, the Croats less so, the Hungarians overly ambitious, the Romanians suicidal (weird how dead dogs littered the roads there and were almost non-existent in Turkey), the Turks fast but lacking skills (though not judgment) and the Russians . . . oh my God. (Yes, it’s popular to denigrate driving wherever you are, from wherever you come but . . . the Russians . . . passing on ungraded, unpacked DIRT shoulders at speed with a 5′ drop off the shoulder, or hugging the left-side of the lane, or passing in blind corner and expecting the oncoming to yield. Funny enough (?) . . . the only time I saw severe braking was when an overtaking car was “interrupted” by a suddenly overtaking car. That said, I’ve seen truckloads of vehicles that were the participants of head-ons in Russia and several times photographed PILES of wrecks all from head-ons here that were days to a few weeks old. “Live fast, die fast.” Furthermore, if the side-view mirror has any utility beyond increasing coefficient of drag its unapparent. Mirrors are for regarding oneself, nothing more. In any case, today was a bit nicer – Sunday traffic on backroads has meant considerably less nonsense and unnecessary stress.

At Samsun my hotel desk manager was a former student of Hungarian whose become adept at web-programming (PHP, Flash, etc). He didn’t miss living in Istanbul nor the crazy commute. Just down the street from the hotel was the court building with a statue of “justice” outside. When I said, “oh, that’s where justice is served,” he said, “she has no eye flaps”. Which she didn’t !

The drive to Trabzon was relatively nice – there were some good views and alot of resort towns on the way. Most foreign tourists head for the mediterranean beaches but the Turks have dressed up the Black Seas beaches very well. Palm trees, kids playgrounds, etc line the way. Probably due to Ramadan I didn’t see many tourists.

Arrival in Trabzon was a bit shocking. It was HUGE. My directions for finding the ferry office were a bit optimistic. “We’re on the way.” Having given myself plenty of time it became apparent that . . . success was not in the near offing. So I pulled up to a Turkish Airways travel agent and “introduced myself”. A young woman with impossibly curly, beautifully blonde hair was introduced as the “english speaker”. She made some calls and gave somewhat vague directions. An old man in the office, who spoke no English, eventually told here he would take me. He was a bit old, dressed in a loose untucked plaid shirt and a great square skullcap. Clearly, he was a Muslim. We walked down the street and eventually he make me know that he could speak German. After he guided me to the correct office I asked him how old he was. He made me guess and when I said, “funfzig (50)”, he laughed very hard. Then 60 ? 70 ? He was nearly 80, a year older than my mother. He marched up and down those steep streets without a huff or a puff. At our parting he told me, “peace be with you” (as salaam alaikum). Another day managing with dangerous people . . . the car drivers, I mean.

Once I had my ticket I went for a bite and meant two Italian motorcyclists who were curious about proceeding through Pakistan and India. I told HIM that he was extremely lucky to have a woman who could and would ride a motorbike on such a tour. She told me, “I tell him that EVERY morning.” With them was a Belgian national who was an Egyptian Coptic with an Indian girlfriend. It was a splendid little chat though I did use almost all my free time.

The ferry boarding and customs and immigration clearance were a hoot. A Turk simply make vague arm gestures and repeated “liman, liman” about how to get to the ferry. When I finally figured it out, there was the ferry, the Erke, which was not impressive nor even confidence inspiring. The best part – I entered the ferry, etc without “leaving Turkey” nor “entering Russia”. That was soon remedied with a very carefree walk through security (Russian & Turkish) and both countries Immigration counters. The drive into the port area was equally carefree. Large machinery loaded and unloaded shipping on paths layered with grease and oil. No one paid me any attention nor concern. The bike (and cars) rolled onto the ferry essentially un-inspected. We boarded by 6PM and, for whatever reason, did not sail until nearly 9:30PM.

My “cabin” was originally the First Aid cabin, that thankfully did not require me to mention was too small for me to fully inhale within. I had two portholes and propped the open with my riding boots. Eventually the room was cooler than hades and I actually slept quite well.

On the ferry I met Llew and Adrienne and their children, Isabella and Oliver, who were emigrating (back, for Adrian a Kiwi) to New Zealand. The principle reason – WEATHER !

