The Nightmare before Christmas - Taraz to Baku

20th of December 2019, Day 128 - 5,065kmish (+340km car, 1780km train, and a ferry across the Caspian Sea)

Day 112: A bit of sight-seeing in Registan square before jumping ship

All journeys this long are bound to go through low points. Life can't be wonderful all the time, and it was inevitable that I'd eventually run into people who aren't so helpful. I just didn't expect it to be basically everyone in an entire country.

Uzbekistan has been a real trough in my mental state on this trip. When you're having a bad time and the only barometer you have is your psyche , you start turning on yourself. Maybe the reason things aren't going great is because I'm not approaching it right. Am I in a bad mood because my social interactions are all going sour? Or is it my bad mood that's doing all the souring. Whats that saying - If you meet one asshole you're unlucky. But if everyone you meet is an asshole, the common denominator is you. If everywhere stinks of dogshit, check the soles of your shoes.

Day 103: Real pizza in Shymkent!

It seems to me that most of our anger and resentment comes from not understanding. When things don't seem fair, our big question is "But why?" , louder and louder until we're so full of the question we can't hear any answers. Then we explode and lash out and double down on misunderstanding until everyone else is hurting too.

We don't have too much control over our emotions (well, I certainly don't) but we do have control over our response. I've tried striking out in anger. That never solves anything though, and always got me sat outside the principle's office wishing I'd kept a cool head. Instead I'm trying to understand why things happened the way they did, both from my side and theirs. And when you really understand, the pain goes away. Forgiveness and understanding go hand in hand.

Winter Wonder why-I-ever-thought-this-was-a-good-idea Land

Some of the blame has to lay on Kazakhstan, where the people have been so lovely and helpful that they gave me unreasonably high expectations. Day 102, I wake up and it's stopped snowing. It's still below zero outside, but I've had enough of sitting around in a hostel so figure it's time to make my great escape.

Sometimes you have to close your eyes, say a little prayer, and make a blind leap of faith. And sometimes you are greeted on the other side by a brick wall. Or in this case an impenetrable wall of falling snow. In the city the roads have been cleared a little, so I manage just fine, but outside of the city it's a different story. Black ice and snow banks force me onto the road, with the cars whizzing by, spraying me with slush. Then it starts snowing again, but not the wispy desert snow of China. Instead big cold clumps wafting down from the lofty heights of the Tien Shan mountain range.

I get 10km in 2 hours, then stop for lunch at the first place I'd seen since leaving the city. 60 more to go till Shymkent (shim kent), with two mountain passes to somehow wade through. I make the very sensible decision of retreating back to Taraz and looking for a different way of getting south.

Day 102: Darkan and the gang

My leap of faith does eventually get rewarded though. The universe always seems to jump out to catch me, this time in the guise of Darkhan and his English-speaking daughter. They had actually seen me riding out and commented how odd it was to see a cyclist in this weather, then saw me again riding back into Taraz and figured I needed some help. It only took a second for them to decide they were taking me under their wing. He only had a sedan, but insisted we'd be fine having the front wheel and handle bar hanging out the back, trussed up with my handy-dandy roof rack straps that I've been using to tie my luggage onto the back of my bike.

We head back to their house for second lunch, then start strategy planning. The train is a no-go, as the small commuter trains that stop here won't let me take a bike on. We we go round the buses, mini vans, and taxi services all looking for someone who could take both me and my wheels at a reasonable price. In the end, he finds me a lift on a ride-share app popular here called inDriver. My lift wasn't leaving till 9, so we all pile back into Darkhams car and go to the local bazaar, where they insist on buying me some camel socks.

Now Darkhan is not someone with a lot of free time, a dentist looking after a son, two daughters and a toddler, but he dropped everything and dedicated his whole afternoon to sorting me out. We are now facebook friends. He doesn't quite understand how it works, so keeps posting on my public wall in Russian, checking up on me to make sure I'm still going OK. All I can say is, thank you. People are good. Humanity is tender and giving. Give peace a chance, and all that jazz.

Guardian Angels

I arrive in Shymkent and it turns out to be even colder. It's bizzare being in glorious sunshine and simultaneously shivering due to the -5°C weather. Clearly I can't bike out, but no one seems able to take me.

In desperation, I go to the train station. After waiting in line for over an hour, I get to the one open ticket desk only to be greeted by an exhausted older lady who doesn't speak English and has no idea what to do with me. Thankfully, guardian angel number two steps in to save the day. Azamat is a Kazakh scientist on a tour around the country to research the national garbage disposal process. Spoiler, at 4pm every village in Kazakhstan is enshrouded in smoke as they start burning their trash. That's what happens when you make people pay to have their garbage taken away.

Day 103: Azamat is top boy

He spoke amazing English, and quickly took it upon himself to save me in my hour of need. We went and spoke to the train luggage guys, who all said no. The local trains are too small to take a bike. Unfortunately he had to go, but he added me on facebook, then spent the afternoon organising me a lift to the Uzbek border, and even booked me a hotel. Then, to outdo everyone, Azamat stayed up till 1am and rang the driver to make sure we'd arrived OK. I do not deserve these people.

Day 103: The lift turns out to be in a big lorry carrying food to the border

The Border Crossing

So really, its unfair on Uzbekistan to come right after that. I mean the Kazakhs really are insane. Who goes that far out of their way for a bedraggled unshaven heathen, who has no idea whats going on, can't even speak their language, and looks like he's one meal away from begging on the streets? If the reverse were true and a big hairy unwashed Kazakh guy showed up mumbling something about trains in Russian, I imagine the villagers of Healing, lovely as they are, would be more likely to call the police than bring him in for tea.

Day  107: Selling melons and pumpkins on the side of the road. Gave me a free taster

The fun starts at right at the border. I pull up to the most chaotic passport check I've ever seen. A foreshadowing of the general Uzbek experience. No one is able to speak English, and there doesn't appear to be any recognisable order to the free-for-all before me. Usually they let me go through with the cars and it's rather calm, but here they tell me to go in with the foot traffic, bike in tow. It's an absolute mess. In Uzbekistan they don't queue, they mob in a giant crowd, all pilling in behind and around me. A guard even plants me sideways as an impromptu blockade to stop people pouring through, before disappearing off as if his job was done. Everyone still keeps pushing round the sides, making the people stuck behind me all the more aggravated.

