Irkutsk to Berlin, coming home

More images here. The warming sun rays of a beautiful autumn morning are making me forget the frosty night when I stumble upon a London cab on the side of the road. Two young Brits are busy trying to fix a faulty fan while considering alternative means of transportation. An instruction manual lies on the floor. The monstrous and crumbling automobile got to this remote corner of Siberia from England via Ulanbator, where it was rejected by the organisation of the Mongol Rally charity and asked to leave the country. After a brief exchange of information, I bid my farewell to the blonde explorers and wish them good luck. Later, they overtake me. Their hand gestures indicate successful repairs. My main thoughts are to reach Baikal and to avoid sleeping outside again.

Kabansk, not far from the lake itself, and in spite of looking biggish on the map, doesn't boast a single hotel. I query a local old-timer about accommodation alternatives. His mumbling does not look promising and then, in fairy godmother fashion, a youthful middle-aged woman comes out of the house opposite. With a smile and in a matter-of-fact way, she invites me in and within minutes, I'm meeting her husband and her two teenage sons. We eat borsch, home made bread, cheese, beetroot salad and marmalade and engage in simple banter and friendly quizzes. A banya is prepared for me. Floating on the sofa bed, warmed by a soft blanket and savouring the kindness of these people who I'd never met before, I slide into slumberland.

Rested and happy, I'm ready for the mighty Baikal. The first sighting of the immense lake coincides with the last day of cycling, after over three months. No more cycling to do so I walk around the village of Babushkin and the lake, contemplating its shimmering waters and the rubbish on the beach. I'm secretly hoping to see fresh water seals but I see drunkards instead, murmuring near the village shops where they sell sweets, dried fish, vodka, toothpaste and a variety of other things. Still, no hotels but I find lodging in a private house.

As anticipated, getting the bike on the train is a bit of an ordeal, involving an arduous negotiation and handling train attendants attempting to exact special 'fares'. The rail tracks encircle the lake and after Sluvyanka, the train commences a vertiginous climb and leaves Baikal behind. The bare steppes of the nearby Mongolia contrast starkly with the red and yellow lushness of Buriatya and Irkustkia. The sky is darkening and a drizzle welcomes me to Irkutsk.

Vitaly, my hyperactive host, puts me up in his mum's flat in a skyscraper overlooking the gloominess that is Irkutsk, dotted with chimneys here and there. Vitaly works in IT and is a keen cyclist with experience of touring in Tibet and India, amongst other places. He takes me along with his wife and young daughter, first on a tour of Russian churches, then to the museum of wooden architecture in Taltsi and finally to Litvianka, a bustling resort on the shore of Baikal, some 80 kms south of Irkutsk. On Sunday evening, I board the train that will bring me to Moscow on Friday.

In a haste to make my bike the smallest possible package, I bend the stem bar out of shape but I'm finally successful in sticking my bike in the overhead compartment and almost miraculously holding it together with a bungee cord. The train reeks of dried fish. With all windows tightly sealed, no incoming fresh air, the heater at full blast and nothing to do for five days, this is no beach holiday. Snoring, trips to the samovar back and forth, preparing instant noodles, playing mobile games, pacing up and down the corridor, nipping in and out for cigarettes, turning on the bed and stretching during longer train stops sums up the experience. To begin with, my fellow passengers are not very chatty but after Tyumen I share the compartment with more talkative souls, first a Pakistani pharmaceutical sales executive settled in Russia and then a Muscovite expat selling real estate in sunny Turkey.

I leave Irkutsk on Sunday and I reach Moscow in the wee hours of the morning on Friday. My wish to cycle in this megalopolis is curtailed by my inability to connect the handle bar to the stem without the right tools so I have to push the bike instead. At Belarusky railway station, a security guard orders me to remove the bike from the premises. Following my refusal to comply he comes back with three police officers to whom I must show my train ticket for the Berlin train. They show me the way to the platform and I wait.