Sochi Customs was somewhat of a reminder of India. The naked calls for bribes were missing but the “efficiency” . . . we docked at 10AM and cleared customs at 2:30PM. There were alot of “employees” but very few people doing any work. One of the presumed reasons for the ferry’s high charges (aside from it’s one of the few options from Turkey to Russia – the border between Azerbaijan and Russia is closed, the border between Georgia and Russia is closed and the option of moving between Abkhazia (renegade province of Georgia) and Russia is not possible for vehicles) is the Customs service proffered. Russia . . . still “suffers” from some rather strange, even non-european ideas about crossing borders with a vehicle, registering your hotel stays with the local police, etc. My ferry compatriots whinged enormously and did not seem to enjoy my view that “oh, it’d be alot worse in India.” Oh well, it would. The other “funny” part was that ALL vehicles had to be cleared at once, the foreign owned ones and the Russian ones. Well, our “joke” was the “greek” . . . a car clearly massively overloaded. The driver went missing twice and sheepishly explained his cars collapsed rear end with a “what” look that did little to impress the Russian Customs officials. His car was COMPLETELY emptied. (They nearly cavity searched a Russian’s car in my witness.) The KTM drew some attention, again, because the “marque/brand/make” was un-recognized. The butch coiffed babushka who examined my paperwork was finally humbled by that odd fact. After finding yourself before an official who sat well above you in a cube that permitted view ONLY when you were directly in front of it and with an odd mirror placed above and behind you (? ! ?) a GIGANTIC Dolph Lundgren sized Russian in a tight black polo and black jeans gave you the last once over. Seriously, this guy was maybe an inch shorter than me (6’3″) with shoulders which required turning to enter the doorways. His face was right out of a biological experiments themed video game. Funny.

Sochi itself was a boom village of epic ambition(s). It’s a provincial village with “caviar dreams”. (Sorry.) The road system is decent in terms of surface but traffic is already absolutely choked. The Olympics should be a blast for visitors. If you have a private helicopter.

A French family on the ferry were met by their father/husband who is part of the Olympic organizing committee. They knew of a 24-hour (? ! ?) French restaurant in Sochi very near the dock. We all ate there walking from the Customs office. The babushka in charge of opening (manually) gates (which were monitored by not less than 7 cameras) also made clear that she would “monitor” my motorcycle. King Kong would not have been a more fearless or capable protector.

At the restaurant, Russian girls served wonderful food (salad Nicoise, Coq au Vin, etc) and some extraordinary mussels. And the finishing espresso was remarkable. One of the chefs entertained us all, especially with the promise of ‘Franciski baguette”. I kept thinking – “this is my last really good meal”.

At about 5PM I finally started out of town. Total gridlock and “a Californian in Russia” lane-splitting had me moving slowly but steadily. The problem(s) – my fuel light was unreliable due to a pinched vent line (my fault) and certainty about fuel levels was poor. Fuel had been more than $9/gallon in Turkey and was under $4/gallon in Russia. Unfortunately, three straight fuel stations were on the opposite side of the road and . . . it was somewhere between impractical and suicidal to cross traffic once, nevermind the return.

So, of course, I run out of fuel just 2km (1.2 miles) from a petrol station. Moderate length story with lots of huffing/puffing and sweating later . . . a man on a scooter drives up and I say “benzine ?”. He speaks a little English but says very clearly, “my wife teaches English, 5 minutes”. Four minutes later he returns in a car with family (Yura, his wife Yana, and their two children, oldest son Lyonya and daughter Polina. Yana speaks . . . California english as she emerges from the car.

They return with 10 litres of fuel and a demand that I spend the nite ! It’s a great planet ! I protest but it’s making little impression. After a socially mandated shower we have dinner and the “english” lesson begins. Yana has NEVER had instruction from a native English speaker. Amazing. She and her husband have moved to Sochi from a city in the Urals for better opportunities and to remove the children from environmental issues in their hometown. They have dreams of traveling abroad – she REALLY wants to visit the UK, he wants to drive across the US. They are the first recipients of some of my gifts and when I leave next morning she gives me some fresh baked cake and Russian good luck charms.

The drive from Sochi out toward Krasnodar is hilly, curvy and . . . slow. At one particular bend cars pull over to observe a vehicle which just exited the roadway through the guard rail. During one of my gas stops I notice something that becomes a theme in Russia. MANY of the gas stations/mini-marts are fortresses with elaborate grating and small windows. The Caucuses here very much resemble the Appalachians, relatively small hills but with steep, heavily forested sides that have proved quite a barrier to many invaders.

Krasnodar was another town of previous glory. Large with many extinct or heavily decayed industries and lots of signs of a glorious past – great architecture, large parks, and lovely neighborhoods. There’s a sense of wealth – walkways along the river, beautiful municipal areas, large pedestrian-only blocks but . . . no income. A three-piece (two violins and a viola) played classics and arrangements of the Beatles, Broadway, Cole Porter, etc to a huge crowd. The hotel was from the Soviet era and irresistible for its’ faded glory. There were lots of staff, almost no customers (beyond the young, very well dressed, girls who would enter to use the facilities) and a reception area that maintained that old-fashioned “da” factor charm. The kid behind the bar seemed REALLY annoyed that my beer requests were interrupting his phone call. As far as I could tell he was on the phone CONTINUALLY while I drank two large beers.

