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.

5th to 16th June 2015

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.

24th May to 5th June 2015

Kirsty was always very proud of her attendance record at her former place of work. In the 14 years she was there the number of days off that she took due to sickness could be counted on one hand. One of those was partly my fault after taking her to a sea food restaurant where she ate a dodgy oyster. We’ve managed to stay fit and healthy for most of the journey so far with just the occasional sniffle to deal with but there’s a certain amount of inevitability to getting sick when travelling for a long time.

Leaving Samarkand we’re both feeling good as we pick our way through some small residential streets on gravel roads and emerge on the main highway that leads to Tashkent. Riding a few km north we arrive at our destination for the morning: the Samarkand Rowing Canal.

We’d always planned to try and do some rowing during the trip if we got the chance. So when I found out there was an international rowing lake in Samarkand I got in touch with Savara at the Rowing and Canoe Federation of Uzbekistan to see if we could go for a paddle. She was incredibly helpful and organised for us to meet the national team coach  and borrow a boat.

We roll up to the boat house and get warmly greeted by Manucher. It’s much like any rowing lake with just over 2000m of water, a small grandstand compete with Olympic rings symbol (don’t tell the IOC), and timing booths every 500m. But there are a few things that make it different from Eton Dorney and Holme Pierrepoint in England. In the distance a huge range of white, jagged mountains fills the horizon. Cows graze around the 500m marker and a team of workers are cutting the grass on the bank by hand using sickles.

Manucher shows us our boat and blades painted in the Uzbek national colours and we quickly take to the water. Also in common with most rowing lakes there’s a strong cross wind which makes the paddling a little trickier. But it’s lovely to be out on the water for the first time in 3 years. In fact the last time we were in a double scull I ended up proposing to Kirsty.

After a trip to the end of the lake and back and a few racing ‘bursts’ we’re glad to have stayed upright and dry so decide to cut our losses and head back to dry land.

After thanking Manucher and a photo with some of the national squad we’re back on the bike and pedaling again but we’ll be on the look out for more rowing lakes.

At this point Kirsty admits to be running at about 80%. Perhaps the efforts in the boat took more out of us than we realised? It’s hot and hilly which doesn’t help so we stop for chai and shade mid afternoon and spot a lake in a few km that would make for a good early camp spot.

In the end we settle for a small river instead of the lake and soon gather a gang of interested children who watch closely while we put up the tent and I carry out some running repairs. Meanwhile the shallow river is busy with cars being driven into it for their weekly car wash.

In the morning we’re both under par with grumbling tummies. There’s a 1000m climb ahead of us which we tackle slowly, all the time watching for suitable bushes to hide behind, just in case.

A lengthy lunch at a Chaihana is needed along with a snooze. The great thing about the tea beds is that as well as being a place to drink tea, they are also a bed. In most chaihanas there is someone asleep on one. We’ve also found people sleeping behind the counter in a few shops too.

The hill continues steeply up and we’re ready to stop long before we actually find a patch of flat ground near the top. The one benefit of having to dash out of the tent in the middle of the night is that I get a great view of the milky way overhead.

We finish the climb in the morning and are rewarded with views opening right out to the mountainous Tajik border. This is a new face to Uzbekistan with huge green hills, woods and meadows. Down we go for several bumpy km relieved not to have to exert much energy other than to squeeze the brakes.

The temperature is now 41 degrees so we stop for ice cream as soon as we spot a sign with a range of tempting frozen delights on it, only to find the ice cream machine is broken. The disappointment is palpable.

Pushing on into Shahrisabz the heat isn’t so noticeable while we’re moving. The faster we go, the cooler the breeze.

We were warned by an Aussie in Samarkand that Shahrisabz promised a lot but delivered very little. He was right. There are plenty of ancient buildings of interest but the whole town seems to be a building site surrounded by clouds of dust. I’m sure it’ll all look lovely when it’s finished with some grand landscaping showing off the mosques and monuments but for now a visit to the bazaar for fresh fruit and a swift departure is the order of the day.

