Blog – Travel log

Decision making time

Hanging Bridge in Angkor

It was in Hue where things came to a head for me.  Anytime I stop for a few days I like to read the papers and catch up on what’s going on in the world and in the UK and Spain in particular. Roundabout that time a series of horror stories about Brexit and the treatment that long term EU citizens had received from the authorities hit the headlines together with tales of deportations, halting food distribution in the Calais refugee camps and journalists being detained in Turkey. It was overwhelming,  my eyes welled up in anger at the injustice of it all and I couldn’t but reflect on the contrast of this with my current reality, for nearly two years I have been welcomed by people of different cultures and religions in 23 countries.

Welcoming smiles all around

From big and small

I allowed worry and anxiety to squat my mind but no way I was going to let them spoil my experience of the Hai Van Pass. In one of his books Theroux, having travelled across Europe, the Middle East and the Indian subcontinent by train, was amazed by what he saw from his compartment on the Trans-Indochinois:

Of all the places the railway had taken me since London, this was the loveliest.

Beyond the leaping jade plates of the sea was an overhang of cliffs and the sight of a valley so large it contained sun, smoke, rain and cloud – all at once.

I had been unprepared for this beauty; it surprised and humbled me.

Who has mentioned the simple fact that the heights of Vietnam are places of unimaginable grandeur?

And the road didn’t disappoint either,  a huge expanse of sparkling sea on my left, the jungle in the slopes of the mountain on my right and hundreds of small golden dragonflies shimmering just above my head, the climbing was glorious and the views from the top stunning.


10 km of climbing ahead with 8 to 9% gradients
Views during the climb
Looking at where I was coming from
And the view coming down

I was looking forward to Hoi An too, every single traveller I had met in Vietnam told me about the beauty of the place. I spent a blissful week in this town forgetting my worries and enjoying the food and the beach, wandering around its old town and cycling around small islands, enjoying beautiful sunsets and the company of Ana and Jace.  Of all the things I did there, visiting the Rehahn photography exhibition was an absolute highlight.  I had seen some of his photographs at the Hanoi Women’s Museum where I fell in love with them, portraits of old women with smiles in their eyes and missing teeth, each of their wrinkles telling us something about their lives. I couldn’t believe my luck when I discovered he had a permanent exhibition in Hoi An where I  had the chance to meet and talk to the him. The secret, he told me, is that I love them, something evident when you look at his photographs.

There were bikes everywhere in Hoi An


Stunning sunsets
Hoi An street seller

It was in Hoi An where I spent my second birthday on the road. I marked it by joining the local full moon celebration in the company of Jace and Ana. We watched how the lanterns we placed in the river joined the hundreds of others already floating in the water, the moon bright above our heads and soft street lights making the houses of the Old Town glow.  I felt content.

Celebrating my birthday
Lanterns everywhere

Hard as it was to leave Hoi An, time was ticking on my visa and I wanted to make it to the Mekong Delta before crossing into Cambodia. I left on the 14 March, exactly a year after I’d entered Iran, one of my favourite countries in this trip. I followed the coastal road crossing villages with fish hanging to dry, huge pots of yellow chrysanthemums outside the doors of the houses, fishing boats moored in the sand and hundred of villagers swimming at dawn in a sea that looked like a milk pond at that early hour.

Swimmers at dawn

I passed clouds of children on their bikes coming from or going to school, they loved racing me. The pattern always the same: I overtake them, they look at me in surprise and one of them, the most daring, grins and says “hullo” followed by “what is your name? “, before I have time to respond they speed ahead in their old squeaky single gear bikes, huge big smiles in their faces because they are faster than me.

The rainy season was approaching, it rained most days and it was extremely humid. Day and night, my body was never dry, small rivers of rain water or perspiration running through its geography, pooling in its crevasses and leaving behind a film of salt that made my clothes stiff and my skin itchy.

Rain, rain, rain
The ‘roads’ became a big tricky after the rain

Vietnam is a coffee country and you can find coffee shops everywhere. Coffee drinking is about spending hours waiting for the coffee to be ready whilst talking to friends and then spending hours with a small cup still deep in conversation.  The perfect speed for the coffee to get through the Vietnamese coffee filter is one drop per second.

One drop per second is the perfect speed
I never rushed my coffee in Vietnam, in fact I often had it lying down on a hammock!

A coffee lover,  I couldn’t leave Vietnam without exploring its coffee plantations and that meant going to the Highlands and climbing again. I reached places where, judging by the reaction of people,  westerners weren’t common place. On one occasion a man skid in some gravel and came off his motorbike, when having a good look at me and on another a toddler looked at me with terrified huge eyes, burst out crying and run in panic to hide in the arms of her mother.

Coffee shrubs in flower
Remote mountain villages
Community spaces with incredible roofs

By the time I got to Da Lat, a hill station built by the French my worries about Brexit intensified. I began considering going back to the UK for a while to maintain my permanent residency entitlement by not being out of the country for more than two years. I wanted to stop thinking about it and Da Lat gave me plenty of distractions but not enough to stop me from feeling a bit lost each night when I got back to the hostel. A feeling that sat in the pit of my stomach, a mix of anxiety,  unsettledness, lack of focus… Each day I wobbled, I binged on cake, I read my book and eventually fell asleep.

Da Lat Golden Buddha
On top of the local mountain after a long climb through the forest

In that state of mind I  continued my way South to Ho Chi Min City.  More coffee plantations, more climbing, more rain. All along the way people continued to smile and say hullo but I observed that something had switched inside me and I wasn’t as responsive, they responded to my silence with louder and louder hullos until they became near hysterical screams that made my anger rise. How could they expect a response? Could they not see how hard it was going uphill fully loaded? How hard I was working? And then I would see a tiny woman straining to push a heavy bike loaded with  “recycling” material towering above her and I would feel ashamed of myself and remind myself that I was doing this by choice.

Time for a big portion of humble pie

I started to interpret ‘ordinary’ events as messages from the universe telling me to go back home. Part of my routine had been cooking in the guesthouses with the TV at top volume to cover the noise of my very loud petrol stove but just before Ho Chi Min  City I didn’t realise that it was leaking and I nearly set the place on fire. In a split second all the fire training of my working days rushed through my head: Not an electrical fire so water is OK. I poured some water and extinguished the fire. When I left the place, my room smelled like a petrol station.

My age old patterns came out to play. I’m an expert at letting my internal doubts fell upon deaf ears and that’s just what I tried to do now, I just carried on pretending nothing was going on. In Ho Chi Min City I stayed with the most wonderful Warmshowers host and her lovely, interesting kids,  long conversations, jazz evenings, red wine, the company of other cyclists, I couldn’t have asked for more.

To get to the Mekong Delta and the famous Can Tho floating market I crossed hundreds of branches of water big and small using bridges and ferries, cycled through rice fields and down small paths by one one of the river branches.  I had been following  this mighty river through 4 countries since I first encountered it in the Chinese province of Yunnan and here it was meeting the sea.

I crossed dozens of bridges like this one
Rice fields everywhere
Can Tho floating Market

On the day my Vietnamese visa expired I crossed into Cambodia where I made my final decision.  Conversations with friends and my daughters gave me the last push. I would go back to the UK from Bangkok, I would join the thousands of long term EU citizens filling the 85 page form and gathering the huge pile of documents required as evidence to get a piece of paper confirming my entitlement, I would set off again to continue my journey after a rest and the security that I could come back ‘home’ any time I wanted and… I would commit to never being out of the country for more than two consecutive years in order to maintain the residency.

Kep and the famous Kep Crab

A huge weight lifted off my shoulders once I made the decision. Now I should be able to enjoy Cambodia, I thought. Well, that’s what I thought but how do you stop the mind from racing ahead, generating lists of things to do? Being on the next trip before this one is over? Cycling for a couple of days with Kris, and Adele, a Polish couple who have been on the road for 7 years, was the perfect antidote. With them I celebrated Easter Polish style, made coffee by the side of the road, set my tent next to theirs in a temple, had conversations outside the tent in the dark… When you are on your own you have too much time to think!

Kris and Adele – 7 years on the road and counting

Cambodia was different from Vietnam, less populated, no cafes or eateries everywhere along the road and similar to Laos, buffaloes, temples and poorer.

A poorer feel
Remote and rural

Cambodia is a country with a tragic recent history,  it was heavily bombed by the USA  between March 1969 and May 1970 during the Vietnam war. In an operation that Nixon and Kissinger kept secret to avoid criticism, the American forces dropped over 120000 tons of bombs and ordnance in the country and today, according to the Mines Advisory Group it is  of the most heavily landmine and unexploded ordnance (UXO) affected countries in the world killing two people every week.

As more than 80 per cent of people live in rural areas and depend on the land for their survival, the landmines further trap people in poverty by restricting access to productive land.

Apart from the large human toll, that continues until today  perhaps the most powerful and direct impact of the bombing was the political backlash it caused, the rise of the Khmer Rouge and its ascent to power. 

In proportion to the population, what happened next was a human catastrophe unparalleled in the 20th century. Out of a 1970 population of probably near 7,100,000, Cambodia probably lost slightly less than 4,000,000 people to war, rebellion, man-made famine, genocide, politicide, and mass murder. The vast majority, almost 3,300,000 men, women, and children (including 35,000 foreigners), were murdered within the years 1970 to 1980 by successive governments and guerrilla groups. Most of these, a likely near 2,400,000, were murdered by the communist Khmer Rouge.

As I cycled I Cambodia what struck me was how young everyone looked, by their absence people over 55, the missing generation,  where forever present in my mind.

Children everywhere

In Cambodia I slept in temples a lot of the time, woke up to the sound of cockerels crowing before dawn, mist in lily ponds and images of Buddha.

It was very, very hot and I was always so sweaty when I arrived that I looked forward to my temple ‘shower’  at the end of the day,  a small outbuilding with water in a concrete tank and a scoop to pour it over you.  However, one evening I arrived at a temple where the facilities were inhabited by all sort of creatures including an enormous spider. There was just no way I would wash there and the salt was making my body really itchy, something had to be done.  I had been shown to a huge pottery jar with water when I asked earlier where I could wash my hands so wrapped in my sarong and taking advantage of the dark,  moonless night I soaped and washed my body bit by bit without taking it off as I had seen women do at the common tap in some laotian villages,  the water from the jar was warm and it felt delicious. I could now snuggle under my mosquito net to read my book, the now familiar night sounds music like in my ears.

Saying goodbye to my host

With a cracked rear hub I made it to Phnom Penh, from replies in the social forums where I had posted asking for advice I knew that making it to Bangkok would be a lottery. The solution was at hand in a street corner, a chaotic place full of used rusty bicycle parts amongst which I found the right size wheel which by the amount of cobwebs covering it, had been there for a while. I agreed a price with the young man running the stall and in the blink of an eye he trued my front wheel, took the cassette of my bike and put it on my new-old wheel, trued the wheel and adjusted my brakes and gears. I had never seen anyone work on a bike that fast.

Street corner mechanic sorting out Foxtrot

Now I could continue confidently to Bangkok but not before a mandatory stop at the Angkor Temple complex near Siem Reap where I spent three days on my bike exploring the temples.