“Da” factor – it’s the Hindu head nod of the FSRs (Former Soviet Republics) and Russia. Like the south Asian head not (which is not limited to Hindus) it could mean many things . . . “yes, maybe, i hear you, i don’t care, whatever, you’re annoying me, please go away, . . .” etc. But ultimately, it speaks to that same sense of excellence in customer services. Professional uncaring, uncaring. 🙂

Many things have changed in the last 20+ years. Twenty years ago I could not have met Yana & Yura and staying at their home would have meant serious trouble for all of us. Not anymore. But 75 years of central planning oversight welded to an elaborate state security system are not blown away by a breeze. Indelible, no. Interim, hardly. It’s embedded into the culture, to a degree. More so with those over 40, less so with the younger.

The next day I left late for Elista, or so I thought. I made a wrong turn after riding in relatively peaceful countryside. HUGE farms/ranches/grain silos with sunflowers, corn, wheat, fruit orchards. The night in Stavropol was nice and it can be confirmed that the US has defined a standard for “quality” fastfood. Shaslik at the local “fast food” place was easily the quality of MacShack McNuggets. Awful. At least they had good beer.


The ride to Astrakhan began early and the landscape continued to change. I’ve now moved from coastal mountains (the Caucasus) and am crossing rolling steppe – where there’s just enough change in the elevation to reveal that the landscape is seemingly interminable. Passing through towns with lots of WWII (‘The Great Patriotic War’ in Russia) monuments and whose names I recognize from reading too much about WWII as a kid it’s impossible not to wonder WHAT the Germans were putting in their tea. I mean, I’ve come over 6500km (4100 miles) from Frankfurt and . . . it just goes on and on, and on. And there’s 7 MORE timezones yet to cross ! Those german kids came out of a country the size of Wisconsin and Pennsylvania combined. It had to be intimidating. The russians could simply retreat, and retreat . . . and retreat until their mighty ally, winter appeared. And I’m “advancing” at 100kph/60mph – not the 25mph they were.

And Russia, the “original texas” (though Russia has contributed art, science, architecture, so apologies to Russia for that comparison if taken too far . . . vs texas which has made a point of being proud about being both stolen with the help of the US government AND not ratifying the Constitution OF the government . . .) is BIG. The grain silos are GIGANTIC. The traffic roundabouts are colossal – at least the area of a US football field. One had separate roundabouts OFF the main roundabout that had split lanes . . . “swing your partner round and round” – it seemed like a cross between roller derby with live ammo and a survivalist experiment. Inside this giant roundabout was, I’m not sure, a control tower or the observation post for keeping track of the destruction. Crazy. (Disclaimer: It turns out that roundabouts, generally only seen on the East Coast of the US are . . . a US “innovation”.) The smokestacks at power stations SOARED to the sky.


The rolling steppe now gave way to large “balota” – swamps and bogs punctuated by salt flats and sand dunes ! And the odd WWII monument. Out of nowhere large towers would announce the area, the town (the size of the tower and the town were unrelated) and what the area might be famous for (sheep, corn, wheat, industry). Many were stylized mosaics – I’m guessing to relate the “great Russian mosaic” among other things. There were lots of socialist themes and rarely a local ethnic one. One, just one, still had a CCCP badge on the top. I’m guessing no one was motivated enough to take it down. The other information related was the age of the town. It’s easy to forget how much of this land was NOT under Russian control until fairly recently. This is Russia’s “wild west” and many places were not “created” until the birth of America, many not until well after the US Civil War. The town of Elista had the only cheery herald . . . and it caught me off-guard. I had JUST passed my first Buddhist stupa and gompa which fairly punctuated the few Russian Orthodox temples along the way. Elista’s tower had a . . . lotus and clear symbols of Buddhist themes of harmony and interconnectedness. And Elista is where the Golden Temple resides and one can see the gilded roof from quite a distance. The history of the town is as strange and sad and yet resilient as many in the former Soviet Union. The town was occupied for about 4 months by the Germans in 1942. For that, Stalin banished the residents to Siberia. (Stalin took no chances. EVERY soldier who entered Germany during the war was effectively isolated upon return – he did not want any witnesses of what the west was.) They were not permitted to return until 1957 ! During this ride I’ve stopped at nearly every Orthodox temple. They’re beautiful and not common. And not well attended. The gompa at Elista was well attended.

After stopping for a visit, a market “lunch” I rolled on. Now the wind picked up considerably. Having flatted earlier in the day on the front wheel in exactly the same manner as when I’d flatted 3000km/2000miles ago in Turkey, this was very unwelcome. The morning flat had come with a bit of warning and required a minimum of drama to get the bike stopped. But now, I was leaning over into the wind at ridiculous angles. And the gusts threatened to blow me off the road. If a leak occurred now, I’d go down hard. This continued for almost 300km/200 miles.

Exits would go to dirt like “ranch exits” in the US West (Montanta, Idaho, Washington , etc) and vanish over a rise. HUGE cemeteries would appear with graves huddling on top of one another. Tumbleweeds blew across the road. Tumbleweeds in the US came from seeds in the containers of Russian immigrants. The land became very arid, the black soil of a few hundred kilometers ago vanished along with the hedgerows. And the temperature was quite cool – maybe 22 C/ 68 F.

