A distant calling
Home is where the heart is as they say; and with my dog and pub landlord back in the UK I suppose that must be home….right? However, this would be doing an injustice on how I have felt this past week, with the thought of returning to Brexit-nature deprived-politically unjust Britain filling me more with dread than excited anticipation. I don’t think I have ever had more in common with the SNP in my life, and if there were a way to referendum my return I think my ballot might read ‘leave’ or more aptly ‘continued leave’. I do love my country, the bizarre everyday people and how much it can offer, but in the six months I have been away it has been a series of disasters for the place when compared to my day to day living on the bike.
Still, the world has a funny way of putting things in perspective and as I cycled along the Tajikistan-Kyrgyzstan border, through shelled out villages and military checkpoints, I realised my angst is nothing compared to what others in the world are going through on a daily basis. I’ll have the opportunity to vote for change when it comes and until that time live free from political or social suppression.
The long line of contact: a troubled border
Leaving Tajikistan was probably the biggest gamble I had made on the expedition so far. I was honestly not worried about my health or the authorities on the anticipated journey, more I couldn’t face a 100km effort to then find I have to detour a further 500km to reach the Fergana Valley. Prior to leaving Khujand I wanted to find as much information as possible, so I spent my two days there walking to every police station in town, giving 50/50 results. Those who know me, know I love an afternoon potter; something I absolutely hated my parents dragging me along to as a child and something I really think scientists should look into the genetic code for. On one of these potters I stumbled past a nondescript looking building behind a lot of wire and guarded by a lot of weaponry and men in camouflage, strangely in arctic blue - not sure what they are going to be hiding from. Bingo!
If there was any place where I could find out if the route was possible it would be here. Initial conversations with camouflaged individuals said the border was open but the road was not…this did not lift morale. Enter the day’s saviour, a man in an oversized pinstripe suit that you could tell had some serious sway here.
In deep conversations with other serious looking men in uniform, I did the honourable British thing and interjected their chat, demanding my issue was greater than whatever they were talking about (it’s a terrible trait). At first the guy in the suit did not know what to make of me, but a bit of google translate and some pictures of the expedition later he insinuated I wait where I was. Mafioso style, a series of calls began, a bit of barking down the phone, and 20 minutes later I was told a crossing tomorrow would definitely be possible for a British passport holder. Green light, we were on and I dashed back to the hostel I was in to make sure I was ready to leave at first light.
Nearing the border: a gauntlet run
Initially the road was amazing, clean tarmac, no traffic (I wonder why) and an abundance of things to catch the eye. However, as I ventured further away from town, as the highway curves from due south to eastwards scenes of destruction became quite apparent and rather saddening. It was quite the contrast, to have mountains gleaming in the morning sun, with a turquoise lake adjacent to where you are cycling to then see burnt out buildings and whole villages either boarded up or shelled out of existence. Destruction did not line the whole journey, but appeared suddenly in spasmodic moments of sheer violence, with military personnel all I had for company. I was struck too by the silence of these places, with an eeriness that contrasted to the blissful silence I had enjoyed in the mountains just a few days ago. In the mountains you knew you would not be disturbed by sound and welcomed it; but here, surrounded by what should be life, you expected it and received nothing in return. Barely even the birds sticking around after the horrors of the week before.
Another few hours on a highway of silence I was relieved to find the border open to Uzbekistan, with officers there extremely impressed at my appearance (or surprised at my stupidity, either way it involved a lot of selfies). Apparently the road had only opened the day before (I wonder why), and I was the first tourist to cross. Celebrating on four fried eggs and stale bread I was ready to smash out the remaining 60km to Kokand, a town that turned out to not be worth the extra effort for. The next day marked a formal beginning of the end for the expedition. I would be cycling on to the Syr Darya, the last of the great rivers that have marked the progress of this expedition; and in a weird way, myself. Each river represents a great chapter for me: a changing of cultures, new joys and challenges and an ever increasing freedom. The Syr Darya would culminate all I have learnt with all of my promises to myself from the outset, a moment I expected to be a humbling experience.
