Kyrgyzstan feels different to the other Central Asian countries we’ve ridden through. It’s surprisingly better off, evident in the size of the houses, the types of cars and the quality of the (main) road surface. The clothes people wear and the music we hear are more western influenced; we’re much more likely to see girls in jeans and sloganned t-shirts than in long colourful dresses. But there’s also a different attitude. There have been far fewer offers of help or even curious questions about what we’re doing and where we’re going. The 4 year old boy sticking his middle finger up when we first got here was amusing but wouldn’t have happened in Tajikistan. Many people just seem a little stand-offish. Added to the series of unfortunate events from the past few days we’re ready to get going to our next destination.

After a night at the Sakura Guest House in Bishkek we move into the AT House. This is a cyclist’s refuge run by Nathan and Angie who understand exactly what the needs of the two wheeled traveller are. Their garden is laid out to accommodate as many tents as can be squeezed in. There’s a well stocked workshop for bike fettling, a warm shower inside, a cold one outside and an open kitchen for cooking.

Bishkek is a popular crossroads for cyclists traveling north, south, east and west as it’s the home of several embassies. Visa applications can be made to help with onward travels to China, Russia, all central Asian countries and Iran (for the lucky ones).

The AT House contains several other cyclists who are sat waiting for the tedious beurocratic wheels to turn in their frustratingly slow way, stranded at the mercy of a Consul who considers their application to visit his home country to be the height of inconvenience. Amongst them are Reece and Virgil who are pleased to see us arrive by bike having last seen us leave by bus. We all raise a celebratory glass or two over dinner.

But the following night things get a bit more serious. We hear some popping sounds a few hundred metres from the house that then become louder and more abrupt. We all joke that it sounds like gunfire but then there’s a large explosion and a plume of black smoke climbs into the air. It definitely is gunfire now and then there’s another explosion before it all quietens down again. There are no sirens which seems odd but when Angie and a few others go out to investigate they report that the roads have been cordoned off and there are plenty of police and military vehicles about.

It takes until the following morning before we find any news online. It seems there were some ISIS suspects staying 300m down the road and they were planning an attack on the upcoming Eid festival in the city centre to celebrate the end of Ramadan. The Kyrgyz special forces had found out and preempted the attack with extreme force. Never a dull moment in this country.

A few days after this a tip off from a neighbour about the fact that there are several foreigners staying with Angie and Nathan, many with suspicious appearances, prompts a visit from the police to find out what it’s all about. We’re all asked to show our passports which is fine until they get to Will. His passport is in Dublin awaiting a Russian Visa and all he has to show where he’s from is a crumpled photo copy with a picture of him when we was 18. The police raise a few eye brows as they inspect this proof of id and compare it to the shaggy bearded individual in front of them that is now a prime suspect. He’s marched off to the police station for more questioning, finger prints are taken and he’s given a warning not to leave Bishkek until he has his passport back. As if there was much choice!

Will’s home town has a history of poetry so here’s a few lines to mark his lucky escape from deportation:

Irish Will had a very big beard
Bishkek police thought he looked rather weird
With a city in crisis
They thought he was ISIS
But he wasn’t the terrorist they feared

Like everyone else, our main task in Bishkek (other than avoiding terrorist attacks) is to apply for a Visa. The most popular route from here is to head east into China then down into South East Asia. We’re plotting something a bit different so plan to head further south to take in India, Nepal, Bangladesh and Myanmar/Burma. The two overland routes to get down there are either via the legendary Karakorum Highway through China and Pakistan or via Tibet and straight into Nepal. Visa and security issues make the former difficult (we’d have to send our passports to London and get a bus or police escort for large parts of Pakistan). The latter is impossible without being part of a formal, organised and tightly controlled tour. Annoyingly both options were much easier as independent travelers several years ago but such is the ever changing way of the world.

So we’ve chosen to fly from Bishkek to Delhi. It’s a shame to have to break the overland journey but we feel the benefits from experiencing this colourful and crazy part of the world will outweigh any moral satisfaction we would have felt from avoiding plane journeys at all costs. We make an appointment for the Indian embassy and then have a few days to sort out our other task.

As we’ve come to expect, receiving parcels in foreign countries is seldom straightforward. When I go to claim a package from DHL that my Mum has sent from the UK they tell me it’s being held by customs due to its declared value being over a certain limit. I’m required to go to the airport, 25km away and prove that I’m a cyclist who needs these bike parts and am not going to try and sell them on. A shared taxi ride later and I find myself stood in front of a window where a bored looking man glances at the paperwork for our parcel then glances back at me before giving the thumbs up. That was customs cleared in a few seconds without a single word spoken between us.

Now DHL have to process the paperwork which, despite my protests, can’t be done until after the weekend. A few som passed in a handshake would have no doubt helped the situation but I’m short on cash so I return empty handed and settle for waiting.

Four days after applying for our appointment we get to visit the Indian embassy. No one checks our appointment date and we arrive late but get let in anyway so it looks like the appointment was totally unnecessary. We’re told we can only get a 1 month, single entry visa which is disappointing and a lot less time than we would have got at just about any other Indian embassy. For some reason this one is more stingy. To make matters worse, as British citizens we pay nearly 3 times as much as passport holders from other countries, a tit for tat gesture as Indian residents pay a fortune for UK Visas. With a lot of persuading we manage to get them to at least consider giving us 2 months. All this takes time and as we don’t have enough cash to pay there and then and not enough time to get to an ATM before the embassy closes so we have to return the next day.

Meanwhile the parcel still hasn’t been cleared from customs. DHL tell me it should be at their office today but I go there twice and it it’s still sat at the airport depot.

The following day is much more successful. Back at the Indian embassy, armed with a large wodge of cash we again plead for a more generous Visa. We explain that our plans include ducking in and out of India 3 times to visit neighbouring countries and that because we’re traveling by bike we need more time. The man behind the counter goes to speak to the man upstairs and together they come down and tell us they’ll push for a 3 month, triple entry visa for us. It should be ready by the following Monday too which is half the time we expected it to take to process. As always, if you don’t ask you don’t get!

As there’s been no word from ‘Delivering Hopelessly Late’ I call them and get summoned to their office to claim the parcel at long last. But they still don’t want to give it up without a fight and slap a bill for storage charges on the desk. Storage time that includes the several days that I’ve been desperate to take it from them but haven’t been allowed! I tell them I’m happy to pay but first I’ll deduct my accommodation costs incurred while waiting along with the transport costs paid to run around the city and to the airport. They don’t see the funny side.

I then suggest we go halves just to settle this and after the desk clerk speaks to his manager who speaks to his director we shake on the deal. Only 325 som each (~£3.25) but it’s the principal of the thing that matters.

So what to do with several more days in Bishkek that we’ve now been ‘gifted’ while we wait for the Visa? We’ve already tried the aqua park, visited the state museum (which would be far more interesting if we could read Kyrgyz or Russian), shopped in bike shops, shopped in the huge Osh Bazaar and I’ve had a hair cut and beard trim. The only thing for it is to get out of Bishkek and visit Issyk Kul.

Kyrgyzstan’s number one attraction is a vast lake sat 150km east of the capital and 1000m higher. At 200km x 30km Issyk Kul is the second largest alpine lake in the world and just about everyone we met told us we had to see it.

With us are Irish Will and Korean Kim who we’d met at different points in Uzbekistan and Tajikistan and who ended up riding a lot of the Pamir Highway together. They overtook us while we were without bike in Kara Balta. Also with us are Matthew, a German-Australian and his friend Tim, who had been persuaded to act as a bike kit mule and flown in especially to deliver some spare parts (much more sensible than posting). Matthew is a dab hand with a Go Pro camera so his videos are well worth viewing.

At Balykchy our happy band of campers cram into a taxi and hurtle round the lake to a popular destination on the South shore of Issyk Kul. Here we find a salt lake to float in, a mud lake to wallow in then camp by the main lake for more swimming and a round of Kumis with the family that look after the beach.

The array of cyclist’s tan lines on show amongst our group is astonishing and we all proudly display them like a badge of honour.

The slow train delivers us back to Bishkek late the next day leaving us two more days to fill before our flight to Delhi. Just enough time to write some words for the blog, fit the new parts to the bike (working gears again, hurray!) and eat lots more fresh water melon.