After about 30 minutes of this with no hope of moving forward, I just start whistling at the top of my lungs. Eventually a customs guy comes over to ask what the hell I'm doing, but he sees my ridiculous position and gestures for me to push on through. Except no one will move out of the way, so I'm shoving people out the way, using my bike as a battering ram. The customs guys realises I'm in an even worse predicament than before, so gets me to pull my bike out to the side, before putting me at the front of the "queue". The joys of having a white face.

This is all before the baggage check, where they make me unload the entire bike and go through everything, all the while holding up another irate gang of Uzbeks who are seconds away from starting a riot.

Day 104: Smiling to mask the pain

I finally clear the border, to be greeted by a sprawling metropolis which continues all the way to Tashkent. Every driver seems positively offended I'm on the road, but there is absolutely no hard-shoulder, so almost die at least twice on the way into the city. Thankfully the only other guest at the Hostel is Frank, a German guy, so we share an elicit beer and I have a big moan. He's quickly sympathetic. Seems no one is getting a particularly warm reception in Uzbekistan.
(Alcohol is not illegal in Uzbekistan, but as a fairly devout Sunni country they only sell it in certain shops and tut judgmentally at people where you can buy some.)

Trust

From there it all just kept going downhill. For one, the weather was generally unpleasant. Foggy so you can't see the sun, and just cold enough that you can't feel your toes at the end of the day, despite my new camel socks.

Day 108: Through the mist

On each street corner there are groups of men who either eye you warily, or start yelling something random at you in Uzbek before turning and laughing to their friends. The tour-cyclist version of catcalling. When you are treated with suspicion, it breeds it in you too. People who don't trust you are difficult to trust in return.

It is also near impossible to get good directions or help finding a hotel from anyone. Women generally won't speak to you at all. The education level isn't all that high either, so despite learning it in school, most men can't read Russian (and as discussed before, I can find no offline translator anywhere that can do Kazakh or Kyrgis or Uzbek. Thanks Google.)

Day 108: Climbed above the mist to the highlands outside of Samarkand

It all came to head on my first day riding out of Tashkent. As I was stopping at a corner store to ask about any hotels nearby, three guys crowded round me and started openly mocking me when they realised I didn't speak Uzbek or Russian.  Admittedly, my Uzbek is non-existent, but when I gave Russian a go, they started looking at me as if farts had just come out my mouth, then burst out laughing. Fantastic. One insisted I shake his hand, but wouldn't let go, smiling menacingly into my face. I'm really hoping I misjudged the whole thing, but it was the first time I've felt truly unsafe on the whole trip.

But Why?

The language barrier is of course a big part of it. Last time I faced such a tall one was in China, and I'd studied Chinese for half a year before tackling that one. Here I was going in completely unprepared. In big cities you can find English speakers, but out on the road there's no one round to save you.

But I didn't really understand the why until I retroactively did a bit of research. All the 'stans' are very young nations and still finding their feet. As young as me in fact, as they only became independent in 1991 with the break up of the Soviet Federation. The others have their problems too, but Uzbekistan has clearly had a real tough time of it. Their modern history is grim reading.

Day 112: The ceiling of the beautiful Mosque in Registan Square

Hyper inflation of 1000% a year in the early 90's has left their currency feeling like monopoly money. We are talking 10,000 com for a loaf of bread. I briefly became a millionaire when I got money out to buy a train ticket.

Day 111: 1,000,000 som (£80)

The quality of the healthcare is terrible too, with the highest maternal and infant morbidity, and mortality rates in the former Soviet countries. A situation that is only getting worse due to depletion of water sources. The once mighty Aral sea, has shrunk to 10% of its original size since 1960, and rampant insecticide use is turning into a full blown ecological disaster, poisoning the remaining water sources.

Their human rights record is the most shocking part though. We are talking arrests of religious and political opponents, torture, a complete lack of religious freedom. Compulsory sterilization. I mean come on.

And that's all before we mention the state-run slavery. Cotton is the main cash crop here, and there are 1.2 million people who are forced by the government to pick it every year at no pay. Insane. I actually cycled right past the cotton fields on the way to Samarkand with no idea how insidious they were.

Day 108: The breath-taking mountain pass on the way from Jizzax to Samarkand

I'm not writing all this to tar Uzbekistan with a big fat DO NOT GO HERE sign, or to say Uzbekistan is a terrible country and that's why I've had a terrible time here. Some of the scenery is truly stunning, the food is excellent, and the rare moments of kindness I've received here are so much sweeter knowing they aren't the norm. One kindhearted restaurant owner let me sleep there overnight, and gave me free breakfast in the morning.

Day 107: My bed for the night

But it's no wonder I haven't had a warm reception. When everything they've experienced in life so far is either trying to kill, oppress, or take advantage of them, its only natural to see something foreign and assume its up to no good. They're wary of my because they're wary of everything.

The Great Escape Part 2

Day 112. After a week of cycling in Uzbekistan, I decided it was time to get off this wild ride and jump on the long distance sleeper train through the desert to Beyneu, Kazakhstan. Did my best to miss the train though.

I got into the station with my bike, but with no reassurances that I'd be able to get it onto the train. At the information desk they nonchalantly told me, No worries, just take it onto the platform and put it straight on. My train wasn't until 10:30pm and they let me know it was delayed by an hour and a half, so I settle down in the departure hall for a long wait.

Day 112: Babe having a quick nap

At 10:45, a train conductor comes up to me and asks to see my ticket. Beyneu? You have to go now! It's leaving! So much for being delayed. In a mad dash, I drop what I'm doing, leaving the bag of snacks I'd been munching on, book it down two flights of stairs with my bike bashing along behind, then push it up two more flights of stairs to the other side to the platform. The train door is very high up, but I convince the Carriage Conductor to help me drag the bike up into the carriage, and as we close the door the train sets off
(I have a sneaking suspicion they were waiting for me, thank goodness.)

There's an instant antagonistic relationship between me and the Carriage Conductor, as I don't understand what he wants me to do with the bike. Sullen guy, with the deep-set eyes, like he hasn't slept in months. It's his sole job to keep order in the carriage, made difficult by that fact that the passengers are wholeheartedly committed to breaking every rule they can get away with. After a good 30 minutes arguing at each other, we find a spot for it at the other end of the carriage.

My bunkmate is a young Uzbek guy, Mahumudjon. A sheep herder heading to Russia for a better life. Now I've looked into Uzbekistan's history I can totally see why. He has a physical English-Uzbek dictionary, so we chat in slo-mo, flipping through the pages for every word. Not that there was a big rush. We wouldn't be arriving in Beyneu for another day and a half.