My companions on the train to Berlin are a merry Russian couple in their early 60s. They're cultivated Germano-philes, very critical of the national political class and pessimistic about the future of mother Russia. They own a business that makes camera bags and they tell me of their hardships trying to compete with cheap imports from China and having to pay bribes to the Russian authorities just to stay open. With many hours of delightful chat, 27 hours go faster than expected. Berlin, here I come. I'm back.

Back to Russia

Photos here. I leave Ulanbataar on a sunny afternoon. It gets progressively windy and cold as I leave the capital behind. Before darkness I ask for permission to pitch the tent next to a ger. The wind is howling and I fear a chilly night but when I start getting my tent out, the friendly people from the ger invite me to spend the night inside and I accept. Milk tea and snacks of bread and cheese are offered. It looks like the women are working in a potato field nearby and the men are herders, all of them dressed in traditional coats. A sheep is very carefully slaughtered and skinned. There's a total of 8 people in the ger. Some of them get up several times in the middle of night, get out and scream but although I know it's something to do with the livestock, I don't understand what's happening. Next morning I'm offered a horseback ride but I feel like Gulliver in Liliput. Nearby, a Buddhist cemetery and a statue of Buddha is being erected. After breakfast, I hit the road. It's getting warmer. In the evening, I set up camp next to another ger. A very chatty child talks and whispers to my ear. More milk tea and bread and cheese sticks. Wholesome Mongolian livelihood.

The following day I reach Bayangol, where the road meets the railway. I decide to take the train to Sukhbatar (150 km), near the Russian border, to make sure that I leave within my 30-day visa period. But I forget my mobile phone at the station and I must wait one day to get it back in Sukhbatar.

I leave Sukhbatar at around 7 in the morning. The border is 25 km away and I anticipate lots of red tape. In spite of the big queues and the Russians suspecting that my passport might be forged, I get through in less than one hour.

Everything looks very different after the border. The treeless steppe fade into lush forests and European faces are now in majority. The food in the cafe is varied and delicious. Buryatia. I have headwind for three days. Also rain and snow. Plus it's very hilly. In Kalinishnaya, Sveta, a Buryat woman, hosts me for the night. I'm very moved by her gesture. Next day, it's sunny but still very cold and with headwind, I realise that I'm not enjoying this and I get a lift to Ulan Ude, 120 kms away. But then in Ulan Ude, the weather gets really good again and I cycle to lake Baikal.

Even though is relatively warm during the day, I spend my first night out of Ulan Ude in the tent and the temperature drops to around -5 or -7 in the evening. I'm wearing everything I have on but I can hardly sleep. Next day I'm determined to find a cheap hotel along the road. The next big place is Kabansk but no hotels there and I ask around in the village of Nyuki and then a woman offers me to stay at her place with her familiy for the night. Saved from freezing! Lovely company, food and even banya!

The following day I get acquainted with lake Baikal. I realise how lucky I am. It's sunny and warm. The autumn colours are stunningly beautiful. In Babushkin, again, no hotels, but I manage to find accommodation in a private house. The next day I take a train to Irkutsk. Two sadistic train attendants give me a hard time in regards to the bicycle and try to get money from me but I refuse. I make an alliance with a third, kind, attendant and all's good in the end, except for when one of these crazy women hit me with a door.

From Irkutsk I take the train to Moscow.