We also pay a visit to Dale and Beth who had provided their address for the parcel to be sent to, even though it never got as far as their house. They had been very kind fielding numerous phone calls from DHL before we arrived in Bishkek. We’d been put in touch via some friends of my cousin so it was a very tenuous connection but very valuable to us and we were keen to show our gratitude in person. They’ve lived in Kyrgyzstan long enough to know about all the various scams and unnecessary complications and give an insight into how it can be a fascinating but frustrating place to live.

The day before we’re due to fly we make a final visit to the Indian embassy to retrieve out passports. When they hand them to us we nervously open them to find a 3 month, multiple entry visa neatly attached inside each one. This produces two big grins as we leave the embassy. Just what we needed!

It’s our turn to send a parcel now as a few things have become redundant and our winter quilt has been replaced by the summer one so needs to go home. We eventually find the main post office and get directed to the Cargo department. In front of a huge map of the world sits a sewing machine and a very busy lady who is grabbing parcels, weighing them and handing over forms. Our parcel quickly enters this process and we have five different forms to fill in. The role of the sewing machine then becomes apparent when she expertly crafts a linen bag for our box to be slotted into. This is then sewn up and sealed with hot wax like an ancient manuscript. Whether the parcel makes it back to the UK is anyone’s guess but the care and attention shown here is impressive so it’s a good start [edit: it took a week with no issues and at half the price of DHL].

Then we’re ready to leave central Asia after nearly three months in countries ending in ‘Stan. Each one has proved interesting and unique in their own way but always with some common connections through the food, language, vodka and the ladas. As an area of the world that is often overlooked and is constantly changing we can’t recommend it highly enough.

At Bishkek airport early the next morning we push the bike into the departure lounge, remove the pedals, turn the bars and cocoon it in polythene and gaffa tape. The panniers go into stripey shopping bags and we join the queue to check in with the usual curious looks at our unusual luggage.

At the desk we’re first told to re wrap the bike using the cling film machine as it may damage the plane. We point out that a few sheets of cling film is unlikely to be better than thick polythene which they reluctantly accept is probably true. They try to weigh the bike by standing it precariously 2.5m tall on its back wheel on the scales. Next they claim we have to pay $150 excess, which is nonsense. A screen shot of their own cycle policy (Air Pegasus) that I had saved on my phone soon reduces this to $40 which again they reluctantly accept.

The first rule of flying with a tandem is to not tell the airline you’re bringing a tandem. Likely as not they won’t know how to deal with the problem so will solve it by saying no you can’t take it. However if you’re there at the check in desk with the bike wrapped and ready to go then it’s much harder for them to turn you away.

The bike disappears through a door and we walk through to airside to wait for the plane. The fate of the rest of the journey now lies with the airport ‘chuckers’ at both ends of our flight. Will it make it to Delhi and will it still resemble a working bicycle? The answer would be at the end of a four hour flight.

Anyone remember The Adventure Fairy? Well in Kyrgyzstan she was back with a vengeance.

After a half day and a full night sleeping in Sary Tash Kirsty feels much better and I’ve got a tiny bit more energy so we decide to continue. After so many days at high altitude and several nights camping above 4000m our blood would probably ring alarm bells in a UCI doping test. As a result Kirsty feels strong going into the morning’s climb which is good because I’m running on half power.

It’s a laborious plod in 1st gear to the top, 500m above Sary Tash, then we roll down a couple of km only to have to climb once again to the second summit which sits at a comparatively normal 3600m.

This time the road drops away below us around a ladder of hair pins that appear to be built on the side of a landslide. Despite the drag brake being set to ‘cruise’ we still manage to zoom past the heavy trucks that crawl down the hill.

Then the wiggles straighten out to take us alongside a small river in a gorge full of yurts and caravans. We meet 2 French riders coming the other way who tell us that the road ahead will be ‘Paradise for you’ so we look forward to more freewheeling fun. The direction they’re going doesn’t look like such an enticing prospect but they’ve already been climbing for 3 days from Osh so are well warmed up. We meet a dutchman, 3 Koreans and an Australian later in the day. This is a very popular cycling route.

The gorge opens up into a wider valley. On top of the hills directly ahead sits a black cloud like a mortar board but we can see that not far beyond the sun is still shining. By pedalling hard we nip through the brief rain shower and emerge back into the dry and can ease off again. It’s great when the weather is so clearly defined and visible. Passing through a small town the children run out and ask us to take their photo and to high five them. This has happened a lot during our time in Central Asia and they love to see their image on the back of our cameras. Another cyclist we met carried a polaroid camera so could give them a copy which is really nice idea. Sometimes they come a bit too close and need a yell to avoid a nasty tandem/child collision.

There’s only a short climb in the afternoon that requires much effort, other than that gravity does the work for us, which is fine by me. We decide on an early finish and find a nice secluded spot by the river.

Which is where we stay the next day after my body goes on strike in the morning. It’s an effort just to rush to the nearest bush and then down to the river. But it’s a chance to clean the bike and bags which were still filthy from the Kyzl Art Pass out of Tajikistan. Then rest, eat, read and dodge the thunder showers that roll around the hills and occasionally pass overhead. This is the first time the tent has stayed in one wild camp spot for more than one night.

We’re back on the road the next day primarily because I’m too impatient to wait another day though I do feel a bit better. Thankfully the road continues downward and 30km passes in less than an hour and with barely a pedal stroke. A four year old boy spots us and instead of the usual cry of Hello! we get a middle finger salute and are told to F off! Who knows where he learnt that but it’s not the kind of greeting we had expected.

Then I slam on the brakes as there’s a puppy in the road. At first we think it’s been hit but it doesn’t appear hurt, it just can’t stand up properly. I carry it to a nearby bus stop and whenever it gets up it walks a couple of steps then falls over. A local man comes to take a look and suggests it may be drunk, which is certainly what it looks like.

Kirsty stays to keep an eye on the poor thing for a while but it’s hard to know what we can do to help. In the end she carefully lifts it up and over a small wall, here it can stumble around without the risk of falling back into the road so it seems safer. We can only hope that it either gets better, someone comes to look after it or it sobers up.

The hillsides are so colourful with green meadows laced with reds, yellows, blues, browns from flowers, yurts and animals. It’s so refreshing after the sepia tones of the high Pamir plateau that starved us of variety.

We’re following the River Gulcha and enjoying watching it gather momentum and increase in volume. The road takes us into the town named after the river where we stop for lunch in a small park and I entertain some children with a rendition of ‘Wish You Were Here’. The guitar they lend me isn’t a 12 string so it’s hard to do the song justice but I think they get the idea. No tips though.

The downhill ends at Gulcha and is replaced by a climb up another high pass which is not an appealing prospect in my weakened condition. We pull over and set up camp instead and I load up with imodium, rehydration salts and listen to Pink Floyd in the hope it’ll be the cure.

It’s not, so we vote for another recuperation day. It’s going to take a while to get to Osh at this rate!

We have great views, a nice little river and some friendly children for company who let us help them catch fish. It’s not a bad place to be ill. There are more thunder storms and sunshine while we watch a skilful horseman herding his cows up to a different pasture. Almost everything seems to be done from the saddle of a horse round here.

It seems Richard Ashcroft was wrong as the drugs do work. The next day I feel so much better and can finally begin making use of our high altitude training. We climb up the long pass with renewed vigour and after tackling some 12% gradients and a few hairpins we arrive at the top which seems to be a yurt city.

We see horses being milked for the first time. The milk will then be carefully bottled and fermented to produce the popular drink Kumis. Stalls line the road selling this stuff in old coke bottles and its hugely popular but its not the refreshing drink we’re after at the moment so we pass them by, for now.

Ahead lies Osh, Kyrgyzstan’s second city. It’s 50km away and 1500m below us so this distance passes in just over an hour. It’s a wonderful yet subtle descent and we feel like we have a motor on the bike traveling at that speed on what looks like an almost flat gradient.

As we get lower the temperature gets higher and the housing more dense. This is the first proper town since Khorog, 3 weeks ago and it feels like we’re entering a proper city with actual super markets, bars and restaurants.

We find several other cyclists in the Bayana Guest House including Tim and Carina (www.boo2east.com) and later Paul and Greet who we had met back in Dushanbe. For the last few days I’ve been craving burgers, pizzas and milkshakes so we all go out to gorge ourselves in a nearby fast food restaurant. Normally we’d stay well away from this kind of place and eat local dishes but gosh it tastes good after some fairly bland food over the last couple of weeks.