Day 113: That gesture was not the only thing lost in translation

The next morning I wake up to Mahumudjon, and an older Russian guy sat on the end of my bed, staring at me. We start off having a makeshift conversation, considering none of us share a common language, and the Russian decides we should be drinking vodka - at 9am. He has half a bottle which we share with some coffee and bread.

Day 113: The Russian

The more we drank, the less he remembered I didn't speak Russian, so just starts monologue-ing at me. He'd clearly already had half the bottle to himself, and the last few shots put him over the edge. The whole train is non-smoking, but he casually starts lighting up a cigarette right there in the middle of the train. Moments later the the indignant Carriage Conductor comes rushing down to us, and forces the Russian out onto the gap outside which connects our carriage to the next. And so began a 36 hour long game of cat-and-mouse, where everyone tried to sneak a cigarette without getting caught.

Back in Kazakhstan

I arrive in Beyneu at 5:30am, Day 116, and decide I may as well keep going to the port in Aktau. The ferries across the Caspian Sea are famously irregular, and I'd hate to be stuck on the wrong side of it when my parents get to Baku.

The Uzbek train was 90% not-so-well-off blokes leaving home in a desperate attempt to get work. Compared to that slightly grim mood, the train to Aktau is absolutely teeming with life and movement. Far more families and women, train stuffed to full capacity.

Day 114: Best conversation I'd had in weeks

I share my compartment with two grandparents and their grandchild, who was clearly going stir-crazy being stuck on a train for so long. No older than 2 or 3. I pull some funny faces at him, and we quickly become friends. Now back in Kazakhstan, the trust has returned. His exhausted elders take a well deserved nap as I take over daycare duties. He even shares my pomegranate with me, throwing a thumbs up after popping each seed into his mouth. Adorable.

The Ferry from Not-Aktau

I arrive in Aktau sleep deprived but feeling good. 8 days to get across the Caspian Sea to Azerbaijan. Surely that's enough time. How could it not be? But things are never so simple.

There are often fierce winds and storms, so the timetable is extremely unpredictable. Or rather, there is no timetable. With only one boat operating for foot passengers, you just have to keep calling and calling until the day the boat arrives. And even then they often wait some more until they have enough passengers to make the crossing worthwhile. I've heard horror stories of cyclists trapped for two weeks or more before getting across.

Day 117: Aktau. Do not be tricked into thinking the Aktau ferry goes from Aktau like I was.

Day 117, I go to ticket office and it is closed for the weekend. The sympathetic lady who runs the hostel rings the port for me. Maybe it will go in two days time. No one is really sure. I decide I'll go down the next day in person and see what I can get done.

Day 118, I start chatting over breakfast with an Azeri guy who has a bit of experience with the ferry. Turns out in 2018 they moved the passenger ferry 90km south. It's already 11:00am, and I've hardly cycled all week, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna miss the ferry by a day, so quickly pack up my bags and get on my way.

Out on the road, there is nothing. Absolutely nothing. It's difficult to see why they moved the port into such an out of the way place. Apparently it was the brain-child of some politician to make a new tourist super center, but right after making the port, the politician lost his position and the whole thing was cancelled. So now everyone is stuck with the most inconveniently positioned ferry ever.

Of course it is windy, and I make very little progress. 30km in 4 hours. In desperation, I stop and start trying to hitch-hike. With a bike.

Anywhere else in the world, and this wouldn't have worked. But in central Asia there is still a very live culture of sharing rides. Outside of every village, you will see a group of people with their hands out waiting for an empty space. Everyone does it, whether they be small children going to school, or sweet wizened babushkas on their way back from the bazaars.

Day 118: Guardian Angel number 3. I swear I'm trying to smile

A couple of people drive by, shrugging as if to say "what can I do? that bike is huge", but eventually someone stops and I make it to the port. What a guy, refused to let me pay him. Not pictured is his mother in the back half smothered to death by all my bags pilled up on her in the back seat.

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Day 119: Marcus got off the ferry as I got on. What a champ, he's cycled from London to Baku in 100 days, averaging 125km a day. Clearly he's travelling lighter than me, but definitely has inspired me to push it a little harder.

Turns out there was no rush. The port is... lacking to say the least. Still no one knows when a boat will arrive. I end up waiting 3 days at a hotel with bare bones facilities, until the ferry finally shows up. Even then, it was supposed to go at 11pm, but doesn't arrive till 3am, and doesn't end up leaving till 5. But on Day 120, I finally arrive (to my suprise, in Alat, 70km south of Baku) then cycle into the city.

Day 120: The ferry isn't really for tourists. It is basically a cargo barge that transports Turkish lorry drivers over to Azerbaijan.

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p.s I swear I will write shorter and more often from now on, but I was in no mood through Uzbekistan, and had no internet access most of the way anyway. I met my parents and we had an absolutely fantastic Pre-Christmas Christmas, but that will have to wait till next time.

Day 126: Merry Pre-Christmas Christmas from the Japan to UK tour and support team

Homestays in the Stans - Zharkent to Taraz

23rd of November 2019, Day 101 - 4,560ish km

Day 99 - Snowed in

Day 101 sees me just over the one third mark of my planned trip. Through the last month, I've noticed the white carpet of snow slowly creeping down from the lofty mountain tops, like the fingers of Winter reaching down greedily into the grassy plains to swallow up the last bit of cycle-able weather. 3 days ago the snow made it's final push down into the villages and towns dotted through the open pastures. Now a soft fluffy blanket of white has come to rest over the steppes.

Winter

I am trapped in Taraz, Kazakhstan, in the strangest little hostel. Strange mainly because there is no social space. The older women that run the hostel are nice enough, but they very much live in the living room. I don't know if its my wild hair or out of control beard, but they sit there inquisitively gawking at me until I leave, as if an unpredictable baby grizzly bear had just sat down on their couch. The couch that they sleep on at night, and leave only to chide people video calling in the hallway for being too loud. It's not like I want to be out there, but the wifi is too weak to pass through doors. The router, held together by tape and string, has probably been there since the soviets left.

I have commandeered a small table in the kitchen to write, but in some ways it's even worse than the living room. The grandma keeps coming out of her room next door and talking at me, despite the fact I have no idea what she's saying. Even now as I type this, she is monologue-ing away in Kazak, accompanied by extremely vigorous hand gestures and pointing. Something about Berlin, or maybe it's about the cat. Whatever the case is, a few well placed "Hmm"s and "Ahh"s are enough to keep the convo going on my end.