Sunrise at Angkor Wat
The power of the jungle

And in Siem Reap I got my ticket home and I began to really look forward to seeing my daughters and all my loved ones but I before I realised I was looking at the map of the world and the cost of flights to Cairo!

Vietnam and Strong Women

Photo: Nghia’s own. Thanks to Nghia for letting me publish it

My time in Vietnam started in Hanoi.  I settled myself in a hostel in the old town whilst waiting for my friend Kath who was to join me for a couple of weeks. The day was grey and as I stood in a corner of the Old Town I watched in disbelief the chaos around me: hundreds and hundreds of scooters going in every direction hooting incessantly, street sellers in their conical hats shouting to attract customers, colourful stalls full of Tet (Vietnamese New Year) merchandise,  people walking, looking at the stalls and shopping in preparation for the Tet celebrations, cafés, eateries…

Tet decorations everywhere
Food in every corner

Walking at dusk around Hoan Kim Lake, a famous lake in the centre of town,  were a sacred turtle used to live, I  thought of my daughter Emma who lived in Vietnam for a year and how she would have walked around the same lake  and seen the same sights 12 years earlier and all of a sudden I felt really close to her.

I was getting impatient about seeing my friend Kath. On the day of her arrival I sat in the hostel with my eyes peeled in the glass doors looking for the car that was bringing her and Jitterbug, her trekking trike, from the airport.  I couldn’t wait to see her face and her smile and then she was there and we hugged and it was as if we had seen one another only a few days before.

Many people would have felt defeated by the challenges life had put in the way of Kath, breast cancer and debilitating osteoporosis that lead to a series of bone breaks and surgeries and the possibility of never walking again. But Kath is no ordinary woman, looking into her eyes I could see her indomitable spirit coming through, the utter determination not to let her injuries get in the way of her dreams. She was always passionate about riding her bike and as she is unable to ride a ‘normal’ bike anymore because of the risk of falling and more bone breaks, she got Jitterbug and the two of them were thirsty for adventure.

Kath and Jitterbug loving the adventure

We talked and talked, we had so much to catch up on. I got news about her daughters and family, our common friends and inevitably her work and how it is pretty much taking over her life. As the director of Women into Construction, she has made the organisation a success, but it has become a trap and keeps demanding more and more of her. Listening to her,  I was glad to be out of that trap, to be on this journey of discovery on my bike which is why I was surprised to feel something akin to regret at not being part of that ‘productive’ world anymore.  I have never been happier, the best of me comes out when I’m outdoors and on the move and yet ingrained in me must be this idea that I’m not being ‘productive’

We decided to go to the famous Ha Long Bai. Amidst crazy traffic we crossed Long Bien Bridge, an honour and a pleasure to cross the dilapidated bridge heavily bombarded during the Vietnam war and a symbol of the tenacity and resilience of the Hanoian people.

Crossing Long Bien Bridge

For three days we cycled through the industrial heartland of Vietnam, dust and continuous hooting as our constant companions; through my rear view mirror I could see Kath relishing the ride in spite of the ugliness of our surroundings. In the evenings we found cheap guesthouses where we cooked our meals and made sure everything was out of reach of the rats that as big as cats were roaming around.

One of the few rural sections on the way to Ha Long Bay

Everyone was enthralled by Jitterbug, they thought it was hilarious, laughter and finger pointing greeted Kath everywhere. In a country where the bike has been the mode of transport until relatively recently, Jitterbug was a magnet and anytime we stopped Kath was surrounded by people wanting to have a go on it.

People loved Jitterbug!

It was exciting to finally be on the local boat that would take us to Cat Ba Island. The boat sailed through the most amazing of landscapes, karst tower after karst tower raising out of the sea. The ride with no traffic across the island amidst limestone formations and forests in the falling light of the evening was breathtaking.

Sailing to Cat Ba Island

Kath treated me to a wonderful birthday present: two days in the water, sleeping in a floating homestay. We swam, kayaked, climbed to the top of local mountains in the national park. Kath used her walking poles for extra security any time she was off her trike. The terrain was not easy but her smile was radiant. A water baby she couldn’t resist going in the water at night, with her movements thousands of little stars created by the bioluminescenct plankton surrounded her body and she laughed.

Fabulous kayaking
View from the top of the local mountain we climbed

Back in the island we celebrated Tet, the Vietnamese new year and my second new year celebration in less than two months. What followed were interesting bus rides, camping in National Parks, big climbs on our bikes and then, sadly,  it was time to say goodbye to my strong travel companion and slowly make my way South.

Meeting strong women became a constant during my time in Vietnam. At the time I didn’t know that would be the case although I should have gleaned it from my visit to the Women’s Museum in Hanoi.

I left Hanoi following the Ho Chi Min highway. The Highway is not to be confused with the Ho Chi Min Trail although some parts of both coincide. The Highway runs the lenght of the country along the mountainous spine of Vietnam, known as the Trường Sơn Range. For much of it the road is well paved and very rideable whilst the bulk of the legendary Trail is in Laos. The Ho Chi Min Trail is an endless number of backwater paths and trails that started near Hanoi and ended near Saigon (today’s Ho Chi Minh City) where it deposited weapons into the hands of the communist guerrillas fighting against US and Southern Vietnamese force. Despite intense aerial bombing the weapon caravans continued for years, and gave the Vietcong the means to continue the fight and eventually overcome the south’s resistance.

Foxtrot having a rest on the Ho Chi Min Highway

Several of my daughter’s friends from her time in Vietnam lived in villages off the Ho Chi Min Highway and I plotted my route to be able to meet them.

The road couldn’t have been more different than the industrial areas I had crossed with Kath. This time I was cycling though a rural and verdant landscape of rice fields and crossing small towns and villages to my first destination Van Dinh, where I was going to meet Hien. All I had was her mobile number and all I was told was ‘get to Van Dinh’. I expected a village and was surprised to find out that it was a small town. How am I going to find this woman? I thought. Asking was the only way so I walked  into one of the many  small  phone repair shops that can be found every in Vietnam and using sign language shop I asked the owners whether they could call the number I had. Hien answered, came to the shop on her motorbike and following small roads she guided me to her village and the house in the middle of the fields where she lived.

Photo Hien’s own. Thanks to Hien for letting me publish it.

Like many women in Vietnam, Hien a strong, well grounded young woman,  lives a fairly traditional lifestyle still based on Confucian patriarchal values. After marriage she joined her husband’s family household and works as a teacher in the nearby town. She shows upmost respect to her in laws, in particular her mother in law whom the calls mother.

Hien (on the left) and some of her family

It was festival time in her village and early in the morning I dressed up in traditional Vietnamese costume, the Ao Dai, to walk the streets of the village with other older women and take offers to the Temple. Our offers joined all sort of other offerings in big long tables placed at the Temple’s entrance. All gifts had a little card with the name of the donor in a very public display of generosity.

Ready to go to the Temple with Hien’s mother in law

A concert in the local pond and some hilarious games followed. Imagine some flightless ducks being released in a deep pond and youth jumping in the water furiously trying to catch the ducks! I was in stitches.

I left Hien, the dignified daughter in law, wife and mother that her community expected  thankful for her hospitality and the chance to have had a small window into Vietnamese traditional family life.

I continued down the Highway to find the village where Nghia, one of Emma’s closest friends in Vietnam lived. I had heard so much about her over the years that it was emotional to meet her at last.

Meeting Nghia was very special

Nghia is also a teacher. Her and her husband are building a house in a plot of land with a mountain covered in deep forests, a truly beautiful environment. Slowly they are making their dream come true. They want to have a small self sufficient farm with chickens, goats, pigs, a pond with fish, a vegetable garden, fruit trees and eventually space to welcome in travellers.

Nghia and her family live in the top part of this house whilst making their dream a reality

Nghia does not live with her in laws, she has moved away from this tradition by living just with her husband and her son. Although we didn´t talk much about it I am sure that doing this was not without difficulty.

Vietnamese are very gregarious people, in the streets you alway see groups of people together and when you look inside houses there always seem to be a crowd of people sitting round a matt on the floor eatig and it was not exception at Nghia´s. She is a very popular woman, everybody in the village and beyond knows her and although her house is a bit far from the body of the village,  it was always full of people coming and going, having tea, coffee, food… It was wonderful to be surrounded by the laughter and conversation that  filled the place.

Popular Nghia

Nghia  works non stop, at home washing, cooking and cleaning, at school preparing lessons, teaching, marking school papers. She takes care of her son and husband, tends  to her vegetable garden, feeds the animals, nurses sick puppies, welcomes visitors. Nghia, like so many other women around the world who bear a heavier load than men in balancing work and family, puts a lot of pressure in herself and feels that what she does is not good enough.

I had a great time staying with Nghia, going to the local market where a multitude of people stopped to talk to her, visiting her school, going to the local pagoda and some beautiful caves, climbing the mountain in her land, but most of all I enjoyed her love and hospitality. When we parted we had tears in our eyes and I felt blessed to have met such an special, driven young woman making her dreams for a better life for her and her family a reality.

The ride to Thuy and Nam, the last of Emma´s friends I was going to stay with took me through rice fields nesttled in between huge limestone formations covered in thick jungle. Peasants were busy in the fields planting and feeding the rice that will feed them all year round.

Busy time in the rice fields

The difference between Thuy and Hien and Nghia could not have been more stark. Here was ´modern´ Vietnam – white car, high heels, fitted red coat, hair cut in a bob and all the stresses of ´modern´life too. Both Thuy and her husband are teachers and also part owners of a company that manufactures bamboo chopsticks and bamboo paper. They share their life between their home in the town and rooms in the company. Thuy has two phones that are riging constantly bringing company´s problems and issues to be resolved, the pressure of the responsibility is etched in her face together with her determination to make the business a success.

Seeing Thuy and Nam take and collect  their children to school and nursery, run to their company headquarters at lunch time to check everything was running smoothly, going back home to collect blankets and clothes to spend the night in the company reminded me of the days when my daughters were young and the constant balancing act and stress of being a parent and a full time worker.

In spite of being so busy, they welcomed me with open arms and even found time to take me to a nearby waterfall driving through beautiful bamboo forests dotted with houses on stilts with palm roofs.

Houses on stilts on the way to the waterfall

After I left Thuy and Nam and as I continued down the Ho Chi Min Highway on my way to Phong Nha to visit some famous caves I  thought about how in spite of the difference in the lives of those three young women, they also had a lot in common –  their strenght, their strong desire to improve their lives and how very hard they worked for it.

The highway went up and down, to the west the Trường Sơn Range and Laos. As I rode along it so much hit my senses at once that I didn’t know where to look –  the villages, the emerald green paddy fields, tea plantations, Christian churches, buffaloes, the scooters carrying anything and everything from pigs, wood, grass, cages full of ducklings and chicks to other scooters and even a full size chest freezer. I loved the cows too. One day I had stopped for lunch by the side of the road when I heard a lorry hooting loudly to some cows that were in the middle of the road, the animals looked lazily at the lorry and didn’t move so amongst much hooting the lorry had to stop. I laughed – Cows 1 – Lorry 0!!

Tea Plantations
Buffaloes, this couple proudly told me they had five!

Slowly I arrived in Phong Nha located in the central section of the highway. Forests and caves made it the perfect place to stop for a few days with Jace and Ana also cycling in this part of the world.