Another lengthy lunch stop in the shade of a tree and then a last stint in the cooler, late afternoon brings us to a small gulley where we set up camp. During the evening we watch various groups of animals being led down to the stream for a drink. Even the horses can’t resist as it’s been a hot day for everyone.

We try to get away early to get some riding done before the day heats up. Already there is a busy market in full swing a few hundred metres from our tent. Sheep with enormously fat bottoms overhanging their back legs are being loaded into ladas and mini vans and onto the back of motorbikes. The bigger the bottom the better as it provides more fat for the Lagman/plov/manti/samsa. These animals are the J-Los of the ovine world.

We pass wheat fields and groups of waving, whistling workers. There’s almost a constant barrage of ‘Atkhuda?’, Russian for ‘Where are you from?’ from everyone we meet. After telling them we’re from ‘Anglia’ they seem satisfied and wander off.

The road rises and falls and rises some more. The temperature also rises to 42 degrees and it’s a very dry heat leaving our tongues as dry as Gandhi’s flip flop.

The now routine and necessary afternoon stop finds us next to a stream under a tree. Some children creep out and after the inevitable ‘Atkuda?’ practice their English on us which mostly involves listing types of fruit. We mime the type of fruit in response to show that we understand, much to their amusement.

One of the parents then invites us in and we’re fed a type of delicious milky cheese with tomatoes and sent away with fresh bread.

A steady climb ends the day and we’re joined by a friendly dog who enjoys the view down into a valley with us. He’s happy to finish off some stale bread that we’d been carrying for a few days. Presumably this doesn’t count as throwing it away?

The climb continues through a small dusty village with a police check point on the far side. We’ve passed several of these all through Uzbekistan and have always just been waved straight through without stopping. This time though we’re told in no uncertain terms to stop and present our passports.

We’re given the all clear then it’s brakes off, into the big ring for the rewarding descent. It’s a rocky, red landscape with a few patches of green tucked into the sharp ridge lines. There are huge slabs lent against each other like a collapsed set of dominos.

At the bottom the cliffs close in on us, the road gets rough and we arrive at another police checkpoint. There’s lots of whistling and friendly, perhaps even frantic, waving as we ride on through past the queue of parked cars. They really do seem pleased to see us here.

I stop a couple of hundred metres further down the road to take a photo of an interesting junction and a few seconds later a car skids to a halt alongside. A policeman jumps out and demands to see our passports. We’re then made to ride back up to the checkpoint so they can write our name in what looks like a large school exercise book. I suppose this gives the impression of the authorities knowing where people are throughout the country. There is also a registration system that asks you to collect a stamped receipt for each night a visitor is in country. Fine if you stay in hotels every night but difficult if your accommodation is a tent. We have four receipts for over 3 weeks in the country which causes a lot of shaking of heads and looks of puzzlement. We shrug our shoulders and indicate that that’s all we have, knowing from other people’s experience that this rule is rarely enforced, if ever. Reluctantly they let us go.

So back to that interesting junction we roll. Turning right would take us onto the road to Mazar-I-Sharif and onwards to Kabul. An interesting prospect if it wasn’t for the fact that we don’t have a Afghan visas. Or a pair of kevlar vests. We turn left instead to continue on towards the safety of Tajikistan.

After lunch we endure another very long, hot climb with a bumpy decent on the other side so again no reward for our efforts as I’m hard on the brakes all the way down. While pootling through Baysun an Irish voice calls out to us and another cycle tourist pulls alongside. “You must be Marcus and Kirsty!”. Our reputation precedes us as this is Will who had been riding with Rob and Josh up until a few days ago and had obviously been tipped off that we were on the road ahead of him. He’s staying the night here but we want to go a bit further so we agree to try and meet the next day and ride to the border together.

We’d both been feeling much better for the last few days but the following morning I wake with stomach pains. It eases off once we start riding though so hopefully just a short lived bug from a dodgy ice cream, or the water from a hose or the unmarked bottle of water i’d drunk.