Last leg to Ulanbataar

Photos here. In Tsetserleg I'm ready to tackle the last 520 kms or so to Ulaanbataar. The asphalt road begins here but it vanishes after 20 kms and reappears again shortly before Karakorum, the ancient capital of Mongolia. As I'm approaching Karakorum, I seek shelter from the scorching sun the in the shade of a fly-ridden cafe by the side of the road and on my way out I see the unmistakeable silhouette of two cyling tourists but it takes me a few seconds to react and when I stop the bike, the cyclists are upon me. They are Anka and Uve, a couple from Stuttgart, 46 and 49 respectively. We make plans to have a beer together at the only cafe with a veranda in Karakorum, but when we get there we find out that this one of two non-drinking days when selling alcohol is prohibited so we have to drink indoors. This is not a problem because there's a big table in the courtyard where the gers are located and we have an excellent view of a clear and starry sky. I enjoy the company of the German cyclists. Anka and Uve are two adventurous travellers who have met relatively recently and this is their first cycling trip together. Anka is a freelance editor and Uve is a programmer for IBM. Next day I visit Erdene Zuu monastery and the following day it's my birthday. Anka and Uve give me an apple cake and soon make their way to Ulaanbataar on a bus and from there they will catch a plane back to Germany. To celebrate my birthday and because there's no one else left in the ger camp (there's a group of French tourists the day before but they're all gone), I decide to hike in the Orkhon valley. I walk past the river where I have taken a bath the day before and I go up the mountains where I find myself amidst forests for the first time since entering Mongolia. I do occassionally see trees on the tops of distant hills and they always seem to be retreating, running out of sight. A limping dog accompanies me all the way for the whole day. When I return to Karakorum I'm going to buy some meat for my canine friend but he goes off to feed on the decompossing carcass of a cow.

The following day I run into yet more cycling tourists. They're Mike from Germany and Nichole from Switzerland. We make vague plans to camp together for the night but it doesn't happen. In the evening I notice lots of smoke clouds on the road but I can't see any fire and soon I realise that they're clouds of small flies, millions of them and they go into my eyes and mouth and soon I'm covered in them. As I can't find any discreet place to camp, I ask the occupants of a random ger for permission to pitch my next to them. Darkness sets in quickly, the wind is howling and I'm cooking some rice. Then the Mongolian herder comes out and asks me to try the meal I'm preparing and invites me in the ger for drinks and dinner. The ger is lit by a candle and the light from a wind up lantern. There are two freshly slaughtered sheep on the floor. The herder is carefully skinning and cutting up one of the sheeps. The woman is boiling meat on the stove. I'm offered the usual salty milky tea and bread sticks and I politely refuse to eat meat with the excuse that I'm full. Next day I come into the ger for breakfast and the woman is cracking the sheep skulls open with an iron rod. I bid farewell to these friendly people and hit the road. It's drizzling and very cold. If the Mongolian steppes are desolate, grey skies and strong winds make them look like otherwordly landscapes, where life is not possible. As I keep thinking how inhospitable and harsh Mongolia, there's always a ger in sight where I can turn to for a bit of warmth or hospitality.

At the end of the day, I reach Lun, 130 kms from Ulaanbataar and make a pit stop at a cafe, where a Mongolian geologist is helping me with the menu. At this stage, my staple food is 'tsuivan', a plate of noodles that can be prepared without meat. While I'm showing my map to the geologist, I catch of glimpse of Mike and Nichole, the cyclists I met the day before. We decide to share a room for the night and have a beer together. Mike cycled from Alaska to Patagonia and met Nichole in Bolivia. Mike's initial plan was to continue cycling to New Zealand but he went to Europe instead. He flew to Portugal and cycled to Nichole's, arriving during a snow storm. Mike and Nichole live together near Zurich.

80 kms before Ulaanbataar I take a detour to visit Khustain national park, where the famous Prewalski horses live. These horses became extinct in the wild and were successfully reintroduced in this park, where around 200 of them live. The road is very sandy and have to push the bike for long stretches but it's worthwhile and moving to see these horses roaming free.

The following day I  arrive in Ulaanbataar. After three weeks in Mongolia, it's hard to believe how busy and bustling the capital is. Traffic is heavy, streets are busy, shops are plentiful and international restaurants abound.

The van and the paleontologists

One day, a Mongolian herdsman on a motorcycle steals my bike pump. Next day, another Mongolian herdsman on a motorcycle lends me his and takes me to the closest town to buy one. Armed with a new pump and lots of patches, I'm ready to roll again.

But if it has been already extremely difficult to ride on sandy and rocky tracks with small 20 inch wheels and MTB tires, it is clear to me now that I won't make it on the tough Mongolian roads with my narrow (1.35 inch) rear replacement road tire, with barely any traction. With a heavy heart, I decide to return to Ulaangom, from where I will try to reach Tsetserleg, around 700 kms away and where I can resume cycling on the more manageable 520 km road to Ulaanbator.