A rest day in Osh is mostly spent eating 60p burgers, 30p water melons, 10p ice creams. I’ve got some weight to put on after being sick and I’m committed to doing it as quickly as possible. If I’m not in front of a plate of food I make sure I have a Snicker’s in my hand.

There’s a huge outdoor pool which is perfect for cooling off so we head there in the afternoon and find months of cycling have not helped our arm muscles, even Kirsty ‘dolphin’ McGaul finds a lap of the pool an effort. But the main activity seems to be diving rather than swimming so before the assembled crowd I introduce the locals to the fine art of performing the running bomb.

The next day, after a wide eyed visit to the supermarket (so much choice!) we leave Osh with bulging paniers and ride out into the heat.

Although our bodies are on the mend the bike is now misbehaving. The middle chain ring is coming to the end of its life so we have to now use either the big ring or granny ring. Either a big heavy gear at a very low cadence or a small, super spinny gear, both of which are uncomfortable.

The road rises and falls over rolling hills and follows a convoluted route. There are fingers of Uzbek territory stretching across from the west which we have to skirt round adding a considerable distance. Our frustration is added to by the terrible drivers. They have absolutely no appreciation for how much space we need and often pass so close that we could reach across and take the phone out of the drivers hand. Driving licences are simply bought which removes the inconvenience of learning to drive and passing a test.

The hills are sunburnt and orange, there’s a risk we’ll start going the same way. After Jalalabad we find a shallow reservoir that offers the perfect camp spot and enjoy a refreshing dip to cool off. We manage to end the next day next to another reservoir too, this time camping on an island.

The road then follows a steep sided valley with the river Nurak captured in a series of bright green reservoirs lying at the bottom. At the end of each one there is a large dam which we have to climb up and round, often including a short but dark tunnel. All of Kyrgyzstan’s power comes from hydroelectric plants like this one. We, on the other hand, have no power as our dynamo hub has packed up meaning no front light and making the tunnels more exciting.

This is a hard road that ramps up at 12% then drops down just as steeply, often with a sharp bend at the bottom making it tricky to carry much momentum into the next climb. The problematic gear box means we have to stamp on the pedals in the biggest chain ring then quickly change to the smallest chain ring when the hill steepens up again.

Just before Karakul we pull in, hot and bothered, to buy a round of cold drinks and ice cream each at a small shop. Followed by a round of cold drinks and ice cream, which is enough to power is up the last long climb of the day.

Like it’s Tajik namesake, Karakul has a lake but this one is much smaller and much warmer. It’s a popular place with most of the town enjoying an evening swim and kids daring each other to jump off the 10m high diving board. We eat melon and shashlik kebab, chat to some Russians visiting on holiday then pitch for another lakeside camp site.

A bigger lake awaits us on the other side of a long climb back up to 1500m. Once up and over this hill we begin following the shore of Toktogul reservoir. It’s an annoying road that prefers to head for the hills rather than stick to the water line. All the time the lake is far below us with no obvious route down and as such no chance to cool off. Instead we find some shade in a chaihana and the owner shows us shrapnel wounds that he says he picked up when fighting in Afghanistan, presumably during soviet times.

The hard climbing and inappropriate gears are causing Kirsty’s back to complain in a very painful way. We also manage to break the chain, which is now on its last legs along with most of the drive train. We need a short day to recover and regroup and have visions of lazing under a tree by a sandy beach alongside the lake.

8km down a rough road beyond the town of Toktogul and we arrive at our ‘beach’. It’s a barren, pebble strewn shoreline that drops down 1m to the water. There’s no shade and only a dusty patch of ground well away from the lake itself to pitch our tent. It’ll have to do though as Kirsty needs some hydrotherapy.

From Toktogul we have the longest continuous climb of the trip so far, rising 2000m over the course of 65km. Despite still feeling sore, Kirsty decides to get back on the bike the next day and we bounce our way back up to the main road and begin gaining altitude. Almost immediately the trees close in around us and we have a freezing cold river full of melt water to dip our feet into at lunch time. It’s a nice steady gradient that would be a perfect middle chain ring spin, if only we had one that worked.

A grassy, shady spot alongside the river is too good to pass so we stop early to help Kirsty’s back recover some more. As we’re putting up the tent we’re approached by a man in a straw hat who calls out ‘She’s not pedaling on the back?’ in a Leeds accent. Reece (http://worldwidecycle.blogspot.in/?m=1) left Baku 2 weeks after us and has been trying to to catch us since he landed in Kazachstan. He’s been riding with Virgile, a laidback Frenchman who’s been on the road for 4 years and we invite them both to camp with us. The rest of the climb can be tackled together in the morning.

It’s great to have some company and we all chat away to take our minds off the task in hand. Up and up we go.

We’re offered Kurut outside a yurt while we stop for lunch. These are dried yogurt balls that have the consistency of chalk, smell like strong cheese that’s been left in the sun and taste like sour, salty yogurt. Not a pleasant snack but like the Kumis they are incredibly popular. I nibble a corner then pocket the rest for disposal when we’re out of sight.

Up and up we go some more. By mid afternoon we’re beginning to wonder if this hill actually has a summit. Maybe we’re in an Escher drawing? But we persevere and finally the road levels off and we’re at the top. Windproofs are pulled on and down we go on the other side.

We’re now dropping onto a massive, yurt filled plateau ringed by a ridge of high mountain peaks. We have to cross this then climb out again on the other side. That second climb can wait until tomorrow though so once we’ve found the only decent shop for 100km in any direction we set up our little tented village behind a stripey canvas building. The wind whips across the wide open space so the shelter from the building is very handy.

The second climb out of the plateau is a tough slog. We winch up 1000m in 15km, this time the smallest gear is the only one we need. The hill ends with a tunnel that chops the top of the mountain off for us but we’re still up at 3600m now. I dig out my head torch for this one as it’s 2.5km long and lined with pot holes. Many cyclists hitch a lift at this point as it’s notoriously unpleasant inside but we choose to ride it. And we survive with only mild carbon monoxide poisoning.

On the other side a glorious view awaits us. The road drops down steeply but smoothly through several hair pins and diving through short tunnels. It begs to be ridden fast and I wish I was on my race bike instead of the cumbersome tandem.

Down and down we go. After the steep section we enter a narrower gorge that seems to be channelling a strong wind back up the hill. We have to pedal hard when we should be freewheeling. As if we haven’t done enough work already to get here!

We catch up with Reece and Virgile who have been waiting for us in a chaihana then go in search for a place to camp.

Over the last 11 months we’ve become pretty good at spotting nice places to spend the night. We also thought we had a good feeling for when somewhere was safe or not. Rounding a corner we look down on a pleasant patch of ground alongside a river and not far from a yurt and a long tent. This looks ideal.

We have to pass through a barrier to get there and have a chat with the yurt owner who tells us it’s no problem for us to use the patch of ground we had our eye on. We even get given a bottle of Kumis by someone staying in the tent.

The rest of the evening is spent trying the Kumis then trying to get the taste out of our mouths. Imagine drinking sour, fizzy, alcoholic milk and you have some idea of what its like. We watch the yurt owner sat alongside one of his mares, squeezing out a fresh batch of milk for the next batch of unsuspecting cycle tourists.

In the morning I sleepily crawl out of the tent and wonder up to the makeshift toilet nearby. I have a vague feeling that something isn’t right which grows into a strong feeling of panic when I return to the tent and realise the bike has gone.

It has to be some kind of prank so I rush round the immediate area looking in bushes and behind trees. I walk along the river bank to see if it’s caught on some rocks. But there’s no sign.

Reece, Virgile and Kirsty join in the search with Reece grabbing his own bike to ride further up the valley. Neither his nor Virgile’s bike have been moved. We also have all our kit as it was safely inside the tent so it’s just the tandem that has gone. On the track near the turn off from the road I find one of my gloves and also the distinctive tracks from our tyres which is when it becomes clear that the bike has been taken away. The adventure fairy is really having fun now.

Reece finds nothing up the valley so then tries searching up the road in the direction the tracks seem to be going in. There’s nothing up there except a toll booth and police checkpoint with some unhelpful guards.