I finally entered Astrakhan at about 7:45 just after sunset, which was spectacular. A quick tour along the Volga provided beautiful views of The Cathedral of St Grand Duke Vladimir & the breathtaking Astrakhan Kremlin. The Vladimir Cathedral supposedly was built in honor of the 900th year since the “Epiphany” of Russia. Crossing a land where the people have had a millennia of autocrats and despots, lacking even a shred of democratic opportunity and challenge . . . one has to be impressed with what they’ve been able to accomplish. As an electrical engineer you become entirely familiar with Russian mathematicians. Their literature, music and art needs no introduction. This is a country that continues to produce largely white athletes who compete at every level. The men are men and the women are definitely WOMEN ! It’s been a brief re-introduction but I’m smitten. There is a temptation to go to Volgograd (the former Stalingrad) where the second world war turned in some incredibly fierce fighting and see the giant statue of Mother Russia. Whatever unkindness history has bestowed on the Russian people, their leaders have recognized that one could call upon their “russian-ness”, almost endlessly.

My hotel in Astrakhan is the first one that mandates comment. It’s situated right on the Volga with a great view of the river. On entrance it seems quite modern, with facilities like WiFi, etc available. But my “standard” room is like an ersatz Soviet-style room. The wood flooring is poor quality “parquet”. But it’s solid and the room is very quiet. The windows are the German-style double hinge. The door won’t latch without locking. The bathroom is tiled at silly steep levels. There are pipes running everywhere. But they’re PVC and the water pressure and temp are fantastic. There’s a small fridge and a TV with BBC World. The WiFi works great except late afternoon and early evening. My bike is secured in the basement. That however, reveals a slurry of India levels of quality (mostly stone, a bit of hastily mixed cement) and my guess is that the greatest danger to the bike is outright collapse of the hotel upon it. The staff determined my birthday when they scanned my Passport and sent up complimentary Russian sparkling wine.

Yesterday I had lunch on the river at a fish restaurant which is also a brewery. The staff were eager to try their english and that was great because the menu was entirely in Russian. So a dark beer was easy to order. And I’ve learned how to read potato in Cyrillic. When I asked for something local assurance was given that all fish were Astrakhan. A dried fish, prepared in beer (?) came out and somehow I knew it should be rendered by hand. It was a deep orange color, had a rich flavor and contained enough salt for several Siberian salt mines. The texture was really quite waxy. That may not sound appetizing but it was both unusual and interesting. It would be very popular in Thailand.

The kid who understands that I speak English is quickly excited that I’m from California. He mentions that he spent time there on an exchange. Four months traveling over the state. “San Diego, Monterey, Santa Rosa . . . Where are you from ?”

“San Francisco,” I say.

He almost freezes. Then he almost slumps like he’s been hit in the stomach. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. First, he stares at it. Then he shows me, saying, “San Francisco is SOOOO beautiful.”

On his phone is the Golden Gate bridge.

“Don’t worry. Even for those of us who live there, this is the feeling we have.”

Astrakhan is just littered with amazing brick and wood buildings. The wood ones remind me of those from Alaska (large Russian population) and the Yukon though here they are more ornate. Even the shutter bars are decorated. The brick buildings would seem at home in any european city. The Assumption Cathedral within the Kremlin has columns which are nearly 80″ across at the bottom. THIS is Russia – BIG. The walls are pure marble that must be 30 thick.

So, tomorrow it’s onto Kazakhstan. I’ve finally gotten to the place where the trip would be interesting. And traffic will soon vanish, thank goodness.

Kypt (‘Kurt’ in Cyrillic characters)

Reactions to my trip continue to puzzle me. Even in Russia locals are telling me that it’s not possible, or crazy, and wishes of “good luck” are hastily delivered before moving on.

How anything done ENTIRELY electively is “hardcore”, or “tough” or “extreme” is beyond me.

Before departing for a trip to Nepal in ’93 PBS ran a series called, “Death: The Trip of a Lifetime”. The series reviewed how the rest of the world encountered the inexorable conclusion. Judd Hirsch once described observing (becoming) the old (if you are lucky) as “the coming attractions”.

I don’t know what tough is but I’m often and forever humbled by the graceful, difficult struggles of many to make it through their days with loved ones and strangers.

On the 20th of August, early in the morning PST, Rebecca Dale moved on, finally succumbing to cancer. Her funeral is today, with the Shiva over the next several days.

The “Dales” were and are an extraordinary, and yet typically human family. Merav is the “little girl” whose body could barely contain her enlarged personality. Gideon (to me) Ze’ev is the little boy I remember waking up from naps laughing. Andy is the other half of Rebecca, someone universally respected and with whom time spent is cherished, and too often, for him I suspect, the chronicler of the inexorable decline of a defining partner. Or as he so eloquently put it – “The long slippery slope is long, slippery and slope-like”.