Jace and Ana
Swimming in the middle of the forest was dreamy


Paradise cave, the biggest and most beautiful I have ever seen

My next destination were the Vinh Moc tunnels, a maze of tunnels built to protect the villagers from the relentless bombing that took place there. According to a documentary that I saw at the tunnels the USA dropped 9000 tons of bombs in the area between 1966 and 1972 or the equivalent of 7 tons per person living there. The intensity of the bombing is stamped in the landscape, bomb holes everywhere around me. My skin had crawled every time I saw a badly affected fields but nothing prepared me for the tunnels. Dark and narrow where one could barely stand up they had been home to more than 90 families who disappeared under ground whilst bombs rained relentlessly on them and continued with their lives until they could come out again to work on their fields. Whilst walking the 2 Km of tunnels I felt a powerful mix of sadness and admiration. I imagined the villagers huddled in the dark tunnels, the smell of the latrines and of the bodies damp from the rain and sweat mixed with the smell of fear. I also felt their pride and defiance, digging with rudimentary instruments their underground village, singing, continuing with the schooling of the children. Each time I came to one of the many exits I didn’t want to go back inside but I made myself do it and stay with the feeling. I was glad when I finished my visit.

Digging the tunnels (photo from Tunnel’s Museum)
One of the tunnel entrances

The documentary I saw showed the contribution of the local women to the war effort and some of the extremely dangerous missions they went on. During the Vietnam war women worked alongside men providing  manual labor to keep the Ho Chi Minh trail open, working in rice fields to provide food for their families and the communist troops. Women were enlisted in both the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) and the Viet Cong guerrilla insurgent force in South Vietnam. Some women also served for the North Vietnamese and Viet Cong intelligence services. They fought in combat with other soldiers.

Small stalls like this one are found in every market
Women planting rice in the rain whilst a man supervised their work
Proud food seller

Today over 72% of women have a job outside the home, they make some 70% of the agricultural labour force and over 50% of the overall workforce and yet the gender pay gap is high (nearly 20% on average) and according to the International Labour Organisation this gap is rising. The figures mirror what I saw,  scores of women working in the fields, in markets, in food stalls, by their houses cooking and doing domestic chore, looking after their children.

What  I saw was a country full of strong women!




Love and Friendship in Thailand

The thought of Karen leaving became more real once we crossed the border into Thailand. Staying present in the moment became more difficult however much we tried, it was like someting had switched in our minds: we were going to Bangkok and Karen would fly back to the UK.

We didn’t know what to expect from Thailand but were struck by the marked difference with Laos. As soon as we crossed the border we found ourselves riding in smooth roads, 7/11 supermarkets everywhere, more cars in one day that we had seen in the whole time in the neighbouring country and …fat people. We had entered a more developed, westernised country. It is not surprising that Europeans love Thailand, it is easy and comfortable country, there are familiar things everywhere and at the same time it is different enough to be exotic.

Smooth roads

King Bhumibol Adulyadej had died a couple of months before we entered the country. At the time of his death, he was the longest living reigning monarch in the world, he had been king for 70 years and 126 days. The reaction of the Thai people was moving, everywhere we went people dressed in black, supermarkets emptied at 7pm when workers and customers went out to pray by the altars set up at the entrance to honour the dead king. In Bangkok they moved the location of the bus station to be near the palace making it easier for travellers to pay their respects to the king and food and drink was distributed free for everyone.

People dressed in black everywhere we went
Shrines in many places
His image everywhere from schools to art galleries

We wanted to make sure that Thailand wasn’t just a ride to get to Bangkok and went to visit Khao Yai National Park where we hoped to see elephants and other wild life. Excited we climbed and climbed amongst beautiful vegetation. Since the Pamir, green has become synonimous with life and I find myself thinking how I can transform my London garden to make it a constant reminder of my travels, which plant will withstand the London climate or which one I could use as an alternative.  Each time I think about coming home I find myself worrying about what it will be like crossing the border, how Brexit is going to impact on my life. Brexit has become a stormy cloud on this, otherwise, magical journey;  questions surface as I cycle along – should I go back home now whilst I still can? should I take the citizenship exam? will they give me problems at the border when I try to get back in?  Stubbornly I choose se to ignore the whole thing, I refuse to give up on my dream. My garden and Brexit were filling my mind as we climbed amongst the majestic trees of the jungle.

Climbing amongst majestic trees
In thick jungle
Interesting road signs

Our stay in the park wasn’t quite what we had expected, it was a Bank Holiday weekend and thousands of Thai people flooded to the park to spend it outdoors. They came with their barbeques, their cold boxes, their music. Soon our little tents were dwarfed amongst their huge ones and the air was filled with food smells, the sound of children running around,  adults laughing and a general festival atmosphere. Of course we didn’t see animals with all that noise but seeing the light of dawn filling the day with colour, listening to the shrieks of the monkeys in the trees, soaking up the atmosphere made our two days there very special.

Camping was amongst hundreds of locals

And then the day came when it was time for Karen to leave, it was emotional . We had shared two months full of laughter and adventures throught which we got to know one another and our friendship grew. We said goodby with the promise to have anoter stretch together in the future. I saw the back of her taxi disapear in the crowded streets of Bangkok and experienced a sense of loss.

Exploring the many faces of Bangkok – temples
And everyday chores in her railwayside home

It was time to be on my own again but not for long, I would cycle south to Koh Samui to meet with my friend the adventurous Jenniffer Murray who had invited me to spend Xmas with her family. I first met Jeffa when I took part in the Atacama Desert Crossing and felt instantly in love with her indomitable spirit, her zest for life and adventure, her love of challenges, her can do attitude. Something about her chimed powefully within me and bridged our ideological differences.

To cycle to Surat Thani I chose small roads that took me to small beach villages through coconut and palm plantations. The crossing in the slow night ferry from Surat Thani to Koh Samui was perfect. I bought the ticket from a surly man parked by the boat with a parasol and sat to watch the boat being loaded with all sort of goods, scooters coming with packages big and small. When it got close to the 11pm departure time I took Foxtrot on board and settled myself in the wood panelled top section of the ferry where simple mattreses and pillows were provided. Snuggled in my sleeping bag I soon went to sleep with the rocking of the boat and only woke up when we were landing in the island just after dawn.

Cycling through coconut groves on my way to Jeffa
Trees full of fruit
On the way I met a procession of pilgrim monks

It was wonderful to see Jeffa again and be welcomed into the heart of  her family where I stayed not only for Xmas but also for New Year. I was overwhelmed by their generosity,  I had a stocking amongst theirs and presents wrapped under the tropical plants disguised as Xmas trees; I had a turkey dinner and thanks to Siena, her grand daughter I was able to have the 12 grapes of new year; I walked in the beach with Jeffa in the early morning whilst everyone else in the house was still sleeping and  I learned magic tricks from Simon, Jeffa’s husband. I was showered with warmth and friendship and by the time I left I felt fully rested.

With Jeffa and her family
Leaving Jeffa and Simon’s home on the 1 January

And there was more love to come. My daughter Amaya and her boyfriend John were coming to Bangkok to spend some days with me. In Bangkok I found a great hostel/bike shop run by Thai cycle tourers, Spinning Bear. Whilst  I waited for them with anticipation and found yet another little family. In the hostel I met with Lontxo Rojo who has been cycling for nearly 20 years all over the world, the life on the road etched in his face, years of self suficiency shaping his character and lots of stories to tell. He is heading back to the Basque country with the intention to stay – how do you get used to the walls of a house after so many years of the big outdoors? I have been away for a fraction of his time and sometimes wonder what it will be like for me and can’t quite picture it.

With a great group of cyclists in Spinning Bear enjoying Spanish omelette

And the day arrived when I met Amaya and John and time flew by. We went to the small island of Koh Kood and spent some precious time together that felt too short. After months of anticipation the days went in a heart beat and yet each of them went by at a slow pace – slow breakfasts, walks to waterfalls, sitting in the sun,catching up on news from home, snorkelling… How can time be running so fast and slow at the same time? It had been a year since I had seen them in Istambul but when I saw their smiling faces at the airport it felt that had been only yesterday. As I cycle along I experience this seemingly contradiction often and ponder about this poorly understood time-space dimension.

Arriving in Koh Kood
Amaya taking her PADI whilst John and I snorkelled
Happy days

It was heart wrenching to say goodby to them but their visit and being showered with love was the priceless gift they left with me. I didn’t take this for granted and I knew I was one of the luckiest women on earth.



Sabaidee Karen

Karen and I by the Mekong

By the time I crossed into Laos from China I had been on the road for 464 days. I was really looking forward to being in South East Asia – a gentler climate, lower altitude and above all a cycling companion. I was to meet Karen in Luang Prabang and we would be cycling together for 8 weeks. It was a leap of faith, I really didn’t know Karen, I had talked to her for half an hour at the first UK Cycle Touring Festival a couple of months before I set off on my trip.  I remember sitting together at the closing session,  I can’t remember what we talked about only that the conversation was easy, comfortable and fluid and on the strength of that we agreed to spend time together on the road.

Excited and apprehensive is possibly the best description of my feelings. I had been on my own for such a long time. I wondered how set I was in my own ways, in all the routines I must have developed without even realising. Had all the thinking I’ve been doing about myself changed me in the way I relate to others? I was worried too about money. On a short trip or a holiday you want and can give yourself treats and I’m very strict trying to stay within my budget in my long haul journey and as a result my standards for the places I eat and where I sleep are fairly low. In the distance Karen was wonderfully reassuring. Full of of those thoughts I cycled to our encounter, already enjoying in my mind the ease of communication, the sharing of the moment, the camaraderie. I was ready for company.

I loved my first few days in Laos, cycling through the tropical forests and mountains in the North of the country. Everywhere I looked was so lush and green as if the earth had let go of all inhibitions and delighted itself creating this verdant place full of huge trees, enormous climbers, gigantic ferns and bamboos, big butterflies. I was captivated by it all and also by what I couldn’t see but knew was there. I could see evidence of the life boiling in the forest everywhere, in the shrill mating call of the cicadas in the trees above my head, in the multitude of dead snakes and giant centipedes on the road and in the sudden movement of the bushes as I went pass.

Every now and again I passed small hilltribe villages, hamlets of stilted houses made of woven bamboo and grass roofs. Women sat in their verandas working on complicated cross stitch embroideries and excited children with big smiles ran to the road shouting Sabaidee (hullo), a welcome word I will hear thousands of times during my stay in the country. Some of the villages had small shops, identifiable by the yellow crates of Beer Lao stacked outside where I was able to buy a cold drink but a lot of the time I had to rely on the odd roadside stalls outside isolated houses selling a small amounts of local produce. I stopped in one of them selling big pomelos, a woman and her four small children were sitting by the house and even before I had a chance to ask for the price of the fruit she offered me two small bananas. I was touched by her generosity, looking at her living conditions I am sure she was part of the over 23% of Laotians living below the poverty line. I thanked her, bought one of her pomelos and sat in her yard to eat it whilst she did her needlework and her bare foot, wild haired children watched me open eyed from the safety of the inside of their hut. Soon, a car stopped and after some negotiations she came back delighted, counting money, by sign language she told me they had bought five fruits, she told me that a few times which made me think this was quite an event. Encouraged by the sale she quickly refilled her stall and came back to the hut with a big gappy smile.