Day 100 - Me and the cat are becoming good friends

It's not all bad though. Definitely better than being stuck outside in snow storms, and there's a young Kazak guy whose been teaching me the language in exchange for help with his homework. It's a fascinating language - imagine the lilting flowery sound of French, but spoken in a Russian accent. Everything is written in the Cyrillic alphabet, which makes me feel like I've come down with a bad case of dyslexia. Similar A's and B's and O's, then suddenly a backwards 3, an downside N, and fancy asterisk thing (Ж) that makes a J sound, but is englishised as Zh . Really should have taken some time to learn some Russian. I guess I've got plenty of time now.

Surveillance

Day 95 - Samsa, the most delicious of the Kazakh street food. Like a Samosa, except all the annoying potatoes and veggies have been taken out to be replaced by lamb.

All the way through China there are flashing cameras, even on small country roads, that take a picture of everyone who passes through. You feel constantly watched, like a paranoid convict stuck in a 1984 dystopia. Each village has a police station no matter how small. No one is particularly aggressive about it as long as you are well behaved. They merely like to be keeping tabs on everyone, just in case. I realised part of the way through that it's no different for the locals. They carry their ID cards everywhere with them, and are required to show it just as much as I do my passport.

Almost all payments are made electronically through WeChat and Alipay. You could be buying apples from an old grandma at a country fruit stand, but they'll still have a QR code ready, and will look at you weirdly when you get out cash.

Of course the Chinese government uses WeChat and Alipay as a data source for their overarching surveillance program. This means they know where you are, who you are talking to, and what you are buying at all times.

Day 86 - First snow in Almaty

I held off talking about all this while still in China because they are famously twitchy when it comes to Journalists. No need to make the journey harder than it needs to be. It was difficult enough getting around as a cycling tourist, without adding "Enemy of the State" to my file.

I say all of this now though, because being in Kazakhstan is such a comparative breath of fresh air. I have hardly seen a policeman outside of the big cities, and CCTV cameras are all for private security. It's a relief to finally feel like I'm allowed to be. I can go into any hotel, and stay there if I have the money, because oddly that's how businesses are supposed to work. No more police parties at 8pm. No more justifying why I there. No one asks for my passport because no one cares. Go. Live your life.

Day 88 - Sunset on the Steppes

I in no way want this to take away from the kindness shown to me by the actually Chinese people. Without their help I would never have made it through. They have a deep-rooted culture of hospitality towards outsiders, and an unwavering pride in their country, that combine to make them painfully generous. I have never received so much free stuff, from almost everyone I met on a daily basis, and it is all but impossible to stop a Chinese person from paying for your meal if you eat together. I tried. I failed.

They never want anything in return, not that I had anything I could give. Now I find myself stuck with an overwhelming feeling of debt, and no ability to pay it back. All I can say is, thank you. People are good. Humanity is tender and giving. Give peace a chance, and all that jazz.

Real-Life Cowboys

Day 82 - Some horses before they casually cross the road, causing a traffic jam

Before being being snowed in, I had a fantastic few weeks of ride-able weather on the other side of the Chinese border. Central Asia is the fulcrum point of three very different ways of life - China, Russia, and the Arabic world. Here though it has grown organically into something unique and independent. A vibrant culture of it's own.

If I had started my trip in Kazakhstan, I'm sure everything would be feeling foreign and alienating. Compared to China though, I practically feel like I'm back in Europe. Sure, I still can't read and I have no idea what's going on. But the supermarkets sell cheese, and the bread is proper bread. They drink lots of tea like in China (even use the same word - chai), but they drink black tea with milk and sugar. They have a bunch of noodle dishes, but everyone eats them with a fork.

Day 83 - Even the bus-stops are beautiful

I do miss the Chinese roads though. China really got into road-building right as they got into motorized trikes, bikes, and carts of every kind. There is a wide hard-shoulder for miscellaneous vehicles of all types, and my bike fit in there like a fish in water.

Kazakhstan is not like this, so now I'm flopping around gasping for air. The traffic has changed. With no cameras or police, ancient Audi's and beat up old white cars fly by at break neck speeds, all riding curiously high as if the body had been lifted. It wasn't until the new motorway from the border gave out that I realised why. These roads.  Beat up doesn't do them justice. And their repair method seems to be just to dollop new tarmac on top making a wavy sea of divets and peaks. Low-set cars just wouldn't survive out here. At one point it was so bad, all my stuff fell off the back of my bike, and I had to apologetically stop the traffic to pick it all up.

The hard-shoulder is gone, replaced by gravel. No more mopeds and scooters, instead horses and donkey-drawn carts. I'm forced to navigate the small space in-between, praying the cars do me the kindness of giving me a wide birth.

Day 97 - Plov and mystery meat soup

Compared to the deserts of China though, the pastures of Kazakhstan are teeming with life. Everywhere is packed with cows and sheep and birds. I even saw what I thought was a pack of wild horses, before realising that here they are just as much livestock as anything else. I have eaten horse without knowing it countless times. It's unavoidable. Oops.

With them, real life cowboys! I never got close enough for a photograph, but it turns out real cowboys wear woolly hats, workman boots, and trackies, sat playing on their phone as their herd grazes.

Homestays

The huge cities of China are gone too, to be replaced by small villages and towns made up of two story buildings at best. Finding hotels has been tough because they look little different than the houses around them. Thankfully the generosity of China extends to it's neighbors. I've discovered it's usually easier to find a family to stay with than it is to find paid accommodation. I'm pretty sure China would have been the same if people had felt able to let me stay.

It helps that I've been on the road for a while now, and have lost a whole bunch of my old social hangups about asking for help. The trick (which I feel fairly guilty to have learnt) is to say you "need a cheap place to sleep". No need to bring up hotels unless they do.

Day 84 - Beautiful old tree on the way from Shelek with scarves tied around it. 

It's Day 84, and it's been a struggle. I've been fighting the wind and cold all day, but now I'm into tree lined villages and on the search. Each village I stop and ask about a hotel, but each impromptu local guide shakes their head. Next village. 10km. 40km later and I'm just about ready to set up my tent and resign myself to an icy night.

I've been camping a little but the morning frost is a problem. Even if I wait to let it melt, I end up putting everything away wet, and then have to put up a soaked tent at the next camp site. Plus, security took my butane, so I have to go on coffee-less. This is no way to live.