Two days earlier in Ulaangom, I had bumped into a group of paleontologists doing field work in the area. One of them, had given me his mobile number and it occurs to me to give him a call and find out if they're heading to the capital any time soon. Good news is they're planning to go there in the next couple of days. Bad news is that one of their vehicles has broken down and they're waiting for a replacement piece to be air freighted from Ulanbator.

Whatever happens, I must return to Ulaangom, from where there are more options available to head towards the capital. Night is falling and as I'm getting ready to pitch my tent, I can see in the distance a cloud of dust. I run to the road and ask this car to stop. They agree to give me a ride on the dustiest car I've ever seen. Inside there's the driver, a man of 35, and three elderly people, two men and a woman, dressed in traditional Mongolian garb and... drunk. Soon they produce a bottle of vodka and I take a sip. Everyone is drinking and singing as the car speeds along the bumpy and dark road. I wonder if we'll ever make it to Ulaangom. We loose our way a couple of times but after three hours we reach Ulaangom. The driver, Bayaana, invites me to stay at his place for the night. His family prepares a very special meal: noodles with mutton meat. As a vegetarian, I'm not looking forward to this. Next day, I feel sick in my stomach. I spend an hour removing dust and sand from the bike and I head for the hotel where I meet Bayaara, the Mongolian geologist whose vehicle is stuck and waiting for a piece from the capital. I have with me about 3 kilos of dried horse milk, cheese and bread from the generous Mongolian herdsman who helped me with the pump and the family in Ulaangom.

Bayaara is a character. In his early 40s, divorced and with two children living in the USA, this stout Mongolian is a chatterbox and a very entertaining story teller. Animated by early morning beers, he tells me about Mongolian people's inner compass, how to survive in the field, the freedom of the Mongolian steppes, mining, natural versus processed food and America. The desired piece from Ulaanbator arrives and the second hand Japanese four wheel drive with a million aftermarket parts is finally fixed. In the afternoon, we head out of Ulaangom to meet the team of international paleontologist, some 100 kms away. A couple of kilometers out of town, the car breaks down again and is towed back to the hotel. The second vehicle, a four wheel drive Russian mini van, leaves again to bring the paleontologists back and I'm in Ulaangom again, in the company of Bayaara and dead tired. When I go to bed, Bayaara is watching Mongolian news on TV and playing a 1st person shooter on his laptop, drinking beer and smoking. I fall asleep very quickly.

The following day, the team arrives. It's Martin from Canada, Anna, from the US and Rob from England. They're looking for fish fossils. It's decided that the Russian van will tow the Japanese SUV back to Ulaanbator and the rest of us, the three paleontologists, a Mongolian geologist and the cook, will hire a private minivan. In the afternoon we leave. The weather has changed very rapidly, from scorching heat to a sand storm, then rain and later very strong wind. We spend our first night in a ger 80 kms from Ulaangom. It's windy, chilly and bleak for three days until we reach Tsetserleg. 

In Tsetserleg, I bid farewell to the paleontologists. From here, I will ride the bike the remaining 520 kms to Ulaanbator.

Desert hiccup

It's raining cats and dogs when we enter Mongolia. Having spent most of the day clearing borders, it's late when we arrive at Zaganuur, the first settlement in Mongolia. Zaganuur is a Kazakh town and looks like it's been bombed. It's bitterly cold, fiercely windy and overcast. The landscape is rocky and arid. It's dark and bleak. We dread setting up camp. While we're outside of the local shop, a suave young man approaches us and invites us to stay at his yurt. We accept the invitation but when we reach the placed he indicates, a group of excited men demands large amounts of money from us. We say we don't want to pay that kind of money and we make our exit but then they tell us that we can camp next to the yurt for free. When we go to the designated camping place we find out that it's not really next to a yurt but rather within the goat's yard and away from the yurt. Looks like we have to pitch our tent on top of goat excrement but at least it's sheltered. As we're getting ready to pitch the tents, some of the men from before plus a new group turns up and they try to lead us to another place. We refuse and insist on pitching the tents but they seem adamant for us to spend the night somewhere else. Eventually they agree to let us set up camp at the goat-yard... for what we deem an unreasonable sum of money. We decide to stop negotiating and we leave. It's pitch black. While we try to find a reasonable camping spot, lots of people emerge from the darkness. Some of these people invite us to stay with them. We're desperate. Why won't these people leave us alone? We make it very clear we don't want to pay any money. They say it's okay and lead lead us to a dusty hut where they're making dried milk on a stove. They put a felt blanket on the floor and soon the place becomes warm and cozy.