Road side stall

The day before I met Karen I was offered hospitality by a young man who had returned to his village to help his family with the rice harvest. We went down a small path to his house where I met his mother, slight and delicate looking but carrying heavy sacks of rice. After she finished storing the newly harvested rice I went with her to water her vegetable garden, quite an involved job. First she had to climb down a very steep path to a waterhole to switch on a pump attached to a complex system of hoses, then she coupled and uncoupled the hoses until all her small plants were watered. Before going home all the work had to be done on reverse. Whilst we were watering the garden, her husband was in the river trying to catch our dinner.

The vegetable garden freshly watered
Nam Ou River and source of our dinner

Dinner was lovely, sticky rice from their fields, wild ‘chicken’ caught in the forest and, as his father had had a lucky day, a freshly caught fish chopped up raw with fresh herbs and lime. Family ties are very strong in Laos and form the basis of much social interaction, the extended family of my host came to watch me eat dinner. I felt very self conscious as they all pointed at me and nodded approvingly each time I put food in my mouth.  One of them picked some of the khao niao (sticky rice) and like an experienced sommelier sniffed it, put it in his mouth and gave his verdict: “good rice”.

 After dinner I was shown to their indoor shower room, a concrete enclosure with a squat toilet, a tap and a bucket with a scoop. In a country were the majority of rural households don’t have running water and washing takes places in the communal tap, having an indoor shower room is a real luxury and they were incredibly proud of it.  And then a bed was made for me, a matt on the floor covered with a mosquito net, a pillow and a blanket made the most comfortable bed ever.

I left the village after saying goodbye to my lovely host family. They had been up since 4.30am the mother cooking more sticky rice and the father fishing. I followed the Nam Ou river downstream on its way to meet the Mekong and soon saw big dam building works part of the development of a seven-dam cascade by China’s Sinohydro Corporation to generate hydroelectric power for an energy hungry society. The human and environmental cost is enormous. Communities of diverse ethnic minorities that have relied for generations on the Nam Ou and surrounding forest resources for food, income and spiritual well-being will be significantly impacted by the dams. In total, 89 villages are expected to be displaced. Will the village I had just stayed in be one of them? and What will happen to the way of life of the family of the village and thousands like them? How many endangered species will disappear?

Works on one of the dams
Will they be driven away?
Life will never be the same

Pondering all of this I arrived in Luang Prabang and met Karen. Sabaidee,  Sabaidee!!!  What followed were 8 wonderful weeks of cycling, laughter, camping, friendship, exploring and much more.

We spent the first few days together in Luang Prabang, the capital of the first Lao Kingdom in the 1300s. Luang Prabang is an atmospheric place that we explored to our hearts’ content in between poring over maps, planning our route,  getting everything we needed and giving Karen the time she needed to acclimatise.

Temple in Luang Prabang
Floral offerings at the temple

Getting used to the rhythm of the road with Karen was easy, she is such a considerate, easy going, generous soul, I couldn’t have hoped for a better companion after my months of solitude.  It was so nice to have someone to turn to and be able to say: “look how beautiful”, someone to share the ordinary everyday things with.

Karen on her lovely Roberts

On our first night on the road, we camped and I slept like a baby, didn’t hear the night time visitor that disturbed Karen, seemingly interested in her sky blue Roberts bike.  What difference it made to my sleep being with someone else!  In the morning a guy approached our tents insisting on offering me money whilst pointing to the inside of my tent. It wasn’t until Karen pointed it out and I read other accounts of women that I realised he was after early morning sex.  He was quite harmless but I it was just unbelievable!

 Beautiful landscapes of rugged mountains, huge karst towers covered in jungle, rice fields, lakes and ponds full of water lilies, villages and side roads of red earth regaled us all the way to Vientiane where we met again with the mighty Mekong which we were to follow all the way down to the border with Cambodia.

Karst landscape in Vang Vieng

Red earth roads with plenty of dust
The Mekong at Vientiane
Buddha Park near Vientiane

I had read in other peoples’ blogs that in Laos it was possible to sleep in  Buddhist temples, we didn’t know how that would work out with us being women. In Laos  it is considered an offence for women to touch a monk, his robes, or to hand anything to a monk directly. In many instances a male friend or family member will be used as an intermediary or lacking that a plate or some other item will be used and then placed on the ground for the monk to use. This posed a problem for us, how would we ask for permission to stay? We developed a drill – before going into the temple compound we would put on long sleeves,  Karen would get out her phrase book, open it in the correct page and leave the book on the floor but this didn’t seem to be very effective so in the end we went for the sign language approach whilst at the same time showing a photo of our tents which worked much better. In this way we spent some wonderful  nights in the temples.

One of the temples where we slept
This lovely Monk welcomed us with open arms

In one of those nights we arrived at a temple by the Mekong where the initial answer to our request to stay was a negative.  It was quite late by now and it was getting dark. In Laos the change between light and dark is sudden, night falls upon you in an instant  and we knew we would find it difficult to find a place in daylight so we insisted and finally someone agreed that we could stay. We chose what we thought was a discreet spot to pitch our tents at the back of the temple trying to keep away from what we fondly called the ‘breakfast club’-every day soon after 6am villagers came to the temple to offer food to the monks. From our tents we used to hear them praying and then sharing the food and respectfully keeping out of the way.

No sooner we had finished setting out tents when a small  man with a checked shirt arrived in a motorcycle, from his air of authority we deduced that he must be the village chief. In no uncertain terms he told us to move our tents, carefully chose the new location, watched us set up and advised us to lock up bikes and finally left. The light in the Mekong was wonderful and we moved closer to the river to cook our evening meal.  Two soldiers, with guns over their shoulders came over. By signs we understood that they didn’t want us there, they kept on pointing at the river and Thailand just across it. One of them, the officious looking one,  asked us where we were going  (we were going to Savannakhet) and very agitated he got on the phone. He shouting ‘falang, falang Savannakhet!!’ down the phone (falang is the term used for foreigner and we had heard it thousands of times on the road) We knew he was talking about us but had no idea what he was saying. He asked to see our passports and went back on the phone, so much gesticulating and agitation, more ‘falang, falang Savannakhet!!’ and more pointing at the river and Thailand. We had no idea what he was saying so our minds started to fill in the gaps: “that night there was going to be a raid on illegal emigrants coming over from Thailand and we were just in the path of all the activity” or was it that they thought we were trying to cross over to Thailand illegally?

We moved back from the river and went back to our dinner when villagers started to arrive and encircled us watching our every move and pointing at the ingredients of our meal. They got very excited when they saw the garlic and the ginger – ‘falangs use the same ingredients as us!!’  we imagined they saying. And then they paid great attention at the way we were eating.

The evening had been totally surreal: village chief, soldiers, Thailand, illegal emigrants, falang, falang Savannakhet, dozens of villagers watching us cook and eat. We felt part of  a monty phython sketch and the evening wasn’t over yet!

The women proudly showed us some beautiful flower displays that they had brought with them and urged us to go with them to the river. Just then the monks went in procession to the spot where the soldiers were supposed to be guarding the border and started chanting. The dozens of villagers gathered around us went to the Monks,  lit the candles in their flower arrangements bringing them to live and in an orderly way went down the path to the river, deposited them in the water and watch them to float downstream. Some of them pointed at the moon,  at that point the penny dropped and we understood that we were in the middle of the November Full Moon festival!!  Teenagers arrived in their scooters with offerings to the river; thousands of moths flew around the search light illuminating the path to the water; Karen had the children in stitches…It was a happy, happy night and when they all left and the temple became silent, we were left with a warm happy feeling and the November full moon.

One of the floral displays placed in the Mekong – Photo:Karen Bailey

When we got to Savannakhet there was a surprise in waiting –  Dietrich, the Swiss cyclist with whom I crossed the border to China from Kyrgyzstan was there. In China he had told me how much he loved the Mekong but I had never expected we would have meet again.  It was wonderful to see him and be reminded of his dry humour.  Also,  it was fascinating to see how the monks in the temples were more approachable when we were with a man.

On and off we cycled together all the way to Si Phan Don, also know as 4000 islands, an island archipelago in the border with Cambodia. We rented a little hut in Don Det with hammocks outside and rested there for a few days. The perfect ending to our Laos adventure.

Karen and Dietricht in the perfect Laos position!
Sunset in Don Det, 4000 Islands

When we got to Savannakhet there was a surprise in waiting – Once again I met Dietrich, the Swiss cyclist with whom I crossed the border to China from Kyrgyzstan. He had told me how much he loved the Mekong but I had never expected we would have meet again. It was fascinating to see how the monks in the temples were more approachable when we were with a man. On and off we cycled together all the way to Si Phan Don, also know as 4000 islands, an island archipelago in the border with Cambodia. We rented a little hut in Don Det with hammocks outside and rested there for a few days. The perfect ending to our Laos adventure.

Follow the Mekong


 Getting a bus from Chengdu for some of the way was the only way to cover the over 2000km to the Laos border with more than 3,500 metres ascent in the 28 days left on my visa. The town of Litang is located at an altitude of 4,014 metres (13,169 ft) among open grasslands and surrounded by snow-capped mountains. Its actual altitude is about 400 metres higher than Lhasa, making it one of the highest towns in the world.The thought of getting there by bus from Chengdu at only 500 metres of altitude was most attractive!

Litang in the Tibetan Grasslands one of the highest towns in the world

After three weeks off the bike in Chengdu and Hong Kong I knew I had lost all the acclimatisation I had gained during weeks and weeks of cycling above 3000 metres and with some mountain passes of over 4,600 metres ahead of me, I was glad there was no direct bus to Litang and I had to break the journey and stop at a town called Kangding (2,900 metres) where I could begin to re-acclimatise.

Something I have loved about China is the daily dancing in the square in the evening. Everyone, young and old take part. In Kangding they was dancing in two squares and I had the chance to put to good use my ballroom dancing skills by asking local women to waltz with me much to the amusement of the locals.

On the way to Litang the bus climbed and climbed going through Tibetan villages with their fortress like houses, once again the yaks made their appearance, older people with weathered faces sat by the road constantly spinning their hand held prayer wheels and women combed their long hair outside their homes, thin plumes of smoke coming out of their chimneys. I was back in the Tibetan world.

Tibetan village
Spinning the prayer wheel
Little Tibetan girl

Litang felt like a place in the middle of nowhere. This sleepy town was the birth place of the 7th and the 10th Dalai Lamas and very much at the centre of Tibetan resistance to the imposition of the communist rule in the region and as a consequence was heavily bombed but life now had no obvious reminders of those days.