As I pull into a slightly larger village I spot two older guys with bikes across the road at a corner store chatting. They wave me over, but I almost don't bother. I'm exhausted and hardly in the mood to explain myself with hand gestures for 30 minutes. Thankfully they are rather lovely, and we manage well enough with my phone translator. Eventually I ask about a place to sleep. It is unclear what's going on, but one of the guys, Sagndyk, does the universal sleep gesture and gets me to follow him.

Day 84 - By now school had just gotten out, and we have a gang of children floating around us trying to speak English.

We ride further and further from the main road into the village, stopping whenever we meet anyone so Sagndyk can show me off to his neighbors. The Kazakh have the most lovely handshake when they greet. The Chinese one is light and floppy, and they linger painfully long while talking to you, as if they are afraid you'll disappear if they let go. The Kazakh handshake is a quick, firm, and heartfelt grasp, often with the second hand clasping your forearm. Despite being quite far away from the middle east, even the non-religious say "Salaam alaikum" (peace be with you) as they greet. The whole thing makes you feel like you are somehow being accepted into the community.

Eventually we arrive at his house and I realise what is going on. Inside, 7 people, 3 generations all living under the same roof. My savior Sagndyk is the granddad, but his oldest son, Madyiar, is clearly the boss. No one speaks English, and Sagndyk doesn't even speak Russian, so the younger son, Toktan, downloads a voice to text translation app and plays interpreter. I feel completely unable to place them in a social class, but Madyiar owns a string of stalls in the market, and Toktan is an apple farmer. So wherever that leaves them.

Day 84 - All gathered at the dinner table mid feast

We all sit down at a big table for dinner. Kazakh home dinning is something completely different. The only cutlery is two spoons, one big for eating the main dishes of potatoes and meat and beetroot salad. Bread is scattered all over for you to pick up. You use the smaller second spoon to put honey into your tea, or jam and butter onto your bread from big communal jars. Then you lick your spoon clean and dip in for something else. Momma is in charge of the tea, a strong brew to which they added hot water, and fresh milk so you have curds still floating on the surface. They push me to eat and eat and eat, till I can't imagine squeezing in one more bite. The Kazakh are feeders for sure.

Then they pull out some Kazakh sleeping mats, which they kindly set up on the couch. Toktan, the youngest brother had to sleep on the floor.

Imagine Hostel

This is all before I got to Almaty, which is where I wrote the last blog post. From there I was planning to do the long ride up and over on the barely inhabited road along the border to Taraz.

For those of you who are as rusty on their Central Asian geography as me. This is the intended route, and you can see from the red dots in Kyrgyzstan the route I ended up taking instead.

That is until my father had the brilliant idea of cutting through Kyrgyzstan. Famously mountainous, but I could stay in the valley between mountains, hit the capital Bishkek, and come out the other side just East of Taraz. Perfect. I say famously, but to be completely honest I'd never even heard of Kyrgyzstan till my dad pointed it out.

Day 90 - Triumphantly crossing the Korday pass before dropping into Kyrgyzstan

Day 91. At the border crossing I run into my first international tour cyclists, a couple from Belgium and France. They've been going for almost two years and are just coming to the end of their trip. I smother them with questions for a good hour, before talking about Bishkek. I tell them I have a hostel booked, and they say "Let me guess, Imagine Hostel?" Clearly everyone sees the 9 star rating with a £2 price tag and look no further.

Day 91 - There are others!

(The border crossing by the way was polar opposite to getting out of China. It couldn't have been more relaxed. For a baggage check,
You have Narcotics
No..
Pistol?
No..
Ok! Go now

They had even ran out of official papers, so the guy at passport control tore off some scrap paper, and had me write my name on it before stamping it. I then passed that on to the guard who happily let me through. I was there no longer than 20 minutes, and got a 60 day visa no questions asked.)

I get to Imagine hostel and it's heaven. The staff is no where to be seen, but some of the more long term guests find me a bunk. It's that kind of place. No one intends to, but everyone seems to find themselves in this far outreach of humanity and call it home for a few weeks. Or months. Or years in some cases. It's obvious I have to leave fast before I get sucked in. Everyone jokes they are leaving tomorrow, and no one hardly ever does. There is no reason to be in Bishkek in November for the winter, but the hostel is full.

Day 93 - Pancakes for breakfast! I very lazily took almost no photos the whole time I was there. You'll just have to go see it for yourself

The people here are another caliber of travelers, who have spent years on the road. Most speak English, French, or Russian, so there's always someone for everyone to talk to. It almost feels like a bohemian french commune, perfectly set up to accommodate all needs, with space for anyone. In the evening, communal meals we all pitch in for. Then in the day, groups go out for excursions into the city. It's easy to latch onto one going your way, and spend the afternoon wandering the Bazaars.

It's so pleasant going out in a group. Alone you feel alienated. All the glances and whispers cut you off from it all. But in a group, you have a little submarine of understanding and acceptance, keeping you safe as you explore the depths of a foreign land.

Day 92 - Getting our shoes repaired at the Bazaar

Everyone were much more experienced travelers than me though. I felt like a child crawling up on his mother's lap to see the adult table for the first time, as they talk politics and tell stories of countries I know nothing about.

I filled 10 pages of my diary desperately trying to save the memories of all the amazing people staying at the hostel, but there's not room to put it all down here without starting another post. Maybe one day I'll have time to fill in the gaps. All the stories I can't quite squeeze into the blog.

I do wanna squeeze one in quick though. I met Hiroshi on the second day, a Japanese guy who had been travelling for months and months and months. Makes lovely YouTube videos, you can check them out here. I'm pretty sure he's added English subtitles to all of them, and there's one on Kyrgyzstan coming soon. On my third day in the hostel, he comes in with two tickets to the Kyrgyzstan vs Japan international qualifier but no one to go with. I was more than happy to go despite being 10 rows apart. The game had an amazing atmosphere, with the Kyrgis all in their odd traditional hats.

Day 93 - Cool hat, but he didn't sit down the whole bloody game.

They didn't expect to win, and never let their mood drop even as they succumbed to a 2-0 defeat from a penalty and free kick. Kyrgyzstan were far better, but couldn't finish. It was hilarious to see Hiroshi as the goals went in. He'd stand up to cheer, the only one in the whole sold out stadium, then turn, look at me and send me a thumbs up while grinning.

I stayed 4 days in the end, the longest I've stayed anywhere yet. It was so comfortable though, I count myself lucky not to have ended up spending the whole winter there.