The Syr Darya: hidden treasures
Something or someone was there to ensure the Syr Darya did not disappoint, not only did I find one of the most picturesque campsites of the entire expedition but I was provided with some quality company. Setting up my tent in the evening sun; birds and insects flying about, fish jumping in the river, a local farmer strolls down to meet me carrying dinner. Watermelon, cream (actual CREAM!), bread and walnuts were dined on as the sun slowly set. Sensing I wanted to take it all in my new pal wandered off into the distance leaving me to absorb everything on offer; everything that I had imagined all those months ago, from a flat in south London…. and more. I guess what most defined that moment was the feeling of being completely content, happy where I presently was and pride that I had earned this the hard way. I have lost count over the past 18 months of the number of failed funding applications or mates who said it would not be possible, and yet here I was.
I only wish I could have taken it in longer but sickness, the exhaustion of travel and the sound of a river running nearby put the brakes on that. I found myself waking up at 10.30pm in my camping chair having evidently fallen asleep where I was. Annoyed but humoured by the event I noticed the stars had come out for their farewell, the plough pointing to the North Star which at times along this odyssey I had looked at and wondered how my family and friends were getting on back at home. Getting into my tent the faint ebb of the milky way, from its radiant self in the desert crossing, further highlighted that summer had slipped into autumn and would no longer be visible by the time I was home.
I awoke next morning to the call to prayer echoing through the valley - one of life’s great sounds if you ask me - with the tent cold and damp. Dew had called in the night, with the freshness of the morning and my wet gear reminding me more of weekends spent camping in the New Forest and not of those in Uzbekistan. Another calling card from home, one you cant return to sender.
A sight I will never tire of: sunrise over the river, Uzbekistan
I have intentionally tried not to think too much of home whilst travelling, remaining present and enjoying the here and now rather than worrying about the ongoings in a detached reality. One of the major personal reasons for this trip was that I needed to drop out of society for a bit. In an era of connectivity (which is great) we often forget that we have an off-switch, or at least trying airplane mode for ourselves every once in a while. This coupled with an ever increasing call of the wild grew too much for me to ignore, and knowing the risks leaving might incur I decided a bike trip was needed (despite avidly disliking cycling, and cyclists even more so).
I want to stress this is obviously a very individual decision, with our perceptions on life all different from one another and I do not recommend everyone to suddenly ditch everything and disappear. I would stress though that we take time, listen to what you think you need, hone in on that and make small or great changes accordingly. It could be moving into/out of London, or changing jobs or simply wanting to see your family and friends a bit more. Each to their own but carve out time to listen to yourself.
The downside to not thinking about home means that I have given very little thought to what it will be like to return, and now the realisation is calling like a freight train. I get pangs of excitement, hopefully for firmer stools (these blogs are often personal, always visual), a beer in the pub and not worrying about where I am sleeping for the night. However, as soon as I think of these thoughts a sense of dread arises, coupled with the guilt that I should be savouring every moment left of my few days here and I return to blocking out home.
In moments such as the above it give me great peace of mind to be riding for a purpose, something I use as reference when angst arises. To have a cause greater than yourself I’ve found summons an inner-resolve that I struggle to describe. The hardships made bearable, the saddle sores sudocrem-able the near impossible becomes manageable. To know I have put everything, literally everything into this trip, and that I have raised much needed awareness for a cause I am passionate about has been as comforting at times as riding with your best mate.
Two’s company: dinner with the local landowner
All good things must come to end as they say, and I will eventually call time on this expedition with my head held high having achieved something so improbable after so many said it was impossible. Sixth months have blurred by, but each morning waking in a damp tent or day spent in the saddle has made me realised that this is within of anyone who sets their mind to task and is willing to make the sacrifices required.
I have half a left knee, hated cycling and did no training and I’ve got this far. I am one average bloke and a distinctly above average dream - to save sturgeon wherever and however I can. My last week will put this dream to test, hundreds of kilometres on the bike, rough sleeping and mystery meat will be consumed as I bid to find the ‘lost’ Syr Darya shovelnose sturgeon, a species not seen since the 1960s - or in other timescales about half the time since my last solid ablution (love that word).
Home is distantly calling, but it will go unanswered just a little longer.