Cleaning yak butter lamps in the house where the 7th Dalai Lama was born
Young Monk at Litang Market
Yak butcher

One of the rituals that was forbidden from the times of the Cultural Revolution of 1960s until the 80s was the Sky Burial practice.  Visiting one of the local sky burial sites was my lasting memory of Litang.  It was nearly dusk when I went there with three French cyclists lodging in the same hostel as me. We threaded our way through the narrow streets of the village to an area in the mountainside covered in prayer flags, our breathing laboured due to the altitude. Rubble, discarded plastic bottles, old shoes and other rubbish scattered around; I could feel myself reacting to these surroundings, surely this environment wasn’t respectful of the dead. We reached the prayer flags but could see no evidence of sky burials. It was getting darker and the lights in the village below were coming on as we headed to a pile of stones on a slope to the side of the flags. To start with we came across a knife here and a feather there and then we saw big piles of discarded knives, scissors, axes, rocks marked by sharp instruments and a big block of wood whose scars made clear what it had been used for. Hundred of small fragments of human bones and feathers were scattered in bold spots in the grass. I shuddered, imagining the macabre feast that took place in those spots and then I remembered the words of the Zoroastrian couple I stayed with in Yazd (Iran): “Sky burials are a beautiful act of generosity, giving the human body back to nature”. I realised that for the second time in less than one hour the deeply engrained Catholic belief system of my upbringing had got on the way and I made a conscious effort to look at the place and the whole ritual with different eyes but I just couldn’t. It was time to get back to the hostel.

Prayer Flags near the Sky Burial site
Sky Burial tools

Over the next few days I stayed above 4000 metres plodding up to high passes. On a particular day I was delighted to have crossed a pass that was nearly 4700 metres high without much difficulty, I was tackling the second one of the day when the headwind started and I realised how close I was to the limit of my physical capability, I couldn’t stay on the bike any longer and I had to push my way through the second pass. I still had more than 10 kilometres of ondulations between 4600 and 4700 metres to the nearest village and I couldn’t go on, I had to stop and camp but where? All there was around me where big boulders and lakes. Eventually I saw a tiny piece of grass by the side of the road and pitched my tent and crawled into my sleeping bag. It rained non stop all night, in the tent it was like being inside a drum and in spite of being exhausted I found it difficult to sleep.

Endless climbing
Rabbit Mountain
Nowhere to camp

The following day I got up ready to climb the highest pass of the trip, 4716 metres. Soon it became clear I would never reach the nominal targets had given myself. It was then that sitting by the side of the road I met Pablo from Zaragoza in Spain How nice to meet someone with shared language and culture! We sat together for a while sharing stories and soon enough we decided to hitch a lift to the pass and if not successful camp as soon as possible. After a couple of failed attempts a tractor stopped and took us both and our bikes 10 kilometres up the hill towards the pass. Switchback after switchback the tractor climbed impossible gradients. It would have taken me hours and hours of pushing and half heartedly cycling to have covered that distance. It was the most wonderful of feelings to be standing on the muddy tractor’s cart, breathing its petrol fumes, seeing the cooling water spluttering out of its noisy engine whilst holding onto the bikes for dear life and seeing the village at the bottom of the valley getting smaller and smaller in the mellow light of the evening. I was exhiliariated, thrilled, happy. The moment was just perfect, I didn’t need absolutely anything else.

Pablo on a fully loaded bike climbing after the rain

At the pass it started raining but as we got lower down it stopped. We followed the most beautiful valley and found a good camping spot. Scrambled eggs with Chinese sausage, a beer and great conversation finished off an excellent day on the road. As I was going to sleep I made the decision to take a bus to Shangri-la and miss out on the last really big climb in China. Rationally I knew it was the right decision but I couldn’t help feeling a pang of disappointment at having to make it.

Beautiful after the rain
Camping by the road – loved having company!
Shangri-la at night
And in the day

From Shangri-la I cycled to Tiger Leaping Gorge which was as spectacular as its name promised.  The gorge it’s one of the deepest and most spectacular canyons in the world. It gets its name from a legend that tells how a Tiger jumped from one side of the gorge to the other to scale from hunters. I had come down a steep hill when the gorge came upon me all of a sudden and it took my breath away. To see the Yagtse, the longest river in Asia and the third longest in the world,  the mother River as the Chinese call it, squeezed into such a  channel only 25 metres at its narrowest point was awe inspiring.

Entrance to Tiger Leaping Gorge


Tiger Leaping Gorge
The Yangtse unfettered

I was at a much lower altitude now and able to cope with the ondulating terrain enjoying some beautiful old towns and wondering around their markets.

Marker seller
Market butcher


Noodle seller

Feeling more energetic, I now could cover  longer distances on the bike fuelled by the food from small stalls which looked pretty dirty but as the food came from huge cauldrons of boiling stock I wasn’t too concerned about the state of the places.

As the daily distances got longer I found myself entering a meditative space – thinking a lot and at the same time not thinking at all. I revisited moments and situations if my life from the safety of time and geographical distance,  occasionally getting ‘light bulb’ moments that helped me understand myself a bit better.  I remember one day when I was sitting in the courtyard of an old Chinese house in a town called Dali,  a quiet, peace space with pots of azaleas and fuschias around a gold fish pond.  In my mind I went to my London garden and I saw myself planting ivy underneath its huge fatsia shrub,  adding clumps of colour with big pots of bulbs and annuals. I realised that the love of and for my daughters,  for my family and friends; the knowledge that my house and garden are waiting for me give me the deep roots I need to feel safe enough to be a nomad for a while.

Light bulb moment in Dali

As a nomad it is my second harvest time.  I was in Romania this time last year,  thousands of kilometres away,  in China,  I’m witnessing the same frantic activity: peasants harvesting the crops,  ploughing and feeding the fields, lighting fires to burn the scrub,  bent over by the weight of the huge bags of grain they are carrying on their backs. Scenes that have been repeating them unchanged for centuries.




The time for my visa was get tight so I caught my very last Chinese was to bring me 300 kilometres from the Laos border to a town called Jinghong. Once again a new world opened up,  this one full of tropical vegetation,  golden peacocks decorating the roofs,  Buddhist temples and statues of elephants and gorgeous Botanical gardens but then each part of China has been very different –  the Kasbah like old town of Kashgar,  the mud Amdo Tibetan villages,  the tents of the nomads in the grasslands,  the ochre and yellow Muslim houses of Gansu,  the fortress like towers and curvy tiled roofs of Si han,  the wooden houses in the rice fields near Guilin,  the castle like Kham Tibetan houses,  the stone courtyards in Dali and Lijiang  and now the golden peacocks of  Xixuangbanna. Like everywhere I’ve been,  this is not a homogeneous country,  houses,  people,  food it all points to difference.  It is these difference that is making my trip so fascinating  and yet it is what we have in common as human beings that is making it possible,  the ability to connect with the hundreds of people I’ve met in the 2,340 kilometres I’ve cycled in this country.

Jinghong Botanical Gardens
A world of Golden roofs

I was leaving Jinghong and had stopped at a bike shop to fix the mudguards of my bike damaged in my last bus journey. I asked directions to my next destination from the shop owner and totally blasse he answered: “Follow the Mekong” so off I went to find the mighty river. For quite a few kilometres, silently and with excitement, I repeated the instructions in my head: “Follow the Mekong”, “Follow the Mekong” what incredible directions I’ve been given, I thought, for him they may be quite ordinary, the same as for someone in London to say “get on the M25” but they conjured up all sort of exotic images in my mind.

Crossing the Mekong in Jinghong

Laos is somewhere near following the Mekong…



In search of a Chinese Visa in Hong Kong


And it really did feel like I was in a different China!

As I started the descent into Chengdu changes started to happen, imperceptible at first – in the villages Chinese flags began to appear next to the Tibetan prayer flags until they eventually replaced them completely; the yaks disappeared from the mountainside and with them the delicious yak yogurt stalls by the side of the road also went; people’s faces changed as did the clothes they wore.

Different symbols old and new started to appear

I reached a place called Wenzou after cycling through fields of ripening tomatoes, orchards of plums and other fruits. After weeks of being deprived of fresh fruit, I kept on stopping at road side stalls and having a feast.

In Wenzou,  for the first time I had problems finding accommodation, the first 7 hotels I went to didn’t accept foreigners but eventually I found one that did. Apparently the reason for this has to do with their ability, or lack of, to scan your passport, Visa page and last entry stamp and report it to the police. In the end it was just a question of doing the rounds.

Wenzou still has bike taxis, the first ones I’ve seen and a lovely market full of plums. Markets are still my favourites places. I love their activity, their noise, the smells and they are the perfect place for people watching.

Bike taxi
Plumbs of all colours

The road followed the valley of a tumultuous river. The area had been badly hit by a huge earthquake in 2008 which killed over 69,000 people and destroyed homes and infrastructure. After the earthquake, a new expressway linking the area of its epicentre with Chengdu had been built but I followed the quieter old road which went through villages and towns that once must have been prosperous with the trade generated by the road. Now, they looked sad with rows of empty roadside restaurants looking at me through their locked, dirty glass doors. I thought about the months of dust and noise the villagers had to endure during the construction of the expressway after having suffered the horrors of the earthquake and whether they were aware that they were witnessing their own demise.

An image of tranquillity now, the stage of a massive earthquake in 2008

I was really happy in the small, traffic-less road when some building works funnelled me into the expressway. Before I realized I was crossing tunnel after tunnel, more than 25 Km in total, with several over 5 Km long. Tunnels are scary on a bike, they are narrower than the road, dark, dusty, with bad road surfaces and they are noisy. The noise is  the scariest part, I could hear the big lorries from a long way away, the loud noise of their engines echoing in the tunnel. Each time I  waited for the sound of their horns as they warned me about their presence. The sound, even though I leaned to expect it, had an instant effect in my body – I would tense up, grab my handlebars really tightly and forget to breathe. After a while, like Pavlov’s dog, my body reacted in that way as soon as I heard them coming and before they sounded their horns.

One of the many lorries that passed me in the tunnels

I was glad to see the end of the tunnels but what I didn’t expect was to see lush tropical vegetation – huge bamboos, enormous creepers with big yellow trumpeted flowers, butterflies the size of birds. In two days I had descended more than 3000 mt into a subtropical world.

Lush, tropical vegetation everywhere

My next town before Chengdu was Dujiangyan, famous for its 2000 year old irrigation system. The town has many bridges to cross it’s many water channels. The water runs at high speed and crowds of people sit on the bridges to cool down, taking advantage of the draft created by the water. I walked for hours before sitting in a small restaurant in a side street where I chose the food by the pictures in the dirty menu I was presented with. I didn’t have a clue  what I would be getting, it was beef and soon I felt the tingly feeling in my mouth one gets when the chemicals in the Sichuan peppercorns get to work: a mixture of heat, tingliness and numbness, not unpleasant but really strange.

The following morning I heard music and saw people dressed in white and pink gathering outside the local Confucius Temple, curious I went to see what they were doing. It was one of those magical moments – soft Chinese music, the gentle movements of the Tai Chi practitioners, their delicate hands, the concentration in their faces, the heat, the humidity, the noise of the cicadas in the trees, the backdrop of the temple. It felt I had indeed entered a different world, an ancient one with lots of history and tradition. I was relaxed and at peace and could’ve sat there the whole day listening to the soft music and watching the harmonious Tai Chi movements.


When I arrived at Rae’s house, my Warmshowers host in Chengdu, she was so welcoming, so generous that I felt instantly at home with an old friend. She introduced me to other cyclists that had stopped for a while in the town to fill up their coffers before continuing their journeys. Once more I was part of a small community in which conversation was easy and points of reference shared. It was only then that I realised how much effort I made to communicate on a day to day basis, even for the simplest of things.