At a loss for what else to do we decide we need to get to the main police station, but that is 20km away and moving our kit without a bike is extremely difficult. Luckily a car stops when we stick out a thumb and takes us up to the police check point. From here the guards flag down a bus which takes us all the way to Kara Balta police station.

We arrive with our pile of paniers and begin trying to explain the situation. The first police man seems friendly but wants us to give him cash for petrol so we can drive back to the scene of the crime. Before we have a chance to say ‘nyet dengi’ (no money) his superior arrives and takes us up to his office.

Detective Iscanda is short on height but high on seriousness. He’s keen to hear our story so he can help. He speaks basic English, enough to understand us as long as we speak slowly and carefully. This is a huge relief as most of the other officers only seemed to speak Kyrgyz and Russian. After we’ve described the series of events from the previous evening through to arriving at the police station we bundle into a police car. Kirsty, me, Iscanda, two other officers and a PA in a car with 5 seats makes for a crampt and uncomfortable journey.

Back at the camp site, the yurt owner is interrogated for half an hour but appears to know nothing about the bike. We point out the tyre tracks to the officers then drive up to the toll booth to ask them to look through their CCTV footage. It’s going to take a while so we’re driven back to the police station and told the toll booth security will call if they spot anything suspicious.

Lengthy statements are written and signed by me but not Kirsty (she doesn’t get asked much despite being joint owner of the bike). A translator is then called who asks me if I will want to prosecute the thief. If we do it could take months so he suggests we say that the bike is missing rather than stolen to make things simpler and to avoid us having to return to Kyrgyzstan to testify.

After all this we’re free to go. Detective Iscanda suggests we plan to stay in Kara Balta for a week while they make some investigations and try to find the bike. We check into a grubby hotel across the road and sit down in stunned silence. What now?

Kara Balta appropriately means black axe and is described to us by one local as ‘the worst town in Kyrgyzstan’. The glory days when it was the main uranium processing centre for the soviet union are over. It’s not somewhere we’d have chosen to spend a week.

So many things go through our heads: What are the chances of seeing the bike again? What can the thieves do with such an unusual bike? Do we end the trip here? Do we fly home and buy another tandem? Do we try and buy two solo bikes? It’s a sleepless night not helped by music, dogs and traffic outside our window.

In the morning we have a plan. Firstly we pay Detective Iscanda 1000 som (£10) to allow him to place adverts on TV, radio and in the local magazine. Then we find a cobbler to sew up the splits in our rear panniers. It won’t help us find the bike but we might as well get it done while we have the time. Next we find a printer who prints a poster I’ve made with a description of the bike and saying that there’s a reward for anyone who finds it. 150 copies should be a good start. After that we move to another hotel which happens to be a bunk room above a football stadium. It’s less than half the price of the previous hotel at£1 each per night, more comfortable and quieter. A marshrutker (minibus) takes us back to Sosnovka, the nearest town to where the bike was stolen, and we spend a long, hot afternoon putting up the posters and chatting to everyone we meet about the stolen bike. Most people are genuinely sympathetic, some are nonplussed while others actually laugh at us which does little for our tempers. We were hoping for a lynch mob to help search the town and flush out the thief but it doesn’t look like things work that way in Kyrgyzstan.

Back at the hotel we flop down on our bunk beds and now the waiting game starts.

It’s horrible being so helpless so we try to keep busy. In the morning we walk to the bazaar for breakfast supplies and get stopped by some people who mention our ‘velociped’. It’s far from being a tourist town and so we stick out like a sore thumb as being ‘not from round here’. One of the stall holders gives Kirsty a sympathetic hug when she realises we’re the ones with the stolen bike. It seems the word has already begun spreading thanks to the adverts and our posters.

I also email the national press and some TV and radio stations in the capital, Bishkek just in case they can help. One of them comes back and tells me that they want to run the story and that we should record a short video, which we do and email it across. They also say they have contacts with the Minister of the Interior so will ask for his help. This all sounds very useful.

Then we have the best dinner for a long time. The food is OK being a regional dish of horse meat on pasta with some circular fatty slices that make us wonder which part of the horse they came from (and get left on the plate). But what makes it special is the phone call from Detective Iscanda to tell us to come to the station in one hour as they have found our bike!

We try to contain our excitement and relief until we actually see our trusty steed but sure enough, as we stand outside the police station an hour later a black Mercedes pulls in with our bike hanging out of the back! It’s precariously dangling from the boot, held in by bailer twine with the front wheel 50mm off the ground but at first glance seems to be intact.

Once we extract it we get a proper look. The chain has broken but all the pieces are still there. The pouches that sit on the top tubes have been moved around and some items are missing. Kirsty’s windproof jacket, some anti mosquito spray, a small set of Allen keys, a compass and most annoyingly my LVIS cycling cap have all gone. But we have the bike so it doesn’t really matter. We’ve been through so much with that machine over the past few months so it’s like being reunited with a close friend.

2 hours of form filling and statements about the quality of the police work that led them to discover the bike then follows. I have to declare that there will be no charges brought against anyone, we are very happy with the way the case has been dealt with and that as far as we’re concerned no further action is required. Case closed.

I ask how the bike was found and the initial story is that a 20 year old ‘boy’ saw our posters and went to look for it so he could claim the reward. I ask if we could meet this local hero so after a short discussion a man is brought in and introduced as the one who found the bike. He’s about 40 and clearly one of the policemen who we’d seen earlier. ‘Where’s my reward?’ he asks so I hand over the small amount of money in our purse, 1200 som (£12) and he seems happy enough. It’s enough for he and the rest of the officers to have a few drinks if nothing else. We’ll never know what the actual story was that led them to the bike. A quick Google search revealed blogs from a couple of other cyclists who’d had their bikes taken on the same stretch of road which could be coincidence or a sign it’s an organised scam, but again we’ll never know.

There are none of the bribery and corruption laws that protect us in the UK here. In fact bribery and corruption seem to be part of the law. A student wanting to join the police academy will have to pay several thousand dollars. They’ll then pay for decent grades before deciding which job they’d like and paying again for the relevant position. Traffic police pay dearly as they can then exploit speeding motorists who may not even have a genuine licence so have the potential for high earnings.

The same police Mercedes that brought us the bike ferries us back to the hotel with me sat in the boot to stop the front wheel hitting the ground. Good job the police are on our side for this highly illegal journey!

So at long last we can ride into Bishkek. With illness, injury, malfunctioning gears, a malfunctioning dynamo and a stolen bike the adventure fairy has pulled out all the stops over the last two weeks. Surely nothing more can happen to us in this country?

Before we left England a common question was “Which bit of the trip are you most looking forward to?”. It’ll be interesting if our answers are the same as “Which bit of the trip did you most enjoy?” when this is all over. Picking a single one is almost impossible but featuring high on the list was always The Pamir Highway and indeed this particular road has in no small part shaped our route so far.

Sometimes referred to as “The roof of the world” the Pamir mountains peak at over 7000m in places. Picking its way through these enormous hills is the second highest international highway in the world, the majority of which being over 3500m and with several passes at over 4000m. Even in June it can get quite chilly at that height so we were keen not to arrive much earlier. As such, the big loop up into Scandinavia at the beginning of the trip was included, as well as our winter sojourn in Greece to make sure we rode up into this rarified atmosphere in the summer. As it turned out these additional parts to the journey were much more than just time killers and have made the whole trip even more fulfilling.

There was certainly a weight of expectation as well as a hint of apprehension for this next stretch.

June 16th 2015

Out of Khorog we leave the murky brown waters of the River Panj and now have the much more pleasant, blue-green River Gunt for company. Unsurprisingly the road climbs up and up. Khorog sits at just over 2100m so we have some altitude to gain over the next few days.

Soon we’re coaxed from a bus stop picnic lunch into a nearby family home by a kind old gentleman in a trilby. Over chai and heavily buttered bread we chat to his young daughter who wears a Union Jack bandana and tells us she loves living in Khorog. At 10 years old she can speak Tajik, Pamiri, Russian and English and is understandably surprised that we only have a quarter of her language skills. There are several different languages and dialects within the Pamir region, each as different to one another as Geordie is from English and equally incomprehensible to the uninitiated. A Dushanbe resident would find it extremely difficult understanding a Pamiri speaking their local tongue.

The home feels surprisingly European with a sofa for the guests (the family stay on the floor) and through an open door we spot a fitted kitchen. All very different to the sparse central Asian houses we’ve visited before.