More Homestays

Day 94. Finally back on the road, I head out of Bishkek to the border, but not before fitting in a Kyrgis homestay. I get to Kara-Balta, but can't spot a hotel, so use my new technique of "somewhere cheap to sleep". Luckily I went into Rustam's corner shop, who calls home and ask his 14 year old daughter, Sezim, if she minds translating all night.

Day 94 - Rustam's Shop. Note the 3 full rows of vodka

I had a particularly lovely time with the Duishenbiev's. Don't ask me how its pronounced, I've got no idea. They clearly value education, with Sezim going to a private Turkish boarding school in Bishkek, and their oldest, Iuusuf, completing his High school study in Canada. Sezim is incredibly bright and knows it too. She got into the school on a full scholarship, getting 100% on her entrance exam. I never thought I'd hear a 14 year old ask, Whats the antonym of kind?

 She learns Kyrgis, Russian, English, and Turkish at school, with all her sciences taught in English. Honestly I was astounded how well she managed to translate long conversations and statements, while simultaneously participating in the conversation. I was lucky it was a Saturday or she wouldn't have been there. The universe's reward for managing to escape the hostel.

Day 94 - Unfortunately no photos of Sezim, who also doubled as our camera man. Note the giant piece of lamb in front of me.

The whole family adores their oldest. You could feel them missing him a little, a small space in the home, waiting for him to slot back into any time he likes. Made me think of how hard it must have been for my family when they moved to Malaysia without me, and how thankful I am they made room for me in their lives every time I came to visit.

For food, Beshbarmak, which means "five fingers". They all ate with their hands, but it was far too hot so I opted for a spoon. Meat and onions on slices of square noodles, bubbling hot in a communal bowl, but they had no trouble picking it up. Plus a huge mutton leg, which I had no hope of eating all of. The wife said it's Kyrgis tradition that if you start eating it, the leg is yours. She wrapped it up so I could have it for lunch the next day. In the morning I have the chance to talk to Iuusuf on video call while warming up in the shop. He's as great as everyone let on.

Day 96 - #squad

Day 96. I've crossed the border back into Kazakhstan, as chill as before, with a brand new 30 day visa. In my search for a hotel I end up at a car repair place. Manat, the owner at first offers me a free night in the security room, but after hearing about the trip decides I should stay with him. Extremely interesting guy, an ex-army sniper, proud of the life he's built for himself.

The only English word he seemed to know was "Class" (English slang for very good). Everything was class. The repair shop may be his main job, but he seems to have his finger in every pie going. On the way home we stopped at his shoe shop to unload a delivery of new boots.  Then we pick up the wife and his 12 year old son Arnat, before arriving at his sprawling housing complex. Round the back, his beauty salon with people getting their nails done.

Day 96 - "Hold the bread. Class"

A required part of homestays is the tour. People are proud of their things, and it's something easy to get over the language barrier.

Moi Car. Class
Moi Mother. Class.
Moi second house. Class.
Moi Ashtray... Class.

On the way back to my bike in the morning we take a quick detour to the mountains to take some pictures. The view is stunning. Truly class. In the car, he insists I leave my seat belt off, signalling that police are his good friends. It's who you know I guess. Pulling all the clues together from the night before, it suddenly dawns on me that I may now have connections with the Kazakh mafia.

Day  97 - Mountains, also Class

-

p.s. As for the future: Now I'm in Taraz and it's cold, and it will continue to be cold. I'm hoping I can sneak south towards Shymkent tomorrow, then cycle a bit more through Uzbekistan where it's warmer. If not I may have to jump back on the train. There's no visa pressure pushing me forward, so I can take my time. Excitingly, I'll be meeting my parents in Azerbaijan on the 16th of December for a little pre-Christmas Christmas, so as long as I get there eventually I'm golden.

p.p.s This blog keeps getting harder and harder to write as I have to smush more and more in. This time 3,800 words, congrats for making it. I was thinking of maybe writing shorter posts, but more often. Let me know what you think.

p.p.p.s I keep forgetting the wives' names, which I know is terrible, but I'm mostly only able to speak to the men at length.

Running to the Border - Jia Yu Guan to Zharkent

2nd of November 2019, Day 81 - 3750ish km (+ 75km bus, 1000km train, and another 650km bus)

Day 79: Eating lunch with Tatsu and the fam

From the very beginning, the concern that always seemed to come up when I told people about the trip was the cold. What are you gonna do about winter? In typical Richard style, I just figured I would work it out when I got there. And if China got too cold, I could always jump on the train.

Bragging Rights

The days up to that point had mostly been sunny, so I hadn't been feeling it too much. Day 71, I leave Jia Yu Guan with high hopes of being able to push on. As soon as I get out of the city though the wind picks up, and clouds rush in to fill the desert sky. 20km in, I realise Autumn is all but over in Gansu, and winter is creeping in.

It starts to snow. A strange dry desert snow, grainy and light, billowing in wispy waves like sand in the wake of the trucks rushing by.

By late afternoon, the snow disappears and the sun comes back out. The wind though is not done torturing me. Wind is not like a hill. A hill is fair. Everyone who climbs it faces the same challenge. it's consistent. The wind though does not play by the rules. It is fickle and unpredictable. You spend five minutes with it relentlessly blasting into your side, leaning into it to keep from being blown into the traffic. Then it changes direction a little, or takes a breather, or a truck goes by. Suddenly your bike lurches to the side as if it has a mind of it's own, threatening to throw you off the road into the ditch.

Day 72: Defrosting the tent

The wind is so frustrating at times that I start screaming profanities into the gale - one of the more futile things I've done in my life. If given the choice, I would pick a 10 hour ride up a steep mountainside in lowest gear over even one hour in these high winds.

Somehow I manage to get to Qing Quan (Ching Chew Ann), a mere 60km although it feels like I've been through hell and back. Which is where I discover I can't get a hotel room. Not that I'm turned away or anything, just no hotels anywhere. I trundle on another 10 km down the road before finding a sneaky spot to camp out of the wind between two train tracks.

I then wake up in the morning to find all my water has frozen. Without the sun, the desert temperature rapidly plummets, this time dropping to -14°C. No wonder my toes had been cold during the night.

Day 72: Cooking noodles and coffee for breakfast. Note the frozen water and ill-fated butane canister

Thankfully I had a few warmer days after that, but it gave me a taste of how things can go in the desert when the weather turns bad. Even so, I was resistant to jumping on the train yet. It felt a little like giving up, especially after meeting Jian, the cyclist who had done it alone only a month before. And I'd be losing my bragging rights. There is something so satisfying when a Chinese person asks, You cycled here all the way from Shanghai... by bike? And I can smugly grin and reply, Yeah, all the way.