I left my beloved Foxtrot with Rae an Tilly (Rae’s bike) to go to Hong Kong to get another Chinese visa. I always find it really hard to be separated from her but it had to be done!

I caught a train to Guilin, I wanted to see the river Li and the rice terraces, the stereotypical images of China. It was a long train journey but I enjoyed the spectacle from the window – the tiny villages surrounded by bamboo and eucalyptus forests, their wooden houses with tiles roofs, the peasants in straw hats collecting tea or carrying loads balanced at each end of a bamboo pole, the wooden boats floating in the rivers, the enormous banana trees, the ripening rice in the paddy fields…

Life inside a train compartment in China is busy with constant comings and goings to the boiling water tap to make tea and cook instant noodles, people glued to their smart phones watching films in their tiny screens,  others clipping their toe nails whilst children run around and make demands of the adults as the ‘little emperors’ the one child policy has made them into. All the while, the trolleys keep going up and down the train selling their fares which changed depending of the time of the day – rice soup and dumplings in the morning, hot meals at lunch and dinner time and fruit and snacks throughout the day. You can buy anything in the train, including toys and power banks!

Guilin was a lovely city built around the most dramatic limestone karst hills with two lakes at its heart, spectacular pagodas lit up at night representing the sun and the moon and a lively food night market.

Chinese Disneyland, the sun and the moon

I climbed one of the hills in the middle of the town, Old Man Mountain, to get a better view of the city. It was really hot and humid and on my way down I stripped to my underwear and joined the locals for a swim in one of the lakes. Being in the water made me think  of my friend Kath and how much she would have enjoyed this. At that moment I had an overwhelming desire to have a companion to share all these experiences with. It’s wasn’t that I felt lonely but…

Guilin built around karst hills

Guilin was a base to explore the ancient town of Daxu, over 2000 years old and founded during the Qing dynasty, Daxu was a commercial hub due to it’s proximity to the river Li. Very little is left of those busy days, old Daxu was quiet on the rainy day, no tourists and only a few locals going about their daily lives.

Daxu on a rainy day
Getting dinner ready in Daxu

Guilin was also the base from where to go to the river Li. I loved being an ordinary tourist for a couple of days. I even took an organised tour to the Longdi rice terraces!!!!

Beautiful river Li
Rice terraces

One more train and a ferry and I made it to Hong Kong. Arriving there was a bit of a culture shock, neon lights, people, shops, Marks and Spencer!!!! Friends, old and new, all from the 4 Deserts family, rallied around to help me. Four different families gave me a roof over my head, treated me to fish and chips, cheesecake,  curry and dim sum. With them I went to walks in the Peak and a Moon Festival party in a Hong Kong rooftop. With Free to Run I went for a hike with refugees around one of Hong Kong reservoirs and was able to see first hand the amazing work they do. I loved staying with them all and they made a stressful time waiting for my visa bearable.

Hong Kong – new
And old

After 10 days in Hong Kong I got my visa and I was thrilled. That very day, after saying goodbye to my friends, I took a flight to Chengdu, got back to Rae’s and got reunited with Foxtrot again.

Foxtrot saying goodbye to Tilly!

Part two of my Chinese journey could commence.

I can’t believe I’m in ‘China’!!



During my  11 days in Osh I hardly moved from the hostel. I  was so exhausted that, at the beginning, I seriously wondered whether it was time to go back home.  However, as days went by and I felt more rested, the urge to get back on the road returned and on the 8th of July, exactly a year after I had left London I was on my way to the Chinese border.

Say Tash from a nearby hill – from here to China!

One year!!!  How fast it seems to have gone. During that time I have experienced the pass of the seasons.  I have seen the crops ripen on the fields,  be harvested,  be sown.  I have felt the rain,  the wind,  the sun and the snow in my skin.  I have seen huge rivers,  high mountains,  and big deserts.  I have heard lots of different languages and seen the features in people’s faces change.  I have tasted lots of different foods and I have enjoyed the generosity of many people from many countries…These experiences are changing me – my body has changed,  I don’t know whether the lines in my face have increased with the exposure to the elements,  whether my skin has sagged but I know I’m the fittest I’ve ever been; I know that emotionally I feel more calm and at peace with myself. Of course I miss my loved ones,  fiercely sometimes,  but I wouldn’t want to be anybody else or be anywhere else. I feel the richest woman on earth and immensely grateful for the chance I have to explore this beautiful planet. 

Harvest time again


Saying goodbye to my lovely host

I cycled the remaining 70 Kyrgyz km that separated me from the Chinese border in brilliant sunshine,  amongst beautiful mountains dotted with nomads’ yurts and slept my last two nights in Kyrgyzstan in those yurts.

Crossing the border took the best part of a day. On the Kyrgyz side, heavily armed militarily personal checked my passport several times and on the Chinese side I had to cross  three checkpoints. In the first one they checked the visa.  After a three km ride on a road as smooth as silk with  barbed wire on one side and the river on the other I arrived at the second checkpoint where all the panniers were x-rayed and  their content examined by a zealous young official and I was packed into a taxi that would take me to the third and final checkpoint 150 km away where finally I got the stamp in my passport –  I’d  made it to China!

The road to China


Between checkpoint 1and 2

I was with Dietrich,  a Swiss cyclist I met in Sary Tash and together we cycled down a broad empty avenue into what felt like a ghost city – huge buildings,  huge roads and not a soul in site. After being refused in a hotel we found one that accepted foreigners and settled in.  After such a long time in the mountains it felt strange and exciting being in a town.  At the supermarket, I felt like a child in a toy shop!

Kashgar greeted us the next evening after a long ride through the desert. Kashgar,  such evocative place,  an important stop on the ancient Silk Road, its history stretches over 2,000 years. It’s a real shame that not much of its old town remains having been bulldozed down to the ground to make way to the big modern city.  What remains though is magical and I enjoyed getting lost in its narrow streets,  wondering in the huge Sunday bazaar and eating in its night market.


Through the desert towards Kashgar
Kashgar Old Town


I couldn’t leave Kashgar without visiting the Sunday animal market. When the crowded  local bus that was taking us there started  overtaking  dozens of small vehicles with sheep, I knew we were getting near the market.

The market was amazing. Noise,  dust,  people trading.  At the  entrance of the market  the food stalls were teeming with customers having soup served from huge cauldrons of boiling liquid. Groups of sheep were tied to wooden posts nearby waiting to be slaughtered, no hiding what you are eating in here!



Food in the night market

Rows and rows of animals were in display waiting to be sold,  people were trading noisily,  the buyers looking inside the animals’ mouths, the sellers carefully trimming the wool  in the bottom of the sheep to display their fat deposits. A truly fascinating place.

Trading is a serious business
Beautifully groomed – see my bottom fat!

Urumqi was my next stop.  A night bus took Foxtrot and me there and from there I took a train to Xining from where I started cycling to Chengdu. Sending the bike as cargo was really  easy but I felt quite anxious being separated  from it. Buying my ticket was another matter,  I queued for over one hour at the only counter with an English speaking member of staff. I was amazed at the patience displayed by everyone in the queue,  specially as these people had had to show their ID several times to police and military personal.  Urumqi has a very  visible police presence ready to crush any Uyghur insurgency,  armored vehicles and armed  military are everywhere. It reminded me of the streets  of the Basque country when I was  young.

I said goodbye to Dietrich and got into the bullet train that would take me to Xining were I got reunited with Foxtrot and started in earnest exploring China on a Bike.

First I went to Qinghai Lake, the largest in China,  located over 3000 meters high in the  Tibetan Plateau.  The lake and the sand dunes around it were beautiful but I found the Tibetan Disneyland with its flags,  archery,  camels,  horses,  quads,  karaoke noisy and invasive. Anything is a business opportunity here,  even the rapeseed flower fields have an entry fee and they are full of people having their picture taken amongst the flowers.

Qinghai Lake popular with cyclists
Qinghai Lake

From the lake I continued climbing,  crossing high passes of nearly 4000 mt covered in prayer flags.  This is so different from the Pamir, so much more welcoming –  grasslands and nomads with their herds of sheep and yaks everywhere.

High passes covered in flags

One day I camped next to some nomads’ tents I woke up to the sound of sheep insistently rubbing against my tent.  They just wouldn’t go away and smiling I wondered whether they thought the tent was a big mound of grass to munch on!   It was very peaceful outside,  the sun was coming from behind the mountains, yaks all around,  small little mice with big ears were everywhere coming out of their underground tunnels and small birds were hopping around.  With a hot mug of coffee and snuggled up in my warm sleeping bag I felt totally contented.

Camping with nomads

Miles away, physically and emotionally from my London home I thought about how different my life there was from that of the family of nomads next door and how much unnecessary stuff I’ve accumulated throughout the years.  Their tent was so simple,  a solid fuel stove took center stage in the tent,  it’s flue sticking out through a hole in the ceiling.  There were no floor coverings on the well trodden wet earth.  The furniture  was sparce,  a double bed and a single bed standing in  brissblocks,  two small cupboards,  one of them with what looked like a battery to power the single bulb hanging from the ceiling and a a sort of TV.

The night before I had sat in the small bed whilst the father of the family dozed on the big one. Unable to speak the language,  I  sat and watched the woman lighting the cooker with yak dung cakes,  using a piece of rubber as the ignition.  The cooker resisted being lit and she only  succeeded after several attempts. Then she busied herself tidying the tent.  The china went in one cupboard,  but only some of it,  the other remained in a plastic bucket with a lid. Vegetables were piled in one corner whilst in the opposite corner the bags of yak dung cakes sat; all the while the little mice were running around undisturbed. By now the tent was full of smoke from the failed attempts to light the fire. After a while I left for my tent and as I was going to sleep I could hear them chatting and I found the sound of their voices really comforting.

The Tibetan Plateau is always at its best bathed in the early morning light, its golden, misty quality making making everything look just beautiful. In the Amdo region, one of the three traditional regions of Tibet,  I rode through grasslands and high passes crowned with hundreds of prayer flags, some of then had big burners smouldering with the embers of juniper branches and in all of them I found little pieces of paper thrown out of the windows of cars as offerings.

Wonderful in the morning light
Burners with offerings

Motorbikes have replaced horses here and whole Tibetan families, in their traditional costumes, go from A to B on them. The sound of motorbikes can be heard everywhere, shepherds use them to guide their herds of yaks, people carry harvested crops, water, babies… they are everywhere.

The modern horse

I went through towns and villages and I encountered the Yellow river, the third longest in Asia and the sixth in the world, still close to its origin and  small but impressive.

My wheels were taking me to some of the holiest monasteries of Tibetan Buddhism. The path to the monasteries could not have been more beautiful, emerald green grasslands packed with flowers, honey sellers in their tents by the side of the road, yaks happily munching, women milking yaks, children playing…

Monks getting ready for the debate

Longwu Monastery in Rebkong is one of the major monasteries of the Gelugpa (Yellow Hat) Tibetan Buddhism, the sect of the Dalai Lama. It was founded in 1301, destroyed during the Cultural Revolution and now has been rebuilt and is home to hundreds of monks that engage in lively philosophical debates. I loved witnessing one of the debates with the sound of thunder from a brewing storm in the background.