And Rebecca was singular.

Wishes for peace for all.

. . . translates to “yearning to go East”. Something the Germans (and others) have felt in Europe, ironically, for centuries. Ironic, because so many invaders had forced the current inhabitants of Europe ever further westward. This didn’t happen in the US – europeans simply were the irresistible force. For Americans, the west was the area of space, freedom and opportunity. For europeans, it was the vast steppe that offered at least some of those characteristics. Even the Russians, bottled up for centuries by the Tartars and others, finally broke free and literally ran to the east coast of Siberia (at a time when winter travel was practically impossible, and the summer meant hostile insects and endless bogs).

Well, I’m ready to go East, as a “not-so-young man”. (Apologies to Horace Greeley.)

Riding out of Tarnovo was lovely. The weather was great, the road winding through steeply hilled country, with little Sunday traffic. At this point, my last hours in Europe I’m still amazed that without a proper map, a GPS with a hacked (free) map on a tiny display, I’ve managed to find my way with a minimum of fuss to places I’ve never visited, easily. This problem should be even simpler in the East as there are simply fewer choices. The ongoing theme could be “the roads get fewer from here”.

Rural Bulgaria has much poorer villages, many with WWII era buildings and great bloc-style apartment buildings. More memorials to central planning and . . . granite cobblestone roads !

At the border the single Bulgarian official was curious as to why I would drive to Mongolia. “I like good food, nice beach and . . . looking for nice curve,” he said with a wink. “You live in Thailand – why you leave ?”

The Turks, on the other hand, presented a gauntlet of 11 kiosks, many of which seemed to either confirm previous review (to avoid corruption or perfect quality ?). My Passport was examined 7 times, my Green Card (insurance) 4 times, and my license plate 5 times. After securing a Turkish Visa stamp I was on the road after an hour, easily the longest border crossing of the trip.

It’s not hard to see why the Turks are frustrated regarding EU membership. The transition from Bulgaria/Romania to Turkey is like driving from the poorer parts of West Virginia to the San Francisco Bay Area. One has a toe in the 21st century, the other seems to be defining it. For instance, in Romania you can access free WiFi at a gas station while watching a family go by in a donkey cart. The Turkish bahn is three wide lanes of silky smooth tarmac all the way to Istanbul. Cars doing well over 100 miles an hour passed me the entire way. The service areas were a mix of shopping and eating along with fuel and other motor services. The food was shockingly good and . . . the beginning of the Turkish charm offensive. EVERYONE was smiling, chatty and professional, whether pump attendants, cash register clerks, food preparers or the Trafik Jandarme. EVERYONE.

Entering Istanbul, once I’d exited the motorway did spark memories of India – gridlock. But this soon gave way – traffic was relatively disciplined, trams moved with speed and precision (they can’t come any closer to pedestrians or autos anywhere on earth), and throngs of pedestrians stayed inside the crosswalks.

My “serviced apartment” was near Topkapi Palace and that ride was a hoot. Steep, narrow, twisty and . . . granite cobblestones. The manager, Yusuf was charming and of course, tea appeared immediately. He told me of his dreams of studying Psychology and his path to becoming an apartment manager. This was not an unimpressive tale nor was the view from the 6th floor terrace overlooking the Sea of Marmara. He guided me away from tourist restaurants, even after I told him I was Kaffir (non-believer). He simply smiled and said, “I must say, ‘I’m sorry.'”

Well, Istanbul is no secret destination. The former Constantinople is now heavily Muslim as it has been since 1453. That said, I observed a practicing church in my neighborhood, an orthodox Jew simply watching the crowds, east Asian Christian Nuns in a tour group, lots of exposed cleavage (not all europeans or israelis !) and plenty of headscarves (it was Ramadan . . . ). I wandered about watching the crowds, eating (!!!!), and enjoying the atmosphere which was clearly positive (and due to Ramadan, anticipating sunset and a bit of feasting). Dogs slept peacefully EVERYWHERE, cats lie in the temple lawns, no one asked (nor seemed to care) if I was a Muslim when entering temple spaces, beer drinking was relegated to tourists corridors but . . . it’s easy going here. At sunset the gazillion muslims sat and ate . . .

It could have been Buddhist Thailand. 🙂 Except for the lack of alcohol.

A Kurd, Cengiz joked with me about buying his carpets and eventually demanded a photo. He pleaded to take me to dinner but . . . with one nite (! 🙁 !) in Istanbul I needed to walk in a city that has been the center of so much history over the last 1800 years.