Day 73: The view from my swanky hotel in Yumen City

I made it another 200km to Guazhou (Goo Ah Joe), before being forced into a decision. From there to Hami, I would have to go about 360km, a big climb to start, wind against me the whole way, with absolutely nothing but road and sand in between. It just seemed too much of a challenge. After all, I should be enjoying this trip. I'm sort of on holiday and holidays are supposed to be fun. I didn't fancy 6 days alone freezing to death in the desert, so on Day 75 I gave up on my bragging rights and decided it was time.

The Train Saga

I got on the bus to a little town called Liuyuan where I could get the train. I say bus, but it was really more of a 10 seater van, my bike nestled in the aisle between the seats. That's when things got difficult.

Day 75: On the bus to Liuyuan

I arrive at 11 and go straight to the train station, but can't even get in to buy a ticket.You have to go through security first (yes, the train station has a proper security check at the entrance, far more comprehensive than any airport I've ever been to.)  I had heard shipping your bike by rail in China is quite easy. Obviously they were talking about much bigger stations than the backwater outpost I was currently stuck at. The security staff have very clearly never had to deal with a foreigner, much less one that wants to send his big ole bike along too. Instantly they say they can't do it, so I go round all the delivery places in town trying to find a way to get my bike to Urumqi (Woo rum-moo chi). No luck. Too big. I go back to the station, and spend the next hour convincing them to change their mind. At one point they suggest I go back to Jia Yu Guan and send the bike from there. No! All those kilometers fighting against the wind for nothing! I have no choice but to irritatingly hang around beg them to change their mind.

Eventually a young guy comes out from the ticket office. Thankfully he's the officious self-important type that takes his little bit of power very seriously. He makes a few phone calls as I nervously sit there, all out of options. In broken English, he tells me he's found a way. I can go ahead to Urumqi, and they'll send the bike on a slow cargo train the next morning. 

I have to take all my bags with me though, and that means putting them all through security. Of course, there is a problem. Something in one of my bags throws them all into a tiffy and suddenly 5 policeman appear out of a back room with handheld video cameras. I know instantly what it is. I should have realised. They open one of my bags and take out the two small butane canisters, which I'd picked up in Jia Yu Guan for cooking while camping. Suddenly I'm being treat like a terrorist suspect. What's this? What is it for? This is illegal. What else do you have? We are gonna have to open up all your bags. Then they go through each, my luggage slowly becoming a giant pile of clothes and camping gear on the inspection desk. Aha! What's this? My butter knife. They take that too. Clearly I'm gonna hold up the train with my dangerous weapon. I may just spread everyone to death.

The whole process takes about an hour, but I finally get through security. By now everyone has relaxed a little, and are waving me on from the security building, wishing me well. This is the first time I've had to move all my stuff any further than up to my hotel room. It isn't until you have to carry all 5 of your bags at once that you realise the strain you've been putting your bike under. I make my unsteady way half way up the steps to the station entrance, lose my footing, and in front of the 10 or so policeman and security staff gathered to see me off, fall down, bashing both my knees, coming to a stop in a crumpled pile at the bottom. I am nothing but graceful.

Day 75: I finally manage to get my ticket

Inside, I limp over to the ticket office. Next train to Urumqi, 8pm. So now I have 4 hours to sit in a half-deserted station, before 12 hours overnight in a hard-sleeper seat. Despite how empty it is, I still manage to gather a small crowd of curious onlookers. My Chinese is getting much better and can answer a lot of their questions. Quite proud the hard work paid off in the end, even if it only really came to fruition right before leaving China.

Day 75: The Cool Uyghur guy sleeping next to me on the train. I have no excuse for that painful smile, I really apologize.

Control

I arrive in Urumqi at 8 in the morning, then have to play the "Find a hotel game" on expert level. Turns out its much harder to keep your cool after being turned away from a place while carrying all your junk on your back. Eventually I find a cheap place and sleep for 14 hours straight. 

Urumqi is a very.. interesting place. I had heard before coming that the Uyghur (We gur) are a minority group in this area. Well they may be a minority in China, but it's easy to work out that they are firmly in the majority here. It only takes a quick google to see that things are not going so well. Rumors of "Re-Education Camps" float all over the western news. Have since 2014, but no country is brave enough to confront China about it. The men have all shaved their beards, and the mosques are silent during prayer time.

Day 79: A Mosque outside the Bazaar

Police are everywhere, all decked out in riot gear with large poles. Which would be intimidating, but a large majority of them are just teenagers, their shields and batons almost as big as they are, leaning against the railings, bored with nothing to do. Even my hotel had a security scanner, although the guard didn't even get up as you walked through. It's all for show. A daily reminder of who is really in charge here. There are a lot of police all over China these days, but here it has a sharper edge to it. Anywhere not patrolled by police is covered in CCTV cameras. There's no escaping the watchful eye of the big red party upstairs.

The food is excellent though. Lots of bread, lots of lamb.

Waiting

Next afternoon, I go to the baggage claim desk at the station (which happens to be a 50 minute bus ride from the city.) It isn't till the lady at the desk asks for my baggage number that I realise. I have absolutely nothing, not even a receipt. I sheepishly hand her my passport, and mumble, er.. yeah.. I don't know.. I'm looking for my bicycle.. It's blue. She stares at me like I've gone out of my mind.

In the end I convince her to call Liuyuan station, and unsurprisingly they know exactly what she's talking about. I was such a disturbance that I wouldn't be surprised if I had made the local news. 

"White guy comes to town armed with butter knife and explosives, refuses to leave station security alone." 

Turns out the bike hasn't even left yet, so the woman at the desk tells me to come back tomorrow. Which I do, only to be told to try again the next day. And then the next day. I shouldn't complain, I've been given 3 days to properly rest my bruised knees and explore the city. Or rather, I have the chance to explore the city, but instead spend each morning lazing about and each afternoon hanging around the station.

Day 79: Fresh bread!

My room has some English movies on the system, so each evening I watch a movie or two. Notting Hill, Sleepless in Seattle, Serendipity, Before Sunrise, Before Sunset. Romantic comedies have always been a guilty pleasure of mine. I've obviously not had much going on in that part of my life for a while now, gotta fill the void somehow.