With our extended lunch over we climb back on the bike with a wave and continue climbing steadily upward through tunnels to protect us from landslides and decorated with Soviet Union motives, then along the busy, green valley floor. The mountain peaks on either side are streaked with snow and most are now over 5000m high.

Gaining 1000m over 100km makes for a very pleasant gradient the next day. More significantly we’ve passed 3000m above sea level which is where most people begin to feel the effects of altitude. A short walk off the road to investigate a rickety bridge leaves us heavy legged and out of breath climbing back up the bank.

We spend the night acclimatising at a height of 3500m at an old Russian sanitorium in Jelondi. Built around some natural hot springs and still popular with the locals as well as travellers passing through for soothing aching limbs, the dark, wood panelled corridors and unusual location are reminiscent of The Shining.

Floating in the warm waters is wonderfully relaxing despite sharing the bathhouse with several naked Tajiks (separate baths for men and women; leave your clothes at the door).

We both sleep reasonably well, only waking once or twice to take some big breaths but I can feel my heartrate is higher than normal and the run to the breakfast table is harder than normal. The main task for the day is to cross the Koitezek Pass, over 700m above us and we begin the climb cautiously on a nice smooth road, not too steep. The surface and kind gradient last until the final 400m of ascent when we round a corner and are faced with a triple whammy of difficulty. The road ramps up to 10-12% and degrades to a loose mess of rocks and gravel. On top of that we pass through the 4000m above sea level point meaning the extra power required to get up the slope has to be provided with only 12.5% of effective oxygen with each lungful of air, compared to the generous 20.9% we’d have if we were at sea level. Hopefully we made a few more haemoglobin overnight to help us cope.

It’s a struggle in no uncertain terms. Lots more gasping, a few stops and several calls for “Power! Power!” to accelerate us up and over the largest obstacles and eventually we reach the very unassuming summit. The road just flattens off and it’s only our Garmin that confirms we’re at the top, 4271m above sea level. We both feel dizzy and wobbly-legged, a bit like the feeling after a couple of morning ChaChas.

A short respite of tarmac across the top doesn’t last so there’s no rewarding smooth descent, just more horrible, loose rocks and another few mm taken off the brake pads through overuse. It’s not until we’ve crawled back up to 4100m on a second, even harder, looser, steeper climb after lunch that we find a consistent stretch of blacktop.

This brings us round to one of the most wonderful views of the journey so far. Down below us lies the Alichur Pamir, flanked by the Northern and Southern Alichur Ranges, each over 5500m. The plateau between them contains two lakes surrounded by salt encrusted marsh land. The colour of the water changes from green to blue to black as the evening light recedes.

We camp near the edge of Lake Sasykkul and spend a considerable amount of time marvelling at our surroundings and how fortunate we are to be right there, right now. This is what we came for. This is why dozens of cyclists ride this road each year and thousands of others dream about it.

The briefest of brief swims in the freezing lake raises my high altitude swimming challenge score to 3820m even if it only lasted 3820ms.

In the morning the pond next to our tent is covered with 5mm of ice and we’re glad we still have our winter quilt for warmth.

A routine check of the rack bolts on the bike reveals that all the bumping around the day before has taken its toll and there’s an ominous crack around one of the mounts on the fork. It’s been a hard couple of weeks for our trusty steed. Could this be terminal?

 

A scratch of the head and a rummage through the ‘In Case Of Emergencies’ section of the spare parts bag brings out some jubilee clips and the ever faithful zip ties. Belts and braces are attached to the fork leg and we reorganise the kit so there is less weight in the pannier that hangs off that side of the fork. Our hope is that the road will stay relatively smooth until Murghab to minimise any more rack wobbling. Murghab looks big enough to be able to support a welder who can repair the crack but is over 100km away.

However 10km down the road we gingerly roll into Alichur, as remote a place as any we’ve come across; Over 200km from Khorog and still 100km to Murghab, the two nearest towns of any reasonable size in the Pamirs. Rough, sandy roads lead between the single story clay houses, several of which lie derelict. A westerly wind whips up the dust around the goats and kids roaming the streets. You wouldn’t come here on holiday, unless you’re a cyclist.

A town like this needs to be as self sufficient as possible, particularly with winter temperatures sometimes plummeting to -50 degC. It’s therefore reasonable to assume that someone here must be good at fixing things.

A barn with a picture of a welder on it gives us the visual clue to point to when we go to look for a mechanic. The small group that has gathered around us understands what we need and we begin our tour of sheds of Alichur.

The first is locked and the owner nowhere to be seen. The second has a welder but no fuel for the generator. A boy is then tasked with leading us across to the other side of town, we’re handed a fresh loaf on the way. This time we have more success. In a yard filled with machinery in various states of disrepair we find a man that looks like he has the skills to save our day.

Sure enough, after pointing out the crack and making my best ARC welding impression he nods and gets straight to work. I won’t admit to being an expert in welding technique but the crack is now covered in molten metal which is good enough for me.

With the bike reassembled we pay double the asking price of 10 somani (£1) and are invited in for chai and mutton followed by a look at his prize possession: the head of a Marco Polo sheep. We’ve seen lots of statues of these rare and illusive animals but coming face to glass-eyed face with this stuffed beast makes us realise how magnificent they must be in the flesh. Apparently this one was killed by a wolf but we’re also told that Europeans, Americans and Russians pay huge sums to be taken on hunting trips by the locals, despite the animals being protected by law.

The westerly wind picks us up along with the dust and with renewed confidence in our equipment we’re blown out of Alichur back into the huge expanse of the plateau. With a subtle downhill gradient, a smooth road, no other traffic, blue skies overhead and jaw-dropping scenery this is about as good as sitting on a bicycle gets. Even an irritating Christina Aquilera ear worm can’t spoil the moment.

By the following evening we’re in Murghab, a town built as a military outpost by the Russians that has somehow survived long after the soldiers left. Or at least the Russian ones. There are still some Tajik guards on the way into the town that insist on writing our names and passport numbers into their all important Big Exercise Book. The amount spent across central Asia on exercise books and employing men to write names into them must be staggering.

Murghab has a statue of Lenin, a tent that sells Yak milk ice cream and a bazaar built out of shipping containers. It feels every bit the frontier town that it effectively is and everything and everyone seems to have taken a pounding from the weather and the altitude. There are shells of cars, half buried in sand, stacks of yak dung left to dry so it can be burned for fuel and the only supply of water is from wells dotted around the town.

It’s also largely a Kyrgyz community so unofficially uses the Kyrgyz time zone and plenty of the men wear traditional ak-kalkap hats.

We check into the excellent guest house Mansur Tulfabek and enjoy a warm shower, heated by a yak dung stove of course. Power for the town is provided by a hydro electric station but each year there has been less snow, less water running from the mountains and less money for maintenance so the supply is unreliable to say the least. Each night a different street takes its turn to have mains power with the rest of the town humming to the sound of generators.

The repair on the fork has cracked again and this time there’s another, smaller crack on the other side. There follows a nervous hour with another mechanic who operates on the street outside his house wielding a welder, grinding wheel and very heavy lump hammer. This time I encourage him to go overboard with the welder and also ask him to produce a curved metal bar that I can attach to both front racks and stop them wobbling from side to side. The end result is ugly, substantial and adds about 1kg to the bike but could well be the solution that allows us to keep going as it’s very sturdy. Negotiations on price start at $100, then down to $20 and we eventually agree on 70 somani (£7).

We’re aware that if we’re not careful we’ll be dropping out of the mountains all too soon. To have come this far and to then not spend the time to have a good look would be a shame so after Murghab we plan a small diversion and turn left off the main highway.

20km along a very rough track that takes us up through a broad valley devoid of any visible life brings us up to a small tented village nestled on a lush green meadow with a pretty meandering stream running across it.

There are four yurt houses and several small brick buildings, used for storage. A few pens are dotted around and one or two young animals are tethered but most of the flocks and herds are out on the mountainside grazing. This is an isolated summer home for a tiny nomadic community.

As we approach a few children come out along with their mother and we’re invited in for chai. It’s cosy and colourful inside. On the stove a big kettle is already simmering and we’re soon sipping black tea accompanied by bread with clotted yaks cream. We wish we had jam to make it a tasty cream tea. The children look at us inquisitively, then after some whispered discussion one of them asks “whatiz your name?”. The school in Murghab has taught them a small amount of English but at the moment they are on their summer holidays.Another family invites us to spend the night in their yurt but we decide to pitch the tent further up the valley so as not to intrude too much.