I’m the first to proclaim that people are generally quite similar the world over – what they want is largely the same: a safe place to live; economic opportunity; education for their children. And while no one’s asking – sometimes I’d prefer to be really wrong on that count. There IS an alarming global trend to “big box” stores, cloned shopping malls, corporate restaurants (serving processed food . . . ) and Turkey’s strive for modernity is at least superficially characterized by soaring apartment buildings, franchise businesses and . . . an El Torito near Topkapi ! ? ! Ugh. No one’s asked but I find it quite uninteresting with promises of ever greater blandness.

Never expected to observe anything interesting about the boob tube but . . . having just departed Islama-phobic America I can report that my television carried, among other things dozens of religious channels (Saudi, Noor, God – at least two dozen Christian stations, Jain, etc) Farsi Today, Thai Global, Shopping Channels in at least 6 languages, sports, LOTS of porn (Indian, Arabic, Russian, etc), BBC World, CNN, Al Jazeera, etc.

Sultan Mehmet, the man who conquered Constantinople, also commissioned the Topkapi Palace and Mosque which dominate Istanbul’s skyline in a way that presages the TransAmerica building or Eiffel Tower and yet, by the standards of Islamic architecture is solidly a B+. Any walk around Istanbul will reveal architectural highlights and touches that . . . seem familiar but – oh my God, they’re NOT european, they’re Islamic. Yeah, get over it. Read William Dalrymple for a primer on the impacts of Islam in Europe. (Hint – ENORMOUS. Europeans created the sandbox monstrosity, the “flying buttress” while concurrently the Moors were building the Alhambra in Spain.) Any mathematician knows that algebra comes from “al jabr” in Arabic . . . There’s no denying that Islam is undergoing internal stresses which are impacting non-Muslims and Muslims alike. But there should be no denying of it’s incredible history and contributions to what we call civilization.

The ride OUT of Istanbul was inspiring. Istanbul is situated on a series of great hills and so is dramatic from geography alone. But add in numerous LARGE and magnetic architectural highlights and the thrill of crossing the Bosporus, the historic divide between Europe and Asia over the “asian Golden Gate” . . . well, it was a nice morning. Five kilometers after the crossing drama returned.

I felt something and knew trouble was imminent. Almost immediately thereafter it was clear that I had a flat front tire. The bike began wobbling aggressively and I’m pretty sure I said things that will have to be edited out of the video . . . I managed to get it off the road in thankfully light traffic and return my heart rate to under 1,000. This added almost 5 hours to my day as the tube failed along a seam and was not patchable with my kit. So the bike had to be unloaded completely twice, the front wheel removed twice, a rear wheel (18″) tube used in the front wheel, then patching the front tube at a service station, replacing the 18″ tube . . . so another day of riding into the late night !

I’m a VERY good crasher. I’ve been hit by a truck (3 x) and have not suffered serious injury. I’ve crashed my road bike rarely, my mountain bike (often) and the only time I’ve been hurt seriously was when a guy caused the crash – effectively battery. The crash on the KTM last week was so . . . oh, I’m down. Well I’ll just pick ‘er up and continue. My left pant leg has two holes. My boot has a buckle scratch. The bike has some nice scars. My jacket as a severly scratched button. Me ? In another day I won’t be able to find the two scratches on my inner forearm.

A crash with no drama nor fear. A near crash with adrenal damage to the big pump !

The fellow at the service station was a big strong Uzbek named Otu who was so polite, diligent and professional . . . and at the end would not accept any money but demanded we share some chai from his garage stove and kettle of which he was quite proud. Rather than elaborating the details in summary I’ll just say that I really LIKE it when I’m visiting somewhere that sort of reminds me of the US in the 70’s (like Thailand often does). Much less concerned with outright money. Priorities about time spent with family and children and just spent . . . whiling away. And where HOW you do the job is much more important than WHAT job you’re doing. Otu was determined that I (and he) have confidence that his patch would hold.

Lots of Turkish bikers stopped to offer assistance, advice, commentary, welcome . . . bikers are “good” everywhere but this was a new level, a welcomed one, and a humbling one.

At another spot to take a photo of a beautiful sunset a Bulgarian trucker, Dimitri Popov, showed me his Michigan and Illinois driver’s license and told me that he’d shipped his Honda from the US when he returned to Bulgaria.

Ankara is about two things for me: a) getting Visas (Uzbek and Tajik with GBAO permit) and Kyrgyz and Afghan if possible, and; b) the Museum of Anatolian Civilizations.

Three of the 4 Visas have been collected, the Afghan Visa will wait till I’m in Dushanbe on my way to the Panj River Valley that borders Tajikistan and Afghanistan on the “roof of the world”.

The history of Central Asia is old, complex, rich and the inspiration for so many incredible legends because the truths from that area are so unbelievable ! The museum in Ankara now represents the greatest single collection on earth. The former greatest collection was in Berlin. But the germans, being GERMAN, had mounted many of the works on panels that could resist all measure of earthly convulsion. Unfortunately, this fastidiousness was their doom as the Allies bombed the museums into rubble, even at depths 40′ below street level. Their super-solid mounting made them impossible to rescue. A colossal loss of the gatherings of Aurel Stein (British Jew who even now is barely acknowledged in the Brit Museum), Albert von Le Coq (a German, who at the age of 55 and an inheritor of a Maytag-like fortune, ran off to pursue his Central Asia dreams of exploration) and Sven Hedin, in the Cave of Ten Thousand Buddhas, etc. The three represent a composite inspiration of Indiana Jones.