On the last day I have the luck of running into a Japanese family. I go down to the front desk to yet again prolong my stay another night, when I hear some English from the guy in front of me. I help him out with my newfound Chinese skills and a little body language, explaining that the toilet in his room won't flush to the guy at the desk. Toilet. No. *Vigorous flushing motions* 

Day 79: Mei-Chan

The guy looks Asian though, so I ask where he's from. My name is Tatsu. I'm from Japan! Amazing. We quickly start chatting away in Japanese, and Tatsu invites me to go out sightseeing with his family. It's extremely refreshing to do touristy stuff and talk in a language I can actually make myself understood in. He has an adorably precocious 5 year old, ironically called Mei like my ex, who quickly latches onto me. Whenever her father and I spoke English, she kept complaining that we were talking Hello-go, which is just about the cutest thing ever.

Day 79: Fam and my finger

As I've been teaching littluns for a while now, it's real easy to hang out with her, giving her tired pregnant mother a rest. The family works for 9 months a year in Gunma then travels for 3. Definitely not your normal Japanese tourists. They met in Nepal and have been together ever since. So there is hope for me too, even on a trip like this! With a baby on the way and Mei starting Elementary school next year, this will be their last long trip for a while. It was a privilege to be part of that warm family, even if it was just for an afternoon. Made waiting around for 3 days feel all worthwhile.

Around 5, we say our goodbyes and I shoot off to the station where my bike has actually finally shown up. After a teary reunion, my baby and I head back to the hotel to prep for the next leg in the migration west.

Crossing the Border

Day 80, I go to the bus station at 11 only to find the bus to Khorgas doesn't leave till 8pm (Huorugas in Chinese.) That's OK, I'm used to waiting around by now. Now some might think that its all my fault for not finding out beforehand, but you have to remember, I'm constantly at an information disadvantage. The online information pages are in Chinese. The person at the help desk speaks Chinese. The signs are all in Chinese. I'm very used to having no idea whats going on by now. You just have to kind of feel it out and hope for the best.

Day 79: Reunited

When it's time to leave, I roll my bike down to the bus to be greeted by a disgruntled bus driver. It seems no one told him he'd have a bike to squeeze into the storage compartment under the bus. The buses round here double as a sort of cash in hand delivery service, and he couldn't fit everything anymore, so he makes me pay an extra 100 yuan to make up for his lost business. I'm more than happy to pay. Beats waiting 3 days for it to arrive on the other end. 

The sleeper bus was fascinating. Each person has a bed, shaped like one of those deck chairs at the beach, with the head-half slightly raised. The person behind's feet then slot in underneath your head. Reasonably comfy and roomy though, which is lucky as we had another 12 hour slog through the night to look forward to. The bus has two drivers that take turns, so that they can keep going right through til morning.

Day 81. Sleep deprived but high strung on nervous energy, I head out to the border crossing. Even though it's only 10, the place is heaving with huge lines snaking out onto the road. With no idea what's going on, I go up to a guard, who surprises me with perfect English. Foreigners can go to the New Border Gate. It's 3 km up the road. Feeling relieved not to have to wait amongst the jostling masses gathered outside, I jump back on my bike.

Day 81:  The New Border Gate complex. So new that no one knows about it

I get to the New Border gate and it is absolutely deserted. After searching around I find a random security guard who tells me to wait till 11:00. As I'm waiting a small van of Kazaks show up. The 10 or so of us finally go through. One day this place will be absolutely rammed with people, but for now it is even more deserted inside than it was outside. A single security and passport check lane is open, despite the place being the size of an international airport's check in hall.

I make it half way through baggage scans before something clicks that I am not their usual Kazak tourist over in China to see family for the weekend. Two officers come over, and the female officer in perfect English asks me to come with them. They bring me into an interview room  (plus the bike and bags), then close the door, which I really didn't like. The only place in China with no CCTV cameras.

The female officer wanted to practice her English, so we ended up in a fairly in-depth chat about learning languages. The inspection should have been an ordeal, but I was having such a nice time talking to a pretty girl fluent in English, that I completely forgot to feel downtrodden and persecuted at all. She did however keep casually throwing in curve-ball official questions without breaking stride.

"Oh wow, how did you study Japanese? I use flashcards too. Please open your bag and take out all electronics" 

Our conversation continued as the other officer looked through all of the pictures on my phone and laptop. 

"I read that Children who grow up with two languages think naturally in both. I'm so jealous. Who is this man? Have you ever been to Tibet? I want to go to America to practice English but I can't afford it. Why do you have pictures of police? I wish I could travel to as many countries as you."

The strangest of the official questions though was,

"Who are all these people? You only have a few pictures of attractions, but lots of pictures with people."

Clearly they were worried I'm journalist or something. Luckily managed to convince them otherwise. Little do they know I have a SELF PUBLISHED BLOG which at least 10 people read. I'm influential.

I suppose though the question reveals what's been more important to me on this trip. It's not the pagodas or sky-rises, the mountains or the temples that I want to remember the most. It's the lovely people I've met, who helped me along the way.

Then to the border! They let me cycle through on my bike which was a great feeling. Like stepping over some magical threshold to a new fantastical land. On the other side, people speaking Kazak or Russian. Signs, all in Cyrillic script. Uniforms changed from black or navy to Khaki and green. I'm pointed through by smiling guards that all say hello and shake my hand. Half are russian-y looking white guys, the first ones I've seen since Xia He. I figure from the warm reception that they don't get too many tourists through here.

Most of the staff speak English, so I chat while they do my paperwork. 30 day visa, and double stamped, so no need to register. Then I'm through, feeling like surely that can't be it. No police to watch me leave the gate. No more security checks. People hardly even give me a second glass. I've made it.

Day 81: Chinese metropolis on the right, the open plains of Kazakhstan on the left.

Goodbye China

So we did it gang. We've conquered the Middle Kingdom. From the eastern port of Shanghai, to the western mountain border crossing at Khorgas. 3280km cycled in China, 1800km on public transport. And still 9 more months to go. It's slowly dawning on me how big of an adventure I've taken on here. Now I'm in Kazakhstan and it's as if the trip is starting all over again. Honestly, it's so exciting. I'm all giddy like a kid with a new toy. A new culture, new language, new faces, new food. 

As you can probably tell, I've already written way too much for one post. I'm actually in Almaty right now, and have so much to tell you about Kazakhstan, but so much has happened that I couldn't possibly fit it all in. As long as everything goes alright with the Kyrgyzstan border crossing into Bishkek, I'll tell you all about it next time.

Day 82: Leaving Zharkent