It’s fascinating watching the rest of the afternoon unfold as the animals begin returning home. First one of the herds of yaks arrive, seemingly of their own accord and they know exactly where to stop for the night. Some boys on bikes bring in a half dozen horses and some cows. Next a huge flock of sheep and goats sweep down from a different hillside and are parked in one of the pens. Finally the last herd of yaks, 30 or more, saunter past our tent with just one of the older men needed to usher them along.

During the evening we manage a walk up the hillside towards the snow line but don’t quite make it to the white stuff.

However overnight the snow comes to us with a light dusting on the tent.

There appear to be several large dogs running round the village but on closer inspection we see that they’re actually yak calves. They are incredibly agile and gambol like new born lambs, leaping back and forth over the stream, all with their tails stuck up like the aerial on a dodgem. Even the adult animals can move quickly when they need to which is unexpected. Providing wool for clothing, dung for fuel and milk, meat for food and strength for carrying loads these shaggy creatures are extremely valuable.

The horrible bumpy track back to the main road is now marginally easier being slightly downhill but also in the knowledge that the effort was well worthwhile.

We’ve passed the turning to China now so there’s even less traffic, maybe 4 or 5 vehicles a day. All of them are packed full of people and have overloaded roof racks as transport is rare so has to be well utilised.

We get caught in a hail storm and shelter under a rocky overhang for some lunch while a shepherd and his son just turn their backs to the wind and pull their hats down hard.

After a day of changing colours the view is now becoming monochrome, red rocks and red dusty sand. If NASA faked the images from the Mars Rover then they probably did it here. We camp at 4277m and have to carry our bags off the road one by one, stopping for a few big breaths every 20m. Walking with low oxygen seems much harder than cycling but then we’re used to being out of breath on the bike.

The highest hill of the Pamir Highway awaits us the next day, the Ak-Baital pass. After a pleasant, steady start, the hill steepens up slightly in front of us and of course becomes unpaved. It’s incredible that someone lives up here but we’re glad they do as we can stop at some houses and buy bread. They think it’s incredible that two people are riding one bike.

It’s not that steep but we now only have 11.5% effective oxygen so we’re spinning the granny ring. Our lungs are working harder than our legs.

After a final, steeper gravel hairpin forces us to push a few metres we jump back on and ride to the top. We’re now 4655m above sea level and its likely that we’re the highest tandem in the world at that precise moment.

It’s a great feeling that’s short lived as the descent is another slalom effort dodging boulders and deep gravel. This levels out onto a 15km stretch of corrugated washboard that threatens to shake every bolt on the bike loose, as well as our teeth. It’s like riding the cobbles of Paris Roubaix on a pneumatic drill.

 

A Land Rover comes into view and pulls over next to us. Three Poles climb out armed with coffee, sandwiches and a bottle of Johnny Walker. Just what we need as energy and enthusiasm are running low and it’s not warm. It’s an unlikely meeting and we share a wonderful moment together by the side of this extraordinary road.

The road eventually improves and drops down into a bleak grey valley with huge imposing walls of rock.

We’ve been following a large barbed wire fence for a while now that was put up by the Chinese to mark what they see as the border, even though the actual border is 10-20km away. It’s an impressive construction but doesn’t seem to be observed or protected as there are dozens of holes and at one point an open gate.

Karakul is the largest lake in Tajikistan, formed by a meteorite impact and with a name that means black lake which is odd because it’s actually green.

We pull into a home stay in the village with the same name. As with the other Pamir villages, the houses are built from rough bricks, hand made on site and then rendered to cover up all the irregularities. In Karakul there is no mains power at all so our hosts have a small solar panel and try not to depend on it. Torches, candles, and a yak dung stove are much more reliable.

For some reason there are dozens of huge empty oil tanks dotted around the streets, in amongst piles of rubble, sometimes with a stray dog keeping watch. This place makes Murghab seem like a busy metropolis.

In the morning we’re shown to the village ‘shop’. A grumpy old women hobbles out of her house and leads us to her garden shed which displays a couple of packs of noodles, a pair of shoes and a few tins of condensed milk. We decide our supplies of creamy shoe noodle soup will be adequate for the next couple of days so leave with nothing, making the women even more grumpy. We do however collect water from the well then get on our way.

There’s a light snow flurry and a blanket of clouds sits on the mountains behind the lake which deprives us of the classic Karakul view of big mountains reflected in the green water which is a shame.

We have the 4232m Uy Buloq pass to get over next which starts steadily then kicks like a donkey three times before the top requiring some brute force and stubbornness to reach the top. Then we drop down into nowhere.

Suddenly we feel incredibly small. The road and the Chinese border fence are almost lost in the jumble of rocks and boulders on either side. The clouds are still hanging low but we glimpse the hulking outline of Trapez Peak towering us, over 6000m high. The wind is blowing hard against us and there’s snow in the air again so we make use of the only shelter available beneath a small bridge for lunch and pull on our down jackets.

Once we emerge to find the situation hasn’t improved so the jackets stay on and predictably the road surface deteriorates to the hated corrugated wash board. We battle on one pedal stroke at a time, then the rough road begins to climb for the final pass before the border.

We’re relieved when we get to the rusty barrier near the top, held closed with what looks like a coat hanger. There’s not a single person to be seen even when we call out Hello! Salem! Zdravstvuj! and honk the horn. We decide to get out of the cold and wait in the warm guards office where a big pot of mutton soup is on the boil but resist tucking in. Still no-one comes.

20 minutes later we decide to get going so grab the bike and push it past the gate, at which point two men emerge, wiping sleep from their eyes, from a building that looked abandoned and point us further up the road. Behind a half built garage there’s a Portacabin surrounded by mud which serves as the border control point. A man in camoflage gear takes our passports and we feel the warmth from the open fire as he disappears inside the office with a firm ‘Nyet’ when I try to follow him. We have to wait in the cold it seems.

The passports come back with the necessary exit stamp and our names have been added to yet another big exercise book. We still have 100m of climbing before the actual border line and then 10km of descent before the Krygyz entry point. It’s gone 5 o’clock, the snow is getting heavier and the road conditions are getting a lot worse.

Once over the top of the 4336m Kyzl Art Pass we’re faced with a slippery, muddy, boulder strewn excuse for a road. Trying to control over 200kg of tandem crew and kit on two rubber contact points barely bigger than a matchbox takes some precision braking, careful weight distribution and some extraordinary faith from Kirsty that I can keep us upright. A blizzard in the face only adds to the challenge.

We make slow progress but part way down a farm emerges out of the gloom with a farmer and his kids beckoning us in. We don’t need to be asked twice and quickly park the bike and make for the cosy living room. Inside there are 4 children, a small baby in a cot, 2 sets of parents and a grandmother. We take on the role of kids entertainment for the next couple of hours while we defrost. They’re fascinated by their strange house guests.

The cosy living room is also the cosy kitchen, cosy dining room and by the end of the evening is converted into the cosy bedroom for all of us. One room to heat means less fuel needed although there is a good size fuel production facility outside in the form of a herd of yaks.

It’s been Ramadan for most of our time in the Pamirs but we haven’t really been affected much. However here the Grandmother is observing it so out of respect we all wait until the sun has set before dinner is served: a simple soup with bread followed by chai and with the chai being used to swill out the soup bowls. Another man pops in and wolfs down a bowl of soup, offers us a lift to Osh (thanks but no thanks) then gets going again.

After dinner the floor is covered with mattresses and bedding and then sleeping bodies but the light stays on all night so that the baby can be fed.

At 3am we’re woken by the grandmother having her breakfast, then the baby having hers. The rest of us wait until 9am before eating, including a bowl of yak butter tea which is as appetising as it sounds, then we settle the bill and continue our descent. It was a wonderful refuge in no mans land and once again we’re left wondering about the severity of living so high on the mountain and so far from any other houses.

Kirsty had been feeling grotty the day before which was not helped by the weather and climbing. Today I seem to be suffering too. Luckily the weather has improved so we can now see where we’re going and the road seems a touch drier.