Tomorrow is a drive to Samsun after picking up the Kyrgyz Visa, a 21″ replacement (insurance) tube, and . . . a visit to the Anatolian Civilizations museum which will probably leave me wobbly. Thursday 3PM the Trabzon ferry begins loading and on early Friday I’ll be in Russia.

Tonite I ate a Ramadan dinner with 8 muslim men who seemed to view me with far more wariness or suspicion that I did they. I’m sure it’s the most dangerous thing I’ve done since getting out of bed this morning. 🙂

As salaam alaikum.

Wow !

The physical view of America from Vancouver is . . . stunning. Mt Rainier looks better from Canada than it does across the quadrangle on the UofW.

I haven’t been on a plane with that percentage of white people in . . . I can’t remember when. It was STRANGE. Even the Asian flight attendants had been heavily “wong-do’d” (if they’d have been serving Hellen Keller she would have had no idea they weren’t entirely of the recent historically dominant culture in their home countries).

I forgot just HOW fast the Germans drive. It’s one thing to talk about it – it’s another to be on a motorcycle at 85 MPH and be passed by something like it was Fleet Week in SF (when Navy F14’s pseudo strafe The CIty and you become aware that the plane has passed by for some time when it’s SOUND finally comes roaring down on you. But I hate Die AutoBahn – it’s better than US interstates because it’s more integrated with the surroundings and the service areas are better in every way including the food and coffee they serve and the politeness, even friendliness of their staff. But it’s still somewhere you go to travel large distances fast without seeing or experiencing much of anything.

There’s a 9000′ lump outside of my home in California. But it’s no visual match for these granite totems in the Tirol. They look like sand castles just poured, except the sand is granite. Shear faces, craggy tops – magnificent. Seefeld, on the other hand . . . has not improved since my last visit in ’91. Simply overrun with ersatz alpine shtick. That said, my hotel did have Franziskaner waiting for me after a long ride in the rain.

The ride into Slovenia was a surprise, sort of. (Disclaimer: I’ve just ripped through 7 countries in 8 days so MOST of my observations are only in relation to visits from some time ago, often more than 20 years ago.) The sound walls near the border were stylized rattan. Much as one’s regard for bamboo increases dramatically for that material while living in SE Asia . . . rattan doesn’t stop sound one whit. And then there was the complete absence of lights in the countryside. But Ljubljana was a very pleasant surprise and the Slovenian countryside just beautiful and very, very tidy.

My time in Zagreb was a re-familiarization with that old Eastern european service. Professional level uncaring, uncaring. The hotel was decent and the large potted plant blocking access to a non-functioning elevator was funny. So was the staff at reception who just ushered me from room to room when I explained that the WiFi wasn’t working. It did work, ONLY, in the restaurant.

The run from Zagreb to Cluj-Napoca via Hungary (there’s a decided lack of east/west roads thru the Balkans and most of eastern Europe. I don’t know if this is a legacy of the Cold War or a recognition that passing thru Serbia has never been without challenges.) Anyway, Budapest is as magnetic as ever and just oozes the architectural riches of a place that was effectively the center of a very wealthy Hapsburg empire, at one time.

A rural exit had me blitzing past small villages of more or less mediocre economic development and crane’s nests in the utility poles and the odd Russian T-34 tank memorial of the “liberation” of eastern Europe from Nazi domination. In Debrechna I saw a . . . Rolls Royce at a service station where I had EXCELLENT (!) food and a fantastic cappuccino, with chocolate and mineral water. Wow, have things have changed . . . I can remember going into restaurants where the professionally attired staff would present an enormous and elaborate menu. In the local language you would finally say – “yes, what do you HAVE”. This would finally result in offerings that had NOTHING to do with the menu and could be no more than potato soup and water. Ah, central planning. “We pretend to work, and they pretend to pay us.” Those were the days.

The border crossing into Romania required a complete documentation circus – my green card (motorbike insurance), title, registration, etc. And then . . . the earlier intimations I’d had at the Slovene border came again, much more strongly and this time somewhat more real. Except that rather that just pony carts and head-scarf wearing babushkas I was treated to driving I haven’t experienced since living in India. They clearly wanted to die, young. The best place to pass a long, tight line of traffic is a blind corner. I hadn’t known, apparently.