Monk studying
Detail of the Monastery’s roof

Labrang Monastery in Xiahe home to the largest number of monks outside of the Tibet Autonomous Region, it is Tibetan Buddhism’s most important monastery outside the Autonomous Region. The place was packed with Chinese tourists but at 5am when I went to listen to the early morning prayers of the monks I had it for myself.

Labrang Monastery
Figure made with yak butter

Langmusi was my final monastery stop in Amdo. It was in Langmusi where I became aware that something had shifted within me since I finished the Pamir Highway. In my mind, I had made it into such huge milestone in my trip that, right from the beginning, it was forever present. It was like if a part of me was constantly worrying about whether I would be able to cycle it, to meet the self imposed deadline of May/June and now that I had done it, I could relax and slow down. Suddenly I was no longer in a rush to get anywhere. So when the opportunity to stay an extra day in Langmusi and visit some local hot springs came up I grabbed it.

I arrived at the hot springs with Kfir, Eithan (two travellers I had met first in Xiahe) and Joanna a Polish woman travelling with her three young children. The building that housed the women’s pool was a big concrete square with columns inside.

The pool room

As I entered the pool room I was hit by a sulphurous smell coming from a big pipe filling the pool. About 60 women of all ages sat inside the water on the slimy and slippery wooden boards that made the bottom of the pool. Many of the women sat bare breasted, their turquoises and amber necklaces hanging from their necks as a sign of their wealth and status. Women were massaging one another, rivulets of dirt and dead skin falling in the water, others were drinking that same water with cut out plastic bottles, whilst at the same time, others were nursing their babies, chatting or helping the old and frail to get into the pool and yet others were praying. Children, like children anywhere in the world, splashed in the water and shrieked with delight the sound of their voices echoing in the space.

There were no changing rooms, just a concrete bench around the pool room where piles of Tibetan outfits and some wonderfully colourful trousers with matching tailored jackets and turban like head dresses sat in disarray. The water was too hot for me so after a little while, I came out to sat in the bench amongst the clothes and enjoyed watching the women and children.

My next stop was Song Pan. I had been there before with eldest daughter Emma in 2007 and I was expecting to find the quiet small village from where we went horse trekking. Nothing further from the truth – restaurants, yak meat sellers, neon signs, shops, hundreds of Chinese tourists. The sleepy little town had gone forever. It was, however, the perfect place from where to explore the spectacular Jiuzhai Valley located right on the edge of the Tibetan Plateau. The park receives over 36,000 visitors a day in high season and I was dreading being amongst so many people. I was lucky, Chinese tourists don’t like walking very much so I had big expanses of the park to myself and quietly enjoy its beauty.




Not having had enough with Jiuzhai, the following day I went to Huanglong Park, smaller, more intimate and less crowed, I found its travertine landscape exquisite.




The parks were my farewell to the Tibetan Plateau, they were like the grand finale of and spectacular firework display.

Back in Song Pan I started the long descent into Chengdu and Han China.



Solo in the Pamir Highway


I have a healthy respect for mountains and the Pamir Highway being the second-highest road in the world with several passes over 4,000 mt (13,000ft), the highest standing at a serious 4,655mt (15,272ft),  deserved all my respect.  I had never planned to cycle in the Pamir on my own but circumstances meant I ended up doing it solo,  something I wasn’t fully happy about. 

The Persians called the Pamir “the roof of the world”. The highest peaks in the world are in the Himalayas but the Pamirs are the main orographic crux in Asia from which the highest ranges in the world radiate: the Hindu Kush to the northwest, the Tien Shan system to lhe northeast, the Karakorum and Himalaya ranges to the southeast.

rps20160703_095538In its full length,  the Highway goes from Osh, Kyrgyzstan and traverses the whole of Tajikistan to end in Mazar-i-Sharif, Afghanistan.  I cycled it from Dushanbe to Osh via the Northern route to Kala-i-Khumb and the Wakham Valley. 

I stayed in Dushanbe a few days.  I really needed a rest after Uzbekistan. Vero,  a Warmshowers member,  provided the oasis of peace I desperately needed and a community of cyclists to  share stories,  tips,  meals…  I found myself feeling delighted having a little family for a few days but missing my loved ones even more.

My Dushanbe family
My Dushanbe family

Vero is one of the organisers of the Dushanbe Critical Mass and it felt really fitting to attend the event and get back on the road after it finished. It felt good being back on the bike and being with Edmund,  one of the cyclists I met at Vero’s. We followed a beautiful fertile valley,  the road edged by herbs and wild flowers.  We had a taster of storms,  the powerful wind of the region,  sadly headwind,  and the huge landslides that regularly block the road.

The road surface was pretty bad.   Carved in the side of the mountain, it followed a narrow  canyon with a very noisy,  chocolate coloured river forever present.  Clusters of rhubarb sellers sat by the side of the road and children came running to my encounter in villages trying to sell me freshly picked mulberries. I overtook shepherds  taking their flocks to the higher pastures,  donkeys loaded with all their belongings.

Rhubarb sellers
Flocks moving to summer pastures

After a police checkpoint, in the golden light of the evening,  I crossed and iron bridge and the road got even worse and  narrower.  Excitement grew inside me,  a feeling I was entering a remote world. Me,  Blanca, was in the Pamir Highway!

Crossing this bridge I felt really excited

Over the next couple of days I had to ford rivers where the road had totally dissappeared; each time I had to take all the luggage of my bike and do several trips  until everything was on the other side.  Those times I wished I was bigger and stronger or with someone else,  life would have been easier then. I also had to stop regularly to rest,  each time I told myself it was a good thing as it gave me the opportunity to look around. With the bad state of the road,  it was too dangerous to cycle and look.

Several times the road just disappeared

In the Northern route to Kala-i-Khumb I encountered my first high pass 3,252 Mt,  the Saghirdasht pass. I was really nervous about it,  what would feel  like with my heavy bike? I camped in the last village before the pass to give myself a whole day to cross it.  The whole village knew I was there.  Soon I was surrounded by women and children,  someone brought me bread an creamy yoghurt and someone else invited me to go to their house. I declined the offer,  somehow I didn’t have the energy to be social.  I needed my all for the cycling.

Children loved my bike

The following day,  as I was leaving the village,  a really old man bent over his cane offered me tea, his generosity moved me.  As I joined the “main” road tears were prickling  my eyes.  Once more I felt immensely lucky.

After some serious pushing amidst thunder echoing in the adjoining valleys I reached my first high pass.  I had made it! The descent wasn’t easy but the landscape was stunning and by late afternoon I reached Kala-i-Khumb and rejoined the M41 that would take me to Khorog where I would leave it again to follow the WakhamValley.

Luckily the storm didn’t come my way
Happy to have reached the pass
The road down from the pass to Kala-i-Khumb
Saturday Shopping

Just after Kala-i-Khumb I had the chance to visit the Afghan Market. Tajiks and Afghans were busy trading,  I wandered around the market soaking up the atmosphere and I closed my eyes to listen to the hubbub of shoppers and sellers.  With my eyes closed I felt I could be back in one of the London markets on a Saturday morning.

The road went through villages and in each one of them hords of children came running to say hullo,  asking  my name,  demanding a high five and standing in front of my path as they did so.  I found myself getting really crossed with them in a totally irrational way and thinking:  “it’s the kids and not the lorries,  the landslides or the bad roads that were the real hazards!” I just wanted to be left alone with my cycling!!!

In this section of the road there were lots of big Chinese lorries  pulling big trailers.  They arrived in caravans of 3 or 4 and you heard them getting close enveloped in huge clouds of dust.  The road is so narrow that it’s necessary to stop and let them pass,  there is not enough room for them and a bike. For a moment the world dissappeared in dust,  only to appear again in its full glory,  mountains,  the river and Afghanistan just a few metres away on the other side.

Looking back at the road cycled. Afghanistan is on the left of the picture
Afghan houses across the river

In this section too I had some wonderful encounters: The lorry driver that gave me some apricots that were pure nectar; Lluis and Jenn walking from Bangkok to Barcelona with whom I shared precious exchanges by the side if the road; Sabir,  a Pamiri de-miner working to get rid of the landmines that litter the countryside in this part of the country who told me his dreams and hopes;  three little children that were my friends for the afternoon and Edmund whom I thought I wouldn’t see again.

Delighted to see my friend again!

The road was incredibly beautiful and continued next to the river with its ups and downs,  the sound of the water echoing of the walls of the canyon,  all the way to Khorog. I cycled and pushed and just before Khorog I faced some fierce headwind but I was determined to get to the village which held the promise of a shower and an Indian restaurant.


After 4 days in Khorog and 4 curries it was time to enjoy the Wakham Valley.  I remembered looking at the map at home in London thinking how close that was to Afghanistan and wondering how safe it would be and now here I was.

Wakham Valley

Afghanistan was closer than ever.  I followed the beautiful Valley, huge bushes of   pink and white dog roses everywhere. A football match in progress in a village in the Tajik side and a few hundred metres ahead another football match in the Afghan side reminded me that we are not that different after all.

When at a turn of the road I saw very big, snowy mountains I felt the excitement grow inside me.  Opening my eyes to them in the morning to them was pure joy.  I love mountains.

Serious WOW factor!


The views got more dramatic – mountains,  deep canyons and valleys,  Pamiri villages with their square houses and water running everywhere,  shrine like places full of horns of animals,  iron rich water springs dying the soil red.  I gloated on it all and eventually got to Langar from where I turned North to rejoin the M41.


A high pass was between me an the M41.  At 4,344 mt,  the Khargush pass was the highest I had climbed in this trip. The road was worse than ever,  washboards and sand mixed with gravel made me have to push quite a lot.  I camped just below the Khargush pass,  more awe inspiring views in a bleak kind of way.  The pass,  however,  was a bit of a non event.  I only realised I had gone through it when the road kept on going down.  It really felt very remote inside a deep,  very hot canyon like valley.  I went down and down,  having to get off my bike every now and again because of the sand and the washboards. Eventually I made it to the asphalt road and I thought I was flying when I reached the settlement of Alichur.

On the way to Khargush pass
Lunar landscape


Sunset from my tent
The road to Alichur


And in the middle of nowhere Alichur

From there to Murghab was a great ride in an asphalt road with tailwind.  It was such a relief to be able to get some sort of rhythm in the cycling and to met quite a few cyclists,  the highlight being a group of four women going in the opposite direction. They gave me a real burst of energy. Smiling,  I was more able to enjoy the astonishing landscape with incredible rock formations,  mountains,  side valleys.  I was in awe most of the day.

Wonderful road encounter!
Murghab here I come

In Murghab I had a lovely surprise,  not only I met with Marko, a cyclist from Slovenia that I had met a couple of times earlier but also saw Tina and Serban,  and Marc and Fabrece some Swiss cyclists that I had first met in Khorog.  It  was a great reunion. Beers were had and stories exchanged. Amazing how close one feels to people quickly in these far away lands. And the biggest surprise of all was meeting James whom I had met in the UK at the first Cycle Touring Festival, incredible to meet again in the middle of nowhere.  I was very moved by the meeting.

Murghab container bazaar

I then had a day off the bike being a tourist on a 4×4 with Marko. We stopped at salt lakes infested with mosquitos, at yurts where we were offered yak cream and yoghurt,  at remote villages in the border with China,  at the highest (in elevation) sand dunes in the world…

Off the bike and being driven – nice change!