We have a 15km head start on Will and enjoy dropping down into a wonderful valley with a stream cutting deep into the valley floor. There’s a timeless view of a shepherd in a traditional long coat tending to his flock of lardy sheep. Then it’s up and up before a smooth long descent along a ridge with rolling brown hills on either side. It’s nice to be able to let the bike go for once as the road surface is very good.

It looked like we were arriving into a flat plain but after stopping for juice and biscuits and to soak our heads under a cold tap we find its actual very lumpy. A series of short, sharp climbs with just as steep a drop on the other side, sometimes rough and unsurfaced get us working up a sweat. It’s over 40 degrees again.

Lunch with our feet in a stream is a refreshing relief and I’m about to lie down in it when a small snake pokes it’s head above the water, takes one look at us and then disappears. Time to get moving again. But not before a few passersby have given us bread and biscuits.

We don’t get far as we’re distracted by some plum trees and stop to pick some. At the same time a car pulls up to us and a man we recognised as one of the bread and biscuit donors climbs out with his 14 year old daughter. She explains that she is at the top of her English class and wants to practice. She also wants an English pen friend so we hand her our email address but we’re still waiting to hear from her.

Will finally catches us as we’re pulled over once more to receive an offer of chai. The tiny roadside stall sells an eclectic mix of goods ranging from individual cigarettes, to bars of soap, noodles and fizzy drinks.

The two bikes move quickly into Denow where we pick up supplies then navigate our way straight out again. The stomach cramps have returned and Will admits he’s not 100% either so we begin the search for somewhere to hide the tents.

The options are very sparse as it’s all quite built up but we settle for some rough ground next to a derelict building. Not very salubrious as it also seems to be the village tip but desperate cycle tourists can’t be too picky. We’re all a bit despondent as it’s not the memorable last night in Uzbekistan we’d hoped for.

But before we can pitch the ‘palatcas’ we’re saved from a night on the dump by our neighbours from across the road. It appears to be some sort of oil processing depot and they proudly show us their laboratory and bottling shed. Will has a reasonable grasp of Russian having studied it for a few months before starting the trip (putting us to shame) so he’s able to convey our respective stories as well as our needs.

The owner is a Mr Choiyny who happens to be in Germany at the moment so we’re offered his cosy room for the night. In case we’re in any doubt that he won’t mind a phone is presented with Mr Choiyny on the other end. In a combination of German and Russian Will is given the message that we are more than welcome and that his staff will look after us.

A table is brought out followed by several courses of delicious food. Both Will and I have perked up again so manage to gratefully tuck in. It’s a lovely, restful evening and just what we needed to recuperate before the last stint to the border thanks to Mr Choiyny and his staff.

Things are not quite as pleasant in the morning though. Will had decided to pitch his tent on the hard standing and we find him lying on a piece of carpet outside it looking very much worse for wear. He’d had a rough night with an upset stomach and is in no fit state to ride that day. We explain to the oil staff that he needs to sleep and ask if he can stay but to our surprise the answer is “no, clear off”. It’s a compete turnaround after the generosity of the night before. We can only assume that this is due to a fear of being caught by the authorities. It’s actually forbidden for tourists to be given accommodation unless in a licenced hotel or guest house. This is one of the reasons they have the registration process. The nights in Pamela’s and Moyrags homes and also the night here at the oil terminal are actually illegal.

Despite this we’d hoped that Will could have been concealed for one day but instead we have to help him pack and are told there’s a guest house in the next town, just 2 or 3 km away.

4.5 km later we arrive having towed Will as best we can. We’re immediately told there is no guest house which comes as a blow. Our next move is to ask at the nearest Chaihana for some sleeping space and after some discussion with the proprietress a door is opened in a small shed and Will is installed on the mattress inside. We stock him up with water and crisps and he insists we carry on without him. All being well we’ll see him again in Dushanbe the day after.

The run up to the border takes us closer to the huge mountains we’d started seeing since leaving Samarkand. We stop to pick wild cherries by the road side and then again to let a huge heard of horses come galloping along the road.

We’ve now ridden the entire length of Uzbekistan and it’s been quite a journey full of colourful characters, spontaneous generosity, interesting history and wonderful landscapes. But mostly desert.