While the Czech guys are making themselves comfortable in the hut, I step into the yurt next door, where the family is staying. They offer me some snacks of cheese and salted butter tea. One of the men sings a couple of beautiful Kazakhs songs accompanied by a three stringed lute. While not singing, a faint thread of Kazakh music comes from the radio. Later the Czech guys come in the yurt and give the family a present of rice and small toys for the children. Tucked into our sleeping bags we savour the perfection of this moment, sleeping in the hut warmed by a low fire and the the hospitality of this Kazakh family.

At around 6 in the morning the following day the sun is shining and we can see that they have around one hundred goats in the yard. There's a small lake at a walking distance. Out of the blue, a young Western man with a large beard walks into the compound. He's a Polish man on his way out of after two months in Mongolia. He tells us that one night he camped next to a minuscule creek and that at night he was rudely awaken by a flash flood. He could only save his sleeping bag, his passport, a knife and his camera. All his money and the tent were gone. He survived through the hospitality of Mongolian people and moved around hitch hiking. After one month, he tried to enter Russia border but his visa didn't start until a month earlier so he was invited to return to Mongolia and try again in one month. He returned to Ulanbator, got some money wired and, with two other friends, bought some horses. Soon one of the horses was stolen and eventually they sold the two remaining horses. Soon his friends left and he continued his travels alone until he met a Ukrainian man with whom he shared the last of his Mongolian adventures. In spite of his misfortunes, he kept going and he's still smiling.

We say goodbye to the Kazakh family and with our spirits up, we set off to Ulanbator, around 1,400 kms away. The tracks are full of rocks and sand and the going is very difficult. Later in the day, we have to ford a river. The temperature rises dramatically and the sun is burning. Exhausted, we set up camp in the sandy steppe. We realise that we have been robbed while staying with the Kazakh family. I'm missing a pair of trousers, a handmade wooden carving from Altay, a pack of pasta, sun screen and a bicycle strap. Ondrej and Hana are missing a mobile phone, fifty five dollars in cash and some other small bits and bobs. We can't believe that the same family that would give us hospitality would rob us.It's a tough world.

The next day we climb the Ogotor Khamar pass. Tracks are very sandy and my wheels get stuck. I fall off the bike several times. Ever since entering Mongolia I get a couple of punctures a day. As I climb up the pass on very steep and sandy tracks, I see what looks like a dead bear on the side of the road. The sun is hammering. I consider the consequences of getting stuck in these mountains, without the ability to use a mobile phone, with almost non-existent traffic, a limited supply of water and with a large population of wolves. At around 7 in the evening, I arrive at our meeting point, a camp-site on the shores of Uureg Nuur, a salty lake. It's very windy. A man with three children comes on a motorcycle and gives us some cheese.

The following day is even more challenging, with three substantial passes before Ulaangom, the first major town in Mongolia. When I arrive at the campsite, it's already dark. This day I've had two punctures.

In Ulaangom, we stock up on supplies. Ulaangom is a dusty town in the middle of the desert. In the evening, we camp next to a river. The sky is clear and we chit chat while we admire the starts and make wishes when we spot a shooting star. Life is good.