Local herder


Chinese border
Highest dunes in the world

The next leg of the trip was to the Kyrgyzstan border via the lake Karakul and the highest pass of the Highway,  Akbaital pass at 4,655 mt. And slowly, very slowly I climbed to the pass enjoying the extraordinary colours in the mountains around me. The change of scenery the other side of the pass was amazing.  A truly lunar landscape greeted me as well as a ferocious headwind. I had  had headwind since Murghab but now it was so strong that I had to put my waterproof on because I felt really cold.

Feathering in the mountains
Sign to the pass
Stunning colours
Lunar landscape after the pass

Going down needed all my concentration,  again gravel and washboards.  I stopped regularly to look at this wide valley with nothing,  nothing but bare mountains and some abandoned buildings here and there. And then I saw lake Karakul,  impossibly blue.  A  note of bright colour in the middle of this monochrome world.  If I hadn’t seen it myself and someone had show me a photo I would have said that it was photoshopped.

Concentrate, concentrate, concentrate!
Beautiful Karakul

In Karakul I stayed in a nice and basic homestay.  A bucket of warm water provided a blissful shower and a steamy bowl of soup a welcome change from the instant noodles that had been my camping diet.

Suddenly,  Kyrgyzstan wasn’t far away.  Only two more mountain passes away.  Altogether I would have crossed 6 to get there from Dushanbe  (4 over 4000 mt).

Last pass before Kyrgyzstan

The Kyrgyz side was once more populated. Yurts dotted the land at the foot of huge 7000+mt peaks.

Lenin peak
Sary Moghul bazaar
Yurt village

In Sary Tash it was lovely to meet again with my 4 Swiss friends with whom I continued all the way to Osh always accompanied by headwind!  

Lovely Swiss friends at the pass
Lenin welcomes me to Osh

The Pamir Highway required all  my energy. It’s one of the hardest things I’ve done in my life.  At the end of it I felt exhausted physically and emotionally. I am sure that when I’m rested and I look back at the 1,374 km I rode between Dushanbe and Osh,  at the raw beauty of the landscapes I went through; when I think about the kindness of the Pamiri people and the smiles of their children,  I will know how much the experience has enriched me but right this second a siesta is what is called for!











The magic of Iran


Iran, a land that conjures up images of Arabian Nights (las Mil y una Noches), deserts, blue tiled mosques, narrow alleys, ancient history, Silk Road caravans and also images of war,  mullahs, death penalty, compulsory use of the hijab, women as second class citizens, censorship…I have been here for over a month and a half and have fallen in love with the place.

When I crossed the border from Armenia into Iran the landscape changed instantly.  From the dramatic mountains, I entered a desert where fruit trees flowered in a thin strip of cultivated land. I mused about how much man can change a landscape, here was a piece of desert transformed into an orchard.

An orchard in the desert

I thought I had left the cold behind but some unseasonable storms brought in a lot of snow and an enforced stop. It was a lucky stop as I met Jai Lun, a young man from Taiwan with whom I cycled for a few days. It was pretty wonderful to have company, someone to share food with, someone to decide where to pitch the tents at the end of the day and talk about the events on the road, the villages we had been to and the people we had met, and someone with whom to plan the next day. It gave me a glimpse of what must be like to cycle in company and I was sad to part ways with him.

It was an interesting experience being with a man in Iran though as I observed how suddenly I became invisible and people addressed themselves to him and not me.

Jai Lun feeling cold after crossing a 2000mt pass
Busy Tabriz bazaar

Tabriz was the first big city I visited. The town was busy getting ready for Nowruz, the Iranian New Year. The bazaar, one of the most important commercial centres of the  Silk Road was teeming with people busy buying gifts for friends and family. It was the first time that I saw large numbers of women wrapped up in chadors, the black cloaks some Iranian women wear in public. Chadors dont have any buttons so women need to hold them with their hands and a lot of them put a corner in their mouths to stop them from falling off. Looking at them I thought about how restricted their movement must be,  constantly having to worry about them staying in place. I must say that it wasn’t a sight I relished. 

Iranians love sugar in all its forms

Iranians roads were busy with families travelling  the width and length of the country visiting elders and other relatives as part of the Nowruz celebrations. When drivers got tired they just erected tents by the side of the road and in city parks (it is legal to camp in public parks in Iran), shoes in neat rows outside the tents.  Groups of people were having picnics everywhere. Seeing so many people camping out made me feel instantly safe.

Zanjan bazaar
Soltaniyeh Dome

Iran is full of wonders: Magic bazaars, Zanjan with its wonderful brick work, Shiraz a real maze with caravansarais, mosques and bath houses within it. The blue Soltaniyeh dome, one of the largest brick domes in the world, standing 49 mts tall. The beautiful city of Isfahan that captivated me with its beautiful mosques covered in ceramic tiles, its monumental bridges over the river, its decorated Armenian church and its palaces and gardens. And special Shiraz with shrines of saints and mausoleums of poets.

Breakfast time!

It has been wonderful being in this country, eating in small roadside cafes and spending time with people. People from all walks of life have open the door of their homes  to me.  A young photographer and a older Armenian couple in Tehran,  a carpet weaver  in  Gishi,  a shopkeeper/marathon runner in Marand, a mountaineer in Hasthguerd, an environmental activist in Qazvin, an artist in Zanjan, cyclists in Isfahan, a Zoroastrian couple in Yasd…To many to mention them all here although I carry each of them in my heart.

And each time I felt  utterly privileged to sit with them on the carpet around a spread of delicious food: yoghurt, breads, fruits, nuts,  pastries,  salad,  yoghurt drink and of course gorme sabzi,  a delicious home made lamb stew.

And in the morning,  after sleeping on the same carpet,  I  enjoyed flat bread covered in sesame seeds with cream and honey whilst having conversations about hopes for the future of Iran and of their children before saying goodbye with warm embraces.



Beautiful Isfahan

The ride across the desert between Isfahan and Yasd was memorable. It was after I left the carpet weaver in Gishi that I reached the small town of Varzaneh, an agricultural oasis in the middle of the desert. The need of fertiliser for the crops gave rise to the building of dove houses where thousands and thousands of pigeons lived, their droppings a precious source of food for the arid ground.

Varnazeh Dove house

From Varnazeh I reached the desert dunes, some of the highest of Iran where I camped for the night. After pushing the bike in the sand for what felt like hours, I chose a spot surrounded by high dunes. As I was setting camp a strong wind made it really difficult to pitch the tent but I eventually succeeded. Then as it by magic, the wind stop and the desert was silent and peaceful in the sunset. I climbed a nearby dune, the sand hot underfoot. A beautiful sight welcomed me: sand dunes as far as I could see, glowing golden in the evening light. Sitting up there, alone in the middle of the quiet desert I lost track of time and it was only when night fell and I felt a shiver that I made my way back to the tent and into my sleeping bag.

On my way to the dunes!

In the middle of the night, I felt the tent shake and heard a mighty noise around me and what seemed to be rain hitting the tent. I was glad that I had secured it with some heavy rocks. As I lay awake in the tent I realised that I was in the middle of a sandstorm. I thought of my bike getting sand everywhere and the harm that that would do to it, but there was nothing I could do about it, I just had to sit tight and wait for it to pass. Eventually it did and the desert felt silent again.

Calm after the storm

I got up before sunrise, the desert was beautiful without a drop of wind. My footprints from the day before had disappeared and had been replaced by perfect ripples in the sand. Sand had got everywhere in my bike and I spent hours cleaning it to avoid damage to its components.

In search of the caravansarai

I left the dunes to cycle across more desert in search of the abandoned caravanserai  were I was hoping to spend the night. For hours I cycled in an unpaved road with nothing but desert either side of me. As I was going along I was thinking about all those caravans that centuries before me had been on this very track, how they would look at hills and mountains as reference points to help them find the refuge of the caravanserai and how as a modern traveller I was also seeking its refuge. I went pass a hill in the middle of the desert, incongruous in this flat land, the space around it littered with black rocks from its decomposing slopes. It was hot and I cycled for hours with nothing but desert around me.  Every now and again I saw camels wondering around.

Around 4 o’clock a strong wind started making it impossible for me to cycle. I walked for a couple of hours but at one point I knew I couldn’t carry on, I was knackered. After a while I found a spot by the side of the road with some piles of gravel and decided to camp there as the gravel would afford some protection against the fierce wind. It was then that I saw a cloud of dust in the horizon, a truck, the first one for hours, was approaching. There and then I decided to hitch a lift to the caravansarai. The truck stopped and the drivers helped me to pile everything inside the cabin. It took me quite a few attempts to convince them that I would be OK in the caravansarai as they were really concerned about my safety. Finally they agreed to take me there. The first sight of it in the light of the evening was of pure happiness, the same one travellers for centuries before me must have felt: I had arrived at Khargushi Caravansarai!

Nothing but camels!

The caravansarai had everything I needed, water in a well in the centre of its courtyard and a maze of rooms all around it. In my mind I could hear the noise and bustle of the place full of camels, donkeys, people, goods…

Khargushi, my hotel for the night

I settled to sleep after admiring the stars that littered the night sky. I had just drifted to sleep when a car entered the precinct, I heard the noise of their doors closing and some men shouting something I couldn’t understand. I laid very still in my sleeping bag and after a while, when it was clear that they weren’t going, I decided to face the newcomers without really knowing what I would be facing. The light of a torch blinded me and a man crouched by the tent, got a paper out of this pocket and read from it in English. It was then that I saw another man and recognised him as one of the truck drivers. They had  brought me water, bread and cheese and wanted me to go with them to a nearby mine where they offered me a place to sleep. I managed to persuade them that I was OK and finally they went and left me to enjoy the silence and loneliness of my refuge.

Coffee at the caravanserai

In the morning I explored the nooks and crannies of the place. It must have been a magnificent castle in its heyday.

Khargushi from its roof
Exploring the inside

Eventually I left Khargushi and continued cycling in the desert for two more days before I reached Yazd, a city with more than 5000 years of history that was once visited by Marco Polo.

Leaving the caravanserai behind

The architecture of the town is really interesting and different from that of other cities in Iran. Yazd has the largest networks of qanats in the world, and to deal with the heat many old buildings in Yaz have windcatchers, and large underground areas.

Yazd old town
Yazd main square

Zoroastrianism is strong in Yazd.  The city has a Tower of Silence , and a Fire Temple which holds a fire that has been kept alight continuously since 470 AD.

And from Yazd it was Shiraz, the city of the poets and of course Persepolis. Words fail me to describe the beauty of the place, I hope the photos convey some of it!




Now back in Tehran I am trying to nurse my knees back to health. Priorities in my nomadic life are down to the real basics: what will I eat today? where will I sleep? will it rain? will it be cold/warm? So much of my day is spent seeking physical comfort. Health is obviously a big one.  I listen to the niggles of my body and worry when all is not as it should. Right now, I’m obsessing about my knee. Overall, I am feeling well and strong and it would be tragic if all had to stop because I haven’t been disciplined enough to stretched at the end of each day. I know I am my own worse enemy sometimes, I know it only takes 10 minutes to do the exercises but do I do them? Now I have started in earnest and I really hope I haven’t left it too late for the knee to sort itself out because Central Asia awaits.