Standing in the customs office we’re a bit nervous as we don’t have the declaration form that was supposed to have been given to us on entry (we managed to skip that on the way in from Kazakhstan). Their main concern is movement of foreign currency so we declare that we have $25 and there doesn’t seem to be a problem. However they then start a search of our panniers diving deeper and deeper into the murky depths, opening tins and rummaging through our medical kit. When the customs officer reaches the oily tools and spares section she rapidly loses interest and tells us to repack as we’re free to go. But not before a quick body check. For the second time in my life I’m told I have ‘very strong legs’ after a squeeze by a customs officer. I’m not sure whether to be flattered or disturbed.

At the passport control there’s more shaking of heads at our lack of hotel registration slips but we get the ink on the page and push off in the direction of the Tajik border control. Luckily the $200 concealed about Kristy’s person was not found.

Up a hill (we’d better get used to this) we quickly meet the Tajik guards, fill in a form with no apparent purpose and have our temperatures taken as a cursory health check. Given the all clear we’re released into Country #29: Tajikistan.

The smooth processing at the border is followed by a smooth road all the way into Dushanbe, the capital and also the Tajik word for Monday. This must cause some confusion.
-When are you going to Dushanbe?
-Dushanbe.
-Yes but when.
-Oh, I’m going to Dushanbe on Dushanbe.
-??

Another Warmshowers legend is waiting for us in the form of Véro. There can’t be a single cyclist travelling through Tajikistan who doesn’t pitch their tent in her garden and when we arrive there are another 8 people staying from Hungary, Belgium, Germany, America, France and Taunton. Véro moved here from France 2 years ago to work for the EU and has since opened her house as a peaceful refuge in the middle of a busy city.

We need a few days to compose ourselves for the next leg of the trip as it’s going to be a tough one. For the flattest part of the Kyzyl Kym desert we climbed just 1,200m over the course of 1,200km. Up ahead we have the Pamir highway with 20,000m to climb over a 1,200km distance and some very high altitude passes.

It’s not as if I’m in a hurry to go anywhere anyway as my stomach is still complaining about something I put into it. Everyone in the house who has arrived from Uzbekistan has had similar troubles so it seems like a standard parting gift.

We have a couple of tasks to do while we stay in the city, the most important of which is to apply for a permit to enter the Badakshan Autonomous Region (GBAO) that encompasses the Pamirs. We’d had a fright in Khiva when we’d been told by some other cyclists that permits were no longer being issued. Apparently the pesky Taliban had been trying to ruin things for everyone by coming too close to the Afghan/Tajik border so the Tajik government didn’t want tourists going that way. Luckily they’ve now been pushed south so it’s deemed safe again and permits are available again. It takes a day and 20 somani (£2) to sort out the vital slip of paper to allow us to get into the mountains.

On one evening we’re invited to join a party at the home of some Americans. They are US Special Forces celebrating a changing of the guard as one group leaves and another arrives to take over. We get an interesting insight into their work training Tajik soldiers (all highly classified) but quickly the party degenerates into a cross between American Pie and Team America with a highly realistic wrestling match towards the end. Their work over here has been slightly tarnished with the recent defection of the Tajik head of police to ISIS, taking with him a lot of the training and information given to him by the US Special Forces. Let’s hope the new lot have more luck.

Will did arrive the day after us after a harrowing experience in the Chaihana. In the traditions of his home town here’s a Limerick to tell the story:

There was a young man called Will
Who while cycling felt really quite ill
At a tea house he rested
And his composure was tested
When he was offered much more than the bill.

He was even more glad to reach the safety of Véro’s garden than most.

After four days in the tranquil surroundings of Véro’s garden (apart from the screeching peacocks from the adjacent presidential palace and Véros talkative, whistling parrot) I’m feeling 90% well which is enough for me to want to get going.

It would have been easy to stay longer (the record is one month) but on a sunny Friday afternoon everything returns to it’s rightful place in our panniers and we head out onto the road again. Hopefully we won’t have too many more off-days to detract from our attendance record.