We pick our way down and down until the road levels out but there’s still a few km before we actually get to the Kyrgyz border. We must have spent 18 hours in no mans land and hope that the border guards don’t notice that our exit stamp was from the day before.

Of course they don’t, and we’re quickly through the basic control point and another stamp is added to the pages of our now very busy passports. We ride on and the mountains give way to wide, flat, grassy fields dotted with yurts, herds of horses and kids on donkeys. As much a stereotypical view of Kyrgyzstan as we could wish to expect. Another row of mountains sits in front of us but before we get to them we arrive in Sary Tash feeling exhausted, unwell and in need of rest so we check into a guest house and write off the rest of the day in favour of sleep.

Although officially the ‘Pamir Highway’ ends in Osh it feels like we have finished the hardest bit. Did it meet our expectations? After thinking about something for so long and waiting and longing for it to happen it’s always a bit strange when it’s over. In this case there is still so much for us to look forward to for the rest of the trip but even so having finished this section it’s hard not to feel a sense of completion. It was a difficult, beautiful, remote, frustrating, fascinating, humbling road that we feel privileged to have been able to ride. Will it be the best road though? Ask us again when we’re in Christchurch.

The blog has become very much neglected over the last few months but it’s not from lack of anything to write about (shesnottypingontheback)! The big Catch Up starts here with our exit from the capital of Tajikistan and heading towards the Pamir region, a stretch that seems a long time ago now.

The trouble with writing this so far after the event is that a lot can change in both our memories of what happened but also, as with any country in Central Asia, the political situation can turn very quickly. True to form, last week a snap decision by President Rakhmon to sack his deputy defence minister caused violence in Dushanbe that was completely at odds with the city that we saw. We hope that Vero and Igor, our hosts while we were there were unaffected.

June 5th 2015
Riding out of Dushanbe we leave behind the big flash cars, elaborate monuments and expensive houses and delve back into the more genuine Tajikistan countryside. After doing so little for four days it feels good to be turning the legs again and getting some blood pumping through our bodies. It’s hot and humid so we stop for a rest in the shade before beginning a big climb to end the day. A woman emerges from a nearby house with a bowl of cherries for us to try which gives us just the energy we need to get at least part way up the hill before pulling over into an orchard for the night.

We finish off the ascent in the morning with the top of the mountain truncated for us by a 4.5km long tunnel that spits us back out into the sunlight and straight into a huge descent to Nurak. The turquoise reservoir sits to our left and the view of it improves as we climb back up to a ridge that overlooks the water.

Lunch of bean soup with pig skin floating in it is brightened up when a wedding party pulls into the layby where we’re sat. Music is turned up loud and the dancing begins. Before long I’m dragged over to join in, much to the amusement of the rest of the guests. The ‘happy’ couple however are stony faced and can’t even raise a smile. Kidnap weddings still take place in this part of the world and by the looks of it both the bride and groom are there against their will.

It’s another scorching hot day which gets warmer once we drop back down a 10km long descent. Melon season has finally arrived and I celebrate by buying a honey dew and eating the whole thing (Kirsty was offered a slice but declined) before diving into an irrigation channel with some local children to cool off.

While resting in the shade again a man arrives on a bike in a crisp white shirt and a blue baseball cap set at a jaunty angle. This is the English teacher for the village. He has 300 children to look after in various classes and of various ages which makes for a tough task. After practising his language skills on us he invites us to his family’s house for dinner. Only it turns out to be the house of one of his friends and once we’re there he leaves instructions for us to be fed before saying goodbye and leaving. It’s a bit awkward but they seem happy to oblige and bring out platefulls of bread, sweets and bowls of soup. I begin to regret carrying an entire melon in my stomach from earlier.

We’re keen to not outstay our welcome given we’d been forced upon our kind hosts so decline their offer to stay and push on for another 10km before hiding the tent in some long grass. As we move east it seems to be getting darker earlier and earlier.

The road takes us across plains and then over rolling hills onto a ridge scattered with beehives then we drop down again into the heat. The mercury has risen to 45 degrees today so we’re desperate for shade by the early afternoon.

All day we’ve seen various wedding cars tooting past with huge bows attached to the bonnets and cheering guests in the convoy behind. While we lounge under some trees for lunch some curious children come to investigate from a garden filled with dancing and music. Shortly after eyeing us up they return with sweets, plums and water. What can we give them in return other than stale bread and raw pasta? It’s so touching to be on the receiving end of all this generosity but at the same time frustrating not to be able to repay it in some way.

Spinning on to the busy town of Kulob Kirsty ducks into a phone shop to buy credit while I stumble across a cobbler who has just the skills and tools we need. One of our rear panniers has come apart at the seems which is no problem for the cobbler who fixes it in no time. Trades like this seem so rare in Europe with so much being disposed instead of fixed.

After Kulob there’s a large ridge of hills to get up and over. Part 1 is tackled that evening with the bulk of it being taken on the following morning. It’s a stinker of a hill, getting steeper and rougher as we go up. We’re under prepared and soon run out of water so we stop two cars and beg for water then round a corner to find a bee keeper and his wife who invite us into their tent. It”s blissfully cool inside and they feed us fried potatoes and chai while we admire their pet pheasant. The bee keeper pulls out his phone to show us a video of the bird’s husband performing it’s duties. It’s a trained fighter and from the looks of the video is usually the one to beat.

We avoid getting stung by the swarms surrounding the mans hives then continue up the rough climb to find a water spout gushing icy cool water to fill our bottles. Even more refreshing are the slices of water melon that passengers of a passing car hand to us.

The climb finally tops out at 1900m and we look forward to a rewarding descent.

But we don’t get one. The road passes through a small town then drops steeply down on an unsurfaced track lined with loose gravel, cobbles and sand. Our progress down is almost as torturously slow as our progress up from the other side.

Gingerly nudging the bike down the hill making full use of all three brakes we have to stop frequently to steady the nerves and allow me to unfold my white knuckles. Which gives us the chance to look around and realise that the gorge we’re plunging into consists of vast slabs of red rocks. It’s brutal but beautiful.

We’re not the only ones that the road is punishing. Large Chinese trucks are inching their way up with more than a few casualties along the way. Every km or so a vehicle lies with it’s guts spread across the side of the road and a greasy driver sweating over a spanner or hammer trying to get it working again. The trucks that are still rolling kick up a cloud of dust that fill our eyes, noses, mouths and ears and I have to stop until the route ahead becomes visible.

But when the dust settles after the last corner the sight in front of us is breath taking. In the valley below is the River Panj, an angry torrent that forms the border for this part of Tajikistan. Beyond it are enormous mountains with pastures and woodland on the lower slopes and reaching up through bare, grey rock to craggy, snow capped peaks. This is our first view of Afghanistan.

The rocky road seems to continue once we drop off the hill so the next few days could well be tough on the backsides. Despite a warning that the police might not like it, we camp next to the river. In the distance a fierce thunder storm is raging with lightning forking down into the valley but it’s far enough away not to be of concern while we prepare dinner.

At 2am the storm arrives above our tent. Heavy rain pelts the canvas and we’re lit up every three seconds from the bright light of the lightening with the sound of thunder a constant, deafening rumble. The Hilleberg stands up to the assault with ease but its a nerve wracking half hour before it all subsides again.

With relief the storm soaked track turns into a beautifully paved road after the next 10km. We wind along the Panj valley with Afghanistan never more than a stones throw away.

Looking across to the mud hut villages and tented encampments, linked together by donkey tracks barely wide enough for a motorbike, let alone a four wheeled vehicle it seems like a world from another century. The men wear long tunics and the women are often completely covered. There are no power cables but we see the occasional satellite dish so presumably there are a few generators.

On our side of the river some considerable time and money has been spent on the road, providing us with a smooth strip of black top that weaves up and over rock outcrops and around the huge, steep cliffs. It’s a true delight to ride and quickly steps into the top 10 of roads ridden so far.

Although it’s hard to stop when the riding is this good, we spot the ideal camp spot tucked under some trees by a riverside beach so decide to pull over early. We’re quickly joined by two Russian motorbikers and then the more unwelcome border guards arrive. We’re asked to move on as we’re too close to this sensitive border. The threat, they say, is from Afghans trying to swim or row across in the night. Looking at the strength of the river this seems an unlikely scenario for even the most determined Afghan so we argue that we only want to stay for one night.

The Russians help our case by being more persuasive with the guards in a language they understand and eventually they concede and leave us be.