My hotel, it was assumed, was a clone of a western chain but . . . no, the Best Western Plus is actually real ! At least until you encountered the lighting, the elevator and the California-spec handicapped-ready washrooms and stairs. Here, staff who were barely alive told me that “it was better under Caucescu”. Romania is the size of the UK with 26 million people. By european standards it’s empty. Shuttered factories and mills with dormant soaring smokestacks litter the landscape and nearby are the socialist apartment blocs that used to house the workers. Western european firms have replaced those dirty industries with small, efficient, clean firms which generate good jobs, but not many of them. Farming in the entire region is being transformed by high productivity to the extent that many old villages are being abandoned.

Heading further south was the Transfagarasan, a road built by Nicolai Caucescu to permit the fast mobilization of forces should the Soviets seek to intercede in Romania the way they had in Czechoslovakia. It’s a crazy assemblage of curves and very scenic but the tarmac is in VERY rough condition, even rivaling a good (!) Indian road. Along the route is one of Vlad the Impaler’s best castles. My front tire was impaled by something and I had a nice 70 kph slide off the KTM. At the time the video camera was rolling and my excitement at having the crash captured was quite great. Other than some roughed up gear and two tiny scratches my condition is unremarkable. The bike suffered a VERY nice scar along the left-side tank, the footpeg, rear footpeg, etc. The largest casualty was the realization that the video was NOT captured. 🙁 Oh well, the WHOLE Transfagarasan will have to wait until I return next fall.

A Bulgarian staying at the B&B (The Union Jack – run by Alex & Carol who are just the best neighbors you’ve never had !) in Pitesti told me to visit a town in his country and that was a very lucky discussion. Vileko Tarnovo is just lovely. The quality of the food is just mind boggling in comparison to 20 years ago when eastern Europe served small, greasy quantities of “meat” (undeclared – don’t ask, we don’t tell). Grandmothers wearing fishnet stockings have disappeared but mothers wearing fishnet tops over ping bras have emerged. Silicone sisters have also appeared and a certain platinum blonde dressed in white with pneumatic proportions is in style. My hotel was also good but there were two noteworthy things on TV after getting in late the first night after a 3-hour deluge. First, on one station was porn, in English, dubbed in English. Second, one station showed a rather masculine jaw-lined but extra curvy blonde pitching . . . vibrators. When she/he demonstrated how to clean it I took a hot shower.

Tomorrow, Istanbul !

Today it’s hard to feel relief more than excitement about the trip. It’s been silly hard to get this thing underway. In the end, this “run” will be much less about physical and technical (riding) challenge and more about just soaking up the surroundings, which isn’t so bad. Next spring Siberia will still be there, with all of its crazy challenges and rewards.

When Eric Robisch and I rode to the Arctic Circle (Inuvik, NWT) in ’93 we encountered alot of funny people. A Japanese expat who told us about the salmon spawning near Jasper that he claimed, and it was verified, Canadians did not even know about. (In fact, they denied the possibility of it, which was something he’d warned us about.) A german from Berlin who told the best Harley joke of all time (aside from just the bike itself, of course.) “Yah, yah, so I ask them, ‘If Harley-Davidson made an airplane, would you get on it ?'” Conventional canadian wisdom was that without carrying spare tires and snowmobile suits we were doomed. It was a great, hard trip.

Ed Culberson rode a BMW in the early 90’s from Fairbanks to Tierra del Fuego along the Panama Highway. When he got to the Darien Gap in south America he did not do what almost everyone has done for the past 400 years. He didn’t go around it. He went through it. His BMW was dismantled in 3 pieces in dugout canoes and ol’ Ed went through. His book – “Obsessions Die Hard”. Before the Arctic Trip in ’93 I told Eric that anything we did would likely have already been done by some old man on a BMW.

But that was only because he couldn’t buy a KTM. 🙂

Kurt

Today I’m grinding through the hotel and airline and ferry cancellations necessary after learning last nite, as sadly expected, that the bike did NOT ship from LAX.

The air and hotel cancellations were due to the possible shipping container plan.

The ferry and hotel cancellations were due to the possible ferry shipping plan.

So, a trip of more than 10,000 miles is stopped on the first actual step.  Of course, all the planning and arrangements and re-planning had already taken place and those certainly felt like real steps, too. I was prepared to have a mechanical (more likely electrical in a modern motorcycle) complication that would mean the KTM was a totem to a trip somewhere far from nothing. Not even getting to the start line is a bitter pill, however. Non-recoverable resources include the Visa fees, air travel costs to/from Korea, costs of travel to/from the US to prep the bike, rental car . . . etc. Time is the real non-recoverable. Possibly the greatest cost is the (missed) opportunity cost in both the economics sense of the word and the literary sense.

All that said – no one was hurt or injured. Few will or should care and things will carry on. I’m very disappointed for not a few that will be let down, including those who gave substantive spiritual, intellectual and tangible support.

Many thanks here in Korea to Wendy Choi, MJ Kim, and Joon for considerable time and effort in trying to salvage my trip. But the source of woe is decidedly concentrated in the US.