The following day, the sun is hitting so hard that it hurts and although it's scorching hot, I have to wear long trousers and a long sleeved shirt. The road is very sandy and corrugated and the going is very heavy. In the second half of the day, I notice the back brakes are not working properly. The back wheel is very buckled. I do some truing on the side of the road and disengage the back brakes. As I'm getting close to our evening camp site, the tube in the back wheel explodes. The sidewall of the rear tire is ripped and ruined, after only a few days in Mongolia. I must replace it with a very narrow road tire. With a heavy heart, I realise that it may not be possible to ride these super tough Mongolian tracks on a slim road tire. Nevertheless, I keep on going to our evening meeting point, which is about 18 kms away. Then I get another puncture. I remind myself to be careful as I only have one patch left. But I can't find my pump. It dawns on me that the two young and drunk Mongolian herders on a motorcycle who had stopped while I was fixing the bike earlier, had stolen my pump.

Here I am, stuck in the desert, in what I would describe as a low point. With a puncture and without the means to fix it, with a ruined mountain tire, one patch left, a buckled back wheel, a malfunctioning derailleur and a hub in need of repairs. At least, I have enough water for another day. I pitch the tent and try to sleep while I'm thinking about my options.

It's clear to me that I won't make it very far with the bike as it stands. I decide to return to Ulaangom (100 km behind) and acquire a new pump and patches. From there, I will get a try to look for transportation for me and the bicycle to Tsetserleg, where there's a decent road to Ulaanbator, 550 kms away. Next morning, I flag a singing herdsman on a motorcyle and with his help I manage to fix the puncture. I'm mobile again! This herdsman invites me to his ger (or yurt), where he offers me snacks of dried horse milk. They're very hard and very bitter. Later, he takes me on his motorcycle, along with his wife, to Malchin, where I buy a new pump. In the late afternoon, with enough water for two days and bag full of dry milk bricks, I set off for Ulaangom. I suddenly remember that in Ulaangom I have met a group of international paleontologists that were heading to Ulaanbator imminently. To be continued... Photos here.

And here my troubles begin

Tashanta is an ugly Kazakh town on the border with Mongolia. Here we meet many people participating in the Mongol Rally. One of them is from Vitoria, my hometown. His name is Sabi, in his 20s, sports many earrings and wears a Basque Beret. He has been in 20 countries in one month.

In Tashanta, there's a wedding and a local guy invites us to spend the night at his yurt. But first we want to get the exit stamp from the immigration office. Here the officer tells me that there's a problem because I haven't registered my visa. I tell him that I have tried to register in Moscow but I was told that no registration was necessary if not staying in one city for more than three days. My host in Omsk also asked at the registration office and he was told the same thing. None of this seems to impress the immigration officer who tells me that I must pay a fine of about 70 euros. He writes something that he calls a 'protocol' which states that I didn't know about registration, which is not true, and then he takes 2000 roubles plus 200 roubles commission. He prints a piece of paper, cuts off a slip and writes the current date. A woman in plaincothes comes, her head down, signs the slip, takes the money and disappears into the houses behind the immigration office. That's it. No receipt. It's a shame that after such lovely experiences, I have to end my stay in this country with the bitter taste of being robbed by a representative of the Russian government. When we come back, we can't find the guy who has invited us to his place and people lead us to the worst hotel I've been to in my life. It's freezing inside and we're being watched by a grumpy old man. I ask this man to make some fire in our room. He makes fire with a bit of lumber and a sack of dry cow dung. The kids pester us. To make things worse, a dozen or so Mongolians appear and the old man wants to put them up in our room. We object. Finally they go somewhere else.

Next day, it's it's all clear to go. There's a 20 km long steep hill which ends on a gate, the last checking point in Russia. After this, the asphalt ends and I'm in Mongolia.

Altay mountains

In Byisk a kid on a bicycle leads me to Trial Sport, where I'm welcome by very friendly staff. They're all into cycling or some type of outdoor sport and they help me with the bike, give me a discount on my purchases, feed me, let me use their computer and make me feel very welcome. As I'm cycling alone I cherish these moments of human warmth and friendship. One of them, Serguey, invites me to have a banya and spend the night with a friend of his. It's almost 7 in the evening and getting late for camping and an invitation for banya is irresistible. Serguey leads me to Timofey's house.

Timofey lives in a wooden house with his wife Lena. He's 38 and owns a small stall where he sells clothes and in his spare time, he paints and loves going to Altay to fish, hike or camp. He's also very religious. He takes me to his local church, gives me a stripey Saint Petersburg sailor shirt, an amulet, a jar of honey, some cucumbers and tomatoes. Finally, he gives me his blessings for the road. 

After over 2,000 kms of flatness and insects, the Altay mountains are a welcome sight to sore eyes. Traffic is very light after Gorno-Altaysk. Mountains, forests, rivers, sun, light traffic and excellent roads make this part of Altay a cycling paradise and a magnet for Russian touristsm who often camp by the side of the road. As the flatness becomes mountain, Russian faces give place to more and more Asiatic faces.

Shortly before Chemal I meet a very interesting character who gives me two thumbs up as cycle past him. He's in his 60s or 70s, is wearing a hat and a blazer and looks like a dandy. Something tells me to stop and we strike a conversation. Alexey is in his 60s or early 70s and is a self proclaimed cowboy and an excellent artist. Alexey brings me vodka, food and cigarettes and he talks about Goya. He takes me to his ramshackle house to show me strikingly beautiful wood carvings that contain traditional Russian and Altay motives and some that are interpretations of Greek myths. I'm very inspired!

After Chemal, tourists are rare. As I'm sitting by a river for a rest and absorbing the paradisical beauty around me I witness a gruesome episode. A Rusian lorry honks the horn to ward off sheep on the road but the aniamls don't move fast enough and the lorry runs them over. In total, 9 sheep dead or half dead with blood and guts spilling out bring an end to this paradisical instant. I'm shocked.

Wild camping becomes more difficult as there always seems to be someone wherever I go. One evening is a fisherman, another is a logger's camp, etc. One time, I find a really good place where the grass has been cut, but as I carry my bicycle there, I find a group of about 6 people making stacks of hay. I'm too tired to move somewhere else so I just ask for permission to sleep there, to which they have no objetction. As the sun sets, the farmers put their tools down and withdraw but across the road, 700 metres away, the loggers are still busy working and I can hear them well into the night and I wonder why they'd be working when it's quite dark. The following day I understand why the loggers were so busy. A lorry is liying on its side with trees spilling on the ground. There's ice on my tent and I'm really cold but the other side of the mountain is hit by sun light so I go there to inspect the accident, make some time and wait until the sun hits my tent and I can get ready to go. One of the guys who was cutting grass the day before comes to talk to me. I don't understand very much but I guess one lesson to take away would be 'you have to make hay while the sun is shining'.

One evening I follow a small track to a place where the trees have been chopped. In the night, I'm startled by the sound of plastic bags and pots outside of my tent. Some dogs have managed to stick their head under the porch of the tent and are scavenging for food in my bags. A few stones send them packing. In the morning, a car is coming up the track. The driver and the passenger get off and invite me for breakfast at their cottage at the end of the track. Crossing a creek trickling down from the mountain, I reach a Russian wooden house and next to it, a traditional Altay construction which resembles a ger in shape but it's made of wood and has pointier ceiling. My hosts are a very hospitable Altay family who give me an excellent breakfast and a bag of a very bitter cheese that that for some reason clogs my throat.

In Aktash, I meet some friends's of Tima's. Jane teaches English at school and his husband is a road engineer. They have a 5 year old son who wants to be a tourist when he grows up and is completely fascinated by Spiderman and my bicycle. Between Aktash and Kos Agach, the landscape starts changing. Kos Agach is a dusty town on the flat and dusty steppe, surrounded by mountains. Many people here are ethnic Kazakhs.

30 kms after Kos-Agach, I meet Ondrej and Hana, the Czech guys, who're camping 200 metres away from the road. The following day I notice we're surrounded by a multitude of large grasshoppers with the ability to fly, have black wings and make a very peculiar noise. After 20 kms we reach Tashanta, a shabby Kazakh town on the border with Mongolia.