Shortly after they return and present us with a fish! We’ve already eaten so put it to one side at which point it starts flapping about. I rush down to the river with it and gently lower it into the water. It shows it’s gratitude at being released by rolling one fin into the air then fully onto it’s back to reveal it’s white belly before quietly drifting off down stream. It’s not quite the reenactment of the final scene from Free Willy that we hoped for.

The feared attack overnight never happens but this border is genuinely a risky place to be. However a lot of the movements are carefully controlled. One statistic we were given showed that as much as 30% of Tajikistan’s GDP comes from payments to facilitate drug trafficking through the country, from Afghanistan up towards Russia. 80% of the worlds opium is grown in Afghanistan with a large proportion finding its way across the River Panj. This explains the number of large European cars being driven around Dushanbe and the apparent wealth on display. It seems the government have taken the stance of “if you can’t beat them, join them.”

The tarmac ends the following afternoon with a short, stony climb and a sickening crunch from the back of the bike. It was only a matter of time before it happened but the rear derailleur has broken, throwing itself into the wheel, bending the mech hanger and spewing it’s jockey wheels into the dust.

I walk away from the bike and have a quiet moment of contemplation.

It was inevitable because of a freak accident that happened in Uzbekistan last month. While in Nukus my helmet was balanced on a front pannier and during a short ride around the corner it fell off and went under the rear wheel. By sheer unlucky chance the strap also wrapped itself around the rear derailleur causing it to bend and crack. So we were left with a slightly squashed helmet and a damaged derailleur that could be reassembled but was severely weakened. Annoying and avoidable.

Back to the road in Tajikistan and we have a few issues to fix. Two boys come to see what the fuss is about and hand us some water. The mech hanger is part of the steel frame which is a deliberate design feature as it means it’s bendable unlike a replaceable aluminium one. I just need something to bend it with so Kirsty digs out our picture book and shows the boys a drawing of a hammer. They nod excitedly and run off, returning quickly with the desired tool. I begin hitting the bike against a rock but the rock keeps slipping and cracking. One of the boys disappears again and comes back with a metal block. Much better for hammering against and before long the hanger is pointing in the right direction again.

Next up is the derailleur itself. It’s in a bad way but it should be possible to assemble it as a simple chain tensioner and ride the bike as a single speed so I give it a go. It works! We return the tools to the boys with a hearty thanks and a few sweets then gingerly set off again, pedaling with great care. It lasts 1km before the derailleur becomes another tangled mess. This time it’s terminal.

There’s a 20km walk ahead of us into the next town of Kalaikhum so we begin trudging. We’ve barely covered 1km when out of a cloud of dust a Land Cruiser appears and it pulls over at the sight of our upturned thumbs. Unusually there’s nothing in the back and nothing on the roof so we split the bike and it gets lashed onto the car. Half an hour later we’re in Kalaikhum enjoying lunch with some French and Dutch motor cyclists.

It’s a tiny town so the chances of finding a new derailleur seem just as small. Our hopes are unreasonably high however as Kirsty had read a blog from another cyclist who was faced with the exact same dilemma almost exactly a year ago. His derailleur had also returned itself to its constituent parts but he managed to find a new one in this very town.

Some inquiries at various shops provides the information we need. “Look for the bearded man with a kiosk across the street”. We find the kiosk, that appears to be selling a random assortment of tools, gadgets and pirated music. All of a sudden the bearded man appears and I show him a picture of what we need. He nods knowingly and reaches into a box of delights on the lower shelf. He turns round and is his hand is the shiniest and most welcome bicycle part I’ve ever set eyes on. A bar of gold would be less valuable to us right now and our pockets are as deep as they need to be. He demands 25 somani for this trip saving object (£2.50).

Much of the talk in Dushanbe was to debate whether to go ‘north or south’. There are two routes into Kalaikhum for cyclists to choose from: north is shorter, rougher, more remote. We took the South route which is 100km longer but arrived a day before those who went north thanks to the quality of the roads so think we made the right choice.

Apart from the excellent ‘bike shop’, the best thing about Kalaikhum is that the supermarket sells Nutella. With this vital supply on board we take to the road again the next day. Hoards of school girls crowd round us to practice their English before we leave.

Ahead lies over 200km of mostly unpaved, potholed, rough road which will be the toughest test of the tandem so far. We’re going into it with a front rack welded by a Kazakh bus mechanic, a front wheel built by someone who had never built a wheel before (me), a pannier sewn together by a Tajik cobbler and a rear derailleur that cost less than an inner tube.

Straight away the rear derailleur proves to be worth every penny we paid, delivering 4 out of the 27 gears that we should have at our disposal. Any steep, hard climbs, of which there are many, result in a crunching of chain against cassette. Sometimes we’d limp up, sometimes we’d have to push and sometimes the chain would break and we’d nearly fall off. By Khorog there are 5 emergency ‘quick links’ holding the chain together.

But we keep moving forward regardless. The greener valley in the stretch before Kalaikhum turns more sparse afterwards with any flat and vegetated areas being occupied by a village, like an oasis amongst the sheer rock. Unusually, although we’re following it upstream, the river broadens out into a flat plain before Rushan.

On the other side of the river, Afghan road builders are busy blasting a new road out of the rock. While enjoying tea in one village we’re warned to keep our bike behind a building in case it gets damaged from flying rocks caused by the explosions. They show us smashed windows in the school house even though it’s set a long way back from the river. The other side really is a stones throw away, provided the stone is launched with dynamite.

It takes 3.5 days to reach Khorog with every pedal stroke a test of riders and machine. Along the way we sleep on a tea bed outside the house of a group of women whose husbands are busy tending herds high on the mountains. We find a mulberry orchard is a good place for a tent and provides a tasty porridge topping. An old lady and her grand children spend 2 hours watching us set up camp and cook while they eat raw rhubarb.

At one point an 8 year old darts out of a lake and stands in the road demanding Denghi (money) wearing nothing but his birthday suit. I swerve to avoid him at which point he snatches a drinks bottle, snapping the securing bungy in the process. I stop and sprint after the naked Dick Turpin roaring with rage. The boy is terrified and abandons the bottle. He then returns with with a wobbling lower lip offering a 10 somani note from the sock he’s clutching. It’s then that I realise that chasing a naked Tajik boy whike shouting until he cries must be the moment in my life that I am least proud of. We decline the offering and shamefully ride off.

We pass at least a dozen pictures of the president welcoming us into Khorog and we’re very glad to see him. This is the regional capital for the Pamir region and gateway to the Pamir Highway. We check into the Pamir Lodge, a favourite for cyclists and motor bikers high above the town.

The shiny rear derailleur may have been less than perfect but I suspect a fully laden touring tandem on a steep, rough track may have been beyond the design criteria laid out for it when it was assembled in its factory in China. The main thing is it got us here and that’s worth 25 somani in anyone’s money.

The next day our Irish friend Will arrives having braved the north route and with tales of boulder fields, river crossings and flooded roads. This is why it was christened ‘The Adventure Route’ by Hannah and Emese who we’d met, still shell shocked from the experience, in Dushanbe.

Will is a man who likes to be prepared and when he’s not fighting off Chaihana ladies he’s busy researching his route and getting ready for what the road might throw at him. Knowing he has some difficult terrain to come he had taken the precaution to pack a spare rear derailleur yet hearing of our predicament he very graciously offers to lend us this precious device. Tears well in our eyes at yet another generous act. We offer the shiny China special in return and pray he doesn’t have to use it.

This deserves an ode to Will in the traditional style of his home town:

There was a young man called Will
Who was prepared for every hill
With a broken rear mech
We had to shout ‘feck’
But Will’s spare parts fit the bill

Stocking up in the Bazaar, feasting at the first Indian restaurant we’ve seen for months and giving the bike a thorough overhaul occupy most of the next day then we’re ready to head for the hills again.

North or south are again the options. South is the Wakhan corridor that continues to follow the Panj along the border. It promises spectacular views of the Hindu Kush mountains, untouched village communities and some of the worst roads ever to carry a bicycle. And carrying is a distinct likelihood as there are long stretches of sand which is the worst enemy of a tandem. North is the M41, the Pamir Highway itself. Mostly paved, also with stunning views and altogether more tandem friendly. We turn the bars north and leave Wakhan for another day on